Closing off the day with words from Mr. John Keats:
When I have fears that I may cease to be
Before my pen has glean’d my teeming brain
Before high piled books, in charactry,
Hold like rich garners the full-ripen’d grain;
When I behold, upon the night’s starr’d face,
Hugh cloudy symbols of a high romance,
And think that I may never live to trace
Their shadows, with the magic hand of chance
And when I feel, fair creature of an hour!
That I shall never look upon thee more,
Never have relish in the faery power
Of unrelenting love: – then on the shore
Of the wide world I stand alone, and think
Till Love and Fame to nothingness do sink.
A busy day comes to a halt.
Simple, loving words are the culprit; they stop
in my tracks –
a little girl’s text message.
My lungs swell with gentle, reminiscent breath
as I remember
that I am missed
by an old friend
G’night, darling child.
Tonight, your fondness shall
into my dreams.
Today’s reading comes to you in the form of a video. Here is Tolkien reading Roads Go Ever On & On:
And now, the ‘inspired by Tolkien’ version of the same poem as featured in the LOTR: FOTR film:
My apologies for not posting a poem yesterday! Today (and yesterday)’s featured poem is a prose poem by Charles Baudelaire.
A Port is a delightful place of rest for a soul weary of life’s battles. The vastness of the sky, the mobile architecture of the clouds, the changing coloration of the sea, the twinkling of the lights, are a prism marvellously fit to amuse the eyes without ever tiring them. The slender shapes of the ships with their complicated rigging, to which the surge lends harmonious oscillations, serve to sustain within the soul the taste for rhythm and beauty. Also, and above all, for the man who of mysterious and aristocratic pleasure in contemplating, while lying on the belvedere or resting his elbows on the jetty-head, all these movements of men who are leaving and men who are returning, of those who still have the strength to will, the desire to travel or to enrich themselves.
In the aftermath of calculus
your toast fell butter-side down.
Squirrels swarmed the lawns
in flight patterns. The hovercraft
helped the waves along. From
every corner there was perspective.
on the billboards the diamonds
were real, in the stores, only zirconia.
I cc’ed you. I let you know.
Sat down to write the Black Ice Memo.
Dinner would be meager &
reminiscent of next week’s lunch.
So what if I sat on the sectional?
As always, I was beside myself.
— Matthea Harvey
In the spirit of weird April weather, here’s Ralph Waldo Emerson’s The Snow-Storm:
Photo credit: Arlene Richards © 2006
Announced by all the trumpets of the sky,
Arrives the snow, and, driving o’er the fields,
Seems nowhere to alight: the whited air
Hides hills and woods, the river and the heaven,
And veils the farmhouse at the garden’s end.
The steed and traveler stopped, the courier’s feet
Delayed, all friends shut out, the housemates sit
Around the radiant fireplace, enclosed
In a tumultuous privacy of storm.
Come see the north wind’s masonry
Out of an unseen quarry evermore
Furnished with tile, the fierce artificer
Curves his white bastions with projected roof
Round every windward stake, or tree, or door.
Speeding, the myriad-handed, his wild work
So fanciful, so savage, nought cares he
For number or proportion. Mockingly,
On coop or kennel he hangs Parian wreaths;
A swan-like form invests the hidden thorn;
Fills up the farmer’s lane from wall to wall,
Maugre the farmer’s sighs; and, at the gate,
A tapering turret overtops the work.
And when his hours are numbered, and the world
Is all his own, retiring, as he were not,
Leaves, when the sun appears, astonished Art
To mimic in slow structure, stone by stone,
Built in an age, the mad wind’s night-work,
The frolic architecture of the snow.