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Post here about all poetry !

This is an old favorite of mine and it seems lovely for the first day of a New Year. Celebrate the New Adventure of 2023, friends!

Ithaca
Constantinos P. Cavafy

When you set out on your journey to Ithaca*,
pray that the road is long,
full of adventure, full of knowledge.
The Lestrygonians** and the Cyclops***,
the angry Poseidon**** - do not fear them:
You will never find such as these on your path
if your thoughts remain lofty, if a fine
emotion touches your spirit and your body,
The Lestrygonians and the Cyclops,
The fierce Poseidon you will never encounter,
if you do not carry them within your soul,
if your heart does not set them up before you.

Pray that the road is long.
That the summer mornings are many, when,
with such pleasure, with such joy
you will enter ports seen for the first time;
stop at Phoenician markets,
and purchase fine merchandise,
mother-of-pearl and coral, amber and ebony,
and sensual perfumes of all kinds,
as many sensual perfumes as you can;
visit many Egyptian cities,
to learn and learn from scholars.

Always keep Ithaca in your mind.
To arrive there is your ultimate goal.
But do not hurry the voyage at all.
It is better to let it last for many years;
and to anchor at the island when you are old,
rich with all you have gained on the way,
not expecting that Ithaca will offer you riches.

Ithaca has given you the beautiful voyage.
Without her you would never have set out on the road.
She has nothing more to give you.
And if you find her poor, Ithaca has not deceived you.
Wise as you have become, with so much experience,
you must already have understood what Ithacas mean.

from The Complete Poems, translated by Rae Dalven.

*Ithaca is home of The Odyssey, written by Homer.

**Lestrygonians was a tribe of man-eating giants, visited by Odysseus, as recounted by Homer.

***Cyclops were one-eyed creatures visited by Odysseus in Greek Mythology.

****Poseidon, in Greek mythology, was God of the sea, storms, earthquakes, and horses, who cursed the return of Odysseus, causing his journey back to Ithaca to be delayed by a decade or so, resulting in many adventures.

madrano wrote: "This is an old favorite of mine and it seems lovely for the first day of a New Year. Celebrate the New Adventure of 2023, friends!

Ithaca
Constantinos P. Cavafy

When you set out o..."

Perfect start to the 2023 thread.

Thanks, Alias. Every year i try to post here, then peter out in a few months. Will try harder, as i delight in poetry.

When we lived in Oregon, mostly in the '90s, William Stafford was considered the state's Poet Laureate. Long after his official term as such ended, he was called that. His first collection was published when he was 48, a late start. One wonders if instructions in this poem could have served him back then.

Being a Person
William Stafford

Be a person here. Stand by the river, invoke
the owls. Invoke winter, then spring.
Let any season that wants to come here make its own
call. After that sound goes away, wait.

A slow bubble rises through the earth
and begins to include sky, stars, all space,
even the outracing, expanding thought.
Come back and hear the little sound again.

Suddenly this dream you are having matches
everyone’s dream, and the result is the world.
If a different call came there wouldn’t be any
world, or you, or the river, or the owls calling.

How you stand here is important. How you
listen for the next things to happen. How you breathe.



from Even in Quiet Places (Confluence Press, 2010)

madrano wrote: "Thanks, Alias. Every year i try to post here, then peter out in a few months. Will try harder, as i delight in poetry."

We had 586 posts in the poetry thread. I'd say it was a quite successful thread. :)

True. I just felt the last half of the year had far too few posts but you are quite correct.

A couple of years ago i read Dana Gioia's memoir, Studying with Miss Bishop: Memoirs from a Young Writer's Life, which covered the authors and poets under whom he studied. I ended up liking his poetry quite a bit, including the one below.

This is a video of him reciting this work. https://duckduckgo.com/?t=palemoonsp&...

It's another poem i find helping to welcome the new year.

Nothing Is Lost
Dana Gioia

Nothing is lost. Nothing is so small
that it does not return.
Imagine
that as a child on a day like this
you held a newly minted coin and had
the choice of spending it in any way
you wished.
Today the coin comes back to you,
the date rubbed out, the ancient mottoes vague,
the portrait covered up with the dull shellac
of anything used up, passed on, disposed of
with something else in view, and always worth
a little less each time.
Now it returns,
and you will think it unimportant, lose
it in your pocket change as one more thing
that’s not worth counting, not worth singling out.
That is the mistake you must avoid today.
You sent it on a journey to yourself.
Now hold it in your hand. Accept it as
the little you have earned today.
And realise
that you must choose again but over less.

from 99 Poems: New & Selected

Link of person reciting work doesn't work for me. I think because you are using duck duck go. Notice says I can't view something that is anonymous.

Here is a link using Google.
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=h662l...

Thanks for the poem. An author reading their poem really brings it to life for me.

Happy New Year!
By John P. Read Published by Family Friend Poems December 2018

Wishes For A New Year

Brush away old heartaches.
Learn from our mistakes.
Another year is finally over.
A new dawn awakes.

Let the old year out.
Welcome the new one in.
Bury the bad things of the past
As a new year now begins.

Make your New Year wishes
As simple as you can.
Pray for peace and love,
Not for wealth or fame.

Pray for health and happiness.
Pray for your fellow man.
Pray for all the ones you love.
Pray for those who've lost their way.

As the midnight hour chimes,
We leave the old and embrace the new.
I wish the things you wish for yourself,
And may God’s love stay with you.

Ring Out, Wild Bells
By Alfred Tennyson

"This poem is an elegy (a poem of lament for someone who has passed away) and uses an ABBA Rhyme Scheme. It was written about Alfred Tennyson’s friend, Arthur Henry Hallam, who was engaged to Tennyson’s sister. Arthur Henry Hallam died suddenly at the age of twenty-two. In this poem, Tennyson (1809-1892) shares about casting aside all the bad and painful things of the year. Due to the heartache that year brought him, Tennyson was ready to put the grief behind him. This could also be considered a New Year’s poem about starting anew. Alfred Tennyson’s first son was named Hallam, after his best friend."


Ring out, wild bells, to the wild sky,
The flying cloud, the frosty light;
The year is dying in the night;
Ring out, wild bells, and let him die.

Ring out the old, ring in the new,
Ring, happy bells, across the snow:
The year is going, let him go;
Ring out the false, ring in the true.

Ring out the grief that saps the mind,
For those that here we see no more,
Ring out the feud of rich and poor,
Ring in redress to all mankind.

Ring out a slowly dying cause,
And ancient forms of party strife;
Ring in the nobler modes of life,
With sweeter manners, purer laws.

Ring out the want, the care the sin,
The faithless coldness of the times;
Ring out, ring out my mournful rhymes,
But ring the fuller minstrel in.

Ring out false pride in place and blood,
The civic slander and the spite;
Ring in the love of truth and right,
Ring in the common love of good.

Ring out old shapes of foul disease,
Ring out the narrowing lust of gold;
Ring out the thousand wars of old,
Ring in the thousand years of peace.

Ring in the valiant man and free,
The larger heart, the kindlier hand;
Ring out the darkness of the land,
Ring in the Christ that is to be.

The Year
By Ella Wheeler Wilcox
"In this famous New Year’s poem by Ella Wheeler Wilcox, she shares the reality of each new year. Time continues to move forward—years come and they go. Every new year is marked by great expectations, but the reality is that each year is filled with both joyous and sorrowful moments. This poem is made up of rhyming couplets (two-line stanzas)."


What can be said in New Year rhymes,
That’s not been said a thousand times?

The new years come, the old years go,
We know we dream, we dream we know.

We rise up laughing with the light,
We lie down weeping with the night.

We hug the world until it stings,
We curse it then and sigh for wings.

We live, we love, we woo, we wed,
We wreathe our brides, we sheet our dead.

We laugh, we weep, we hope, we fear,
And that’s the burden of the year.

Alias Reader wrote: "Link of person reciting work doesn't work for me. I think because you are using duck duck go. Notice says I can't view something that is anonymous.

Here is a link using Google.
https://www.youtub..."

I keep forgetting to get links elsewhere. Thanks for covering me, Alias.

Alias Reader wrote: "The Year
By Ella Wheeler Wilcox
"In this famous New Year’s poem by Ella Wheeler Wilcox, she shares the reality of each new year. Time continues to move forward—years come and they go. Every new ye..."

She was such a popular poet in the beginning of the last century, not unlikeJames Whitcomb Riley. Their work fit the times, then time itself moved on, i guess. The fact that my grandparents have an entire set of Riley's speaks volumes.

Nice poem for the New Year.

madrano wrote: "AliaThe fact that my grandparents have an entire set of Riley's speaks volumes..."

That's cool.

It is. Sadly, i have no memory of any relative other than my mother reading. I am aware my grandparents read The Warren Commission Report: The Official Report of the President's Commission on the Assassination of President John F. Kennedy from cover-to-cover because they couldn't stop talking about it to family. Yet it's the sole book i ever heard them talk about or mention having read.

In their case, reading was not catchy.

madrano wrote: "It is. Sadly, i have no memory of any relative other than my mother reading. I am aware my grandparents read [book:The Warren Commission Report: The Official Report of the President's Commission on..."

My father has never been a big reader, but my mother and I will often read the same books and then discuss them. My maternal grandfather was a history teacher, and I do know my paternal grandmother liked to read the Bible. The book discussions with my mother bring me a lot of fun and joy. I have a younger sister who liked to read true crime, which is not my cup of tea, and one of my brothers reads only technical books. Another brother is heavily into visual arts. He paints in any medium, sculps in any medium, is great at DIY projects, etc. I'm not sure about the rest of my brothers and sisters. I think my mother and I are the readers in the family.

Oh, this is poetry, I'm OT! I apologize!

LOL--not a problem. Readers can easily get caught up in sharing. Not to worry, Kiki.

In my family my mother was the only regular reader & she was voracious. Sadly, our timing didn't mesh, so we rarely had opportunities to share about what we were reading. She had plenty of recommendations, though.

Today my surviving sister likes to read about celebrities, which doesn't call to me. However, we share & i learn bits, as does she about history from me. We both like travel guide-ish books & share those.

Elsewhere Lucille Clifton was quoted and i wanted to share a poem or two by her the next few days. Here's one.

FromHow to Carry Water: Selected Poems of Lucille Clifton

whose side are you on?
Lucille Clifton

the side of the busstop woman
trying to drag her bag
up the front steps before the doors
clang shut i am on her side
i give her exact change
and him the old man hanging by
one strap his work hand folded shut
as the bus doors i am on his side
when he needs to leave
i ring the bell i am on their side
riding the late bus into the same
someplace i am on the dark side always
the side of my daughters
the side of my tired sons

Very nice. ! I'm on Clifton's side.

Same here.

madrano wrote: "Same here."

I am, too.

Neat!

Another Clifton poem, which made me smile.

[if mama / could see]
Lucille Clifton

if mama
could see
she would see   
lucy sprawling   
limbs of lucy
decorating the
backs of chairs
lucy hair
holding the mirrors up   
that reflect odd   
aspects of lucy.

if mama
could hear
she would hear
lucysong rolled in the
corners like lint
exotic webs of lucysighs
long lucy spiders explaining   
to obscure gods.

if mama
could talk
she would talk
good girl   
good girl   
good girl
clean up your room.


From “[if mama/could see]” selection from Good Woman: Poems and a Memoir 1969-1980 Copyright ©1987 by Lucille Clifton.

:)

I thought this was another good poem for a New Year. This is Oliver reciting her poem in 2010, https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=tDVAz...

For analysis and more info about this poem--
https://poemanalysis.com/mary-oliver/...


The Journey
Mary Oliver

One day you finally knew
what you had to do, and began,
though the voices around you
kept shouting
their bad advice—
though the whole house
began to tremble
and you felt the old tug
at your ankles.
"Mend my life!"
each voice cried.
But you didn't stop.
You knew what you had to do,
though the wind pried
with its stiff fingers
at the very foundations,
though their melancholy
was terrible.
It was already late
enough, and a wild night,
and the road full of fallen
branches and stones.
But little by little,
as you left their voices behind,
the stars began to burn
through the sheets of clouds,
and there was a new voice
which you slowly
recognized as your own,
that kept you company
as you strode deeper and deeper
into the world,
determined to do
the only thing you could do—
determined to save
the only life you could save.

From No Voyage and Other Poems

madrano wrote:

"and there was a new voice
which you slowly
recognized as your own,
that kept you company
as you strode deeper and deeper
into the world,"

Very nice !

madrano wrote: "I thought this was another good poem for a New Year. This is Oliver reciting her poem in 2010, https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=tDVAz...

For analysis and more info about this poem--
https://poe..."

I enjoyed that poem!

I'm glad you liked it. I've come to appreciate Oliver since her death, when i read quite a number of her works. She's one of those poets who expresses every day well. Here's one from her, which i've shared on this board previously but which i hope tickles the fancy of other readers.

An Afternoon In The Stacks
Mary Oliver

Closing the book, I find I have left my head
inside. It is dark in here, but the chapters open
their beautiful spaces and give a rustling sound,
words adjusting themselves to their meaning.
Long passages open at successive pages. An echo,
continuous from the title onward, hums
behind me. From in here, the world looms,
a jungle redeemed by these linked sentences
carved out when an author traveled and a reader
kept the way open. When this book ends
I will pull it inside-out like a sock
and throw it back in the library. But the rumor
of it will haunt all that follows in my life.
A candleflame in Tibet leans when I move.

A little more than a year ago i read Studying with Miss Bishop: Memoirs from a Young Writer's Life, which i liked quite a bit. Dana Gioia's words moved me to read some poetry by him, which i have shared here subsequently. There was one poem i liked which seemed to have been translated by Gioia from Rainer Maria Rilke, which i want to share here. However, in searching to see whether or not Gioia did the translating, i found yet another translation. I'm sharing both because i think the differences illuminate different aspects of the work.

Entrance
Dana Gioia

Whoever you are: step out of doors tonight,
Out of the room that lets you feel secure.
Infinity is open to your sight.
Whoever you are.
With eyes that have forgotten how to see
From viewing things already too well-known,
Lift up into the dark a huge, black tree
And put it in the heavens: tall, alone.
And you have made the world and all you see.
It ripens like the words still in your mouth.
And when at last you comprehend its truth,
Then close your eyes and gently set it free.


THE FOLLOWING is Translated From The German By Edward Snow, from Americans' Favorite Poems: The Favorite Poem Project Anthology edited by Robert Pinsky and Maggie Dietz

Whoever you are: in the evening step out
of your room, where you know everything;
yours is the last house before the far-off:
whoever you are.
With your eyes, which in their weariness
barely free themselves from the worn-out threshold,
you lift very slowly one black tree
and place it against the sky: slender, alone.
And you have made the world. And it is huge
and like a word which grows ripe in silence.
And as your will seizes on its meaning,
tenderly your eyes let it go. . .

madrano wrote: "Closing the book, I find I have left my head
inside. ..."

Perfect. I think most readers will see themselves in that poem.

madrano wrote: And it is huge
and like a word which grows ripe in silence..."

I prefer the phrasing in the second. How about you, deb ?

Alias Reader wrote: "madrano wrote: And it is huge
and like a word which grows ripe in silence..."

I prefer the phrasing in the second. How about you, deb ?"

Yes, i do. I thought the first was perfect until i read that second translation. It just goes to show us, eh?

I ran across this poem today and found it nourishing. I hope you do, too. Perhaps better known as a novelist, the following illustrates another side. Elsewhere i have seen a note under the title, "For Steven". But not this version.

Daily Bread
Barbara Kingsolver

The clink of tin cups in the kitchen
rouses my ears. I close my book,
hold my place with a fingertip while
I listen: to the measuring cups,
little quarrels of half against quarter,
then the sifted hush of the flour.
There will be kneading,
there will be punching down,
and rising and rising again,
the press of increase constrained
by the small square box in the oven,
the immutable passage of time,
and finally a home and a hunger filled
with fragrant gold.
I return to my reading, but first
I thank the kitchen gods
for what marriage is: throughout this
immutable passage, these square
impossible constraints, these petty clinkings
of half against quarter, and oh
this needing, oh this falling and this rising,
I am blessed
with a husband who makes bread.

Nice.

I've enjoyed Barbara Kingsolver novels a lot over the years. I have her latest Demon Copperhead on my TBR for this year.

I didn't know she also wrote poetry.

Nice surprise, eh?

Today is the anniversary of the birth of author Jack London. Mystic Stamp Company sends me daily emails, connected to stamps, about people, places and events. In today's missive about London, i learned about Ina Coolbrith, who was a librarian in San Francisco. In that work she fostered reading for both young London and Isadora Duncan.

Meanwhile, she was writing poetry. Discovering older, new-to-me poets is a delightful exploration into the art for me. Coolbrith is no exception. Later in her life she was Poet Laureate for California but her early life was marked by the move west. For more details-- https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Ina_Coo...

Here are two poems i liked, in their way.

Alone
Ida Coolbrith

The night comes on with a hint of tears,
The in-borne fog with the in-born tide;
And the last faint crimson disappears
Where the sunset glory died.

And the wet blue hills in the mist are lost,
The skies grow gray in the daylight-wane,
And the waning moon, like a wan, white ghost,
Looks in at the window-pane;

A phantom light in the shifting wind,
A wandering specter of the sky-
As one, of all the stars un-kinned,
Apart and alone as I.

This next one reminds me of the final tribute to character Dorothea Brooke from George Eliot's Middlemarch,
“The growing good of the world is partly dependent on unhistoric acts; and that things are not so ill with you and me as they might have been, is half owing to the number who lived faithfully a hidden life, and rest in unvisited tombs.”

The idea of these lives gently intrigues me. And i like the small "palm of victory" the poet offers.


A Leaf For Memory
Ida Coolbrith

Not to the brave upon the battle-field
Alone, the palms of victory belong;
Nor only to the great of earth the song
Of praise and paean should the singer yield.
Greater the souls that, single handed, wield
The battle-ax against the hosts of wrong,
Unknown, un-noted, in life’s reckless throng,
And only in God’s day to stand revealed.
How many such, in patient, humble guise,
Beside us walk their grief-appointed way!
Nobly enduring; worthiest to shine
As fixed stars in fame’s eternal skies.
For these, for this, I reverently lay
On her dear dust this little leaf of mine.

madrano wrote: "Today is the anniversary of the birth of author Jack London. Mystic Stamp Company sends me daily emails, connected to stamps, about people, places and events. In today's missive about..."

Thank you for sharing the poems, deb.

I check Facebook, but Mystic stamp doesn't post daily. :(

Since January 16 in Martin Luther King, Jr. day, I figured it would be a good time to read
Why We Can't Wait by Martin Luther King Jr.

I thought I would see if the internet had any poem suggestions to share. Here is one by my favorite Langston Hughes.


I, Too

By Langston Hughes

I, too, sing America.

I am the darker brother.
They send me to eat in the kitchen
When company comes,
But I laugh,
And eat well,
And grow strong.

Tomorrow,
I’ll be at the table
When company comes.
Nobody’ll dare
Say to me,
“Eat in the kitchen,”
Then.

Besides,
They’ll see how beautiful I am
And be ashamed—

I, too, am America.

I think Mystic Stamps could save time by posting on FB but instead it sends out emails.

Thank you for that Hughes poem. I love that one.

madrano wrote: "I think Mystic Stamps could save time by posting on FB but instead it sends out emails.
."

Also reach more potential customers.

Yes. And they are more likely to purchase the stamps from the email, too. Good point.

Writer vs. Winter. This one charmed me today.

January
William Carlos Williams

Again I reply to the triple winds
running chromatic fifths of derision
outside my window:
Play louder.
You will not succeed. I am
bound more to my sentences
the more you batter at me
to follow you.
And the wind,
as before, fingers perfectly
its derisive music.


The Collected Poems of Williams Carlos Williams: 1939-1962

:)

There is something I love about being inside and reading when the weather is inclement.

Alias Reader wrote: ":)

There is something I love about being inside and reading when the weather is inclement."

Isn't that true? Even if the reading is about sunshine, the rain or snow somehow works to heighten my appreciation.

Don't get me wrong, though, i like reading poetry anywhere, any time! LOL, no surprise there.

Upthread i shared a poem by poet Lucille Clifton. That day i couldn't locate this one but viola! today i did. So, i share it here. But first, a YouTube video of Clifton reading the poem herself.
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=XM7q_...

won’t you celebrate with me
Lucille Clifton - 1936-2010

won’t you celebrate with me
what i have shaped into
a kind of life? i had no model.
born in babylon
both nonwhite and woman
what did i see to be except myself?
i made it up
here on this bridge between
starshine and clay,
my one hand holding tight
my other hand; come celebrate
with me that everyday
something has tried to kill me
and has failed.


From The Collected Poems of Lucille Clifton 1965-2010. Copyright © 1991 by Lucille Clifton.

Thanks for the link, deb. For me, hearing the author read her poem makes all the difference.

The poem brings to mind Amanda Goreman

True. Poetry inheriting poetry, i suspect.

I saved this selection to celebrate Dr. King’s Day. For a
Reading and analysis--https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=y0XX7... .

Dream Variations
Langston Hughes


To fling my arms wide
In some place of the sun,
To whirl and to dance
Till the white day is done.
Then rest at cool evening
Beneath a tall tree
While night comes on gently,
Dark like me—
That is my dream!

To fling my arms wide
In the face of the sun,
Dance! Whirl! Whirl!
Till the quick day is done.
Rest at pale evening . . .
A tall, slim tree . . .
Night coming tenderly
Black like me.


From The Collected Poems of Langston Hughes, published by Alfred A. Knopf, Inc. Copyright © 1994 the Estate of Langston Hughes.

Very nice. Perfect for MLK day.