Book Nook Cafe discussion

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Please share your favorite poems here.

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Learned about some new poetry books? Do tell !

Post here about all poetry !

Auld Lang Syne

Robert Burns
1759 –1796

Should auld acquaintance be forgot,
And never brought to mind?
Should auld acquaintance be forgot,
And auld lang syne!

Chorus:
For auld lang syne, my dear,
For auld lang syne.
We’ll tak a cup o’ kindness yet,
For auld lang syne.

And surely ye'll be your pint stowp!
And surely I’ll be mine!
And we’ll tak a cup o’ kindness yet,
For auld lang syne.

Chorus

We twa hae run about the braes,
And pou’d the gowans fine;
But we’ve wander’d mony a weary fit,
Sin’ auld lang syne.

Chorus

We twa hae paidl’d in the burn,
Frae morning sun till dine;
But seas between us braid hae roar’d
Sin’ auld lang syne.

Chorus

And there’s a hand, my trusty fere!
And gie’s a hand o’ thine!
And we’ll tak a right gude-willie waught,
For auld lang syne.

Winter-Time
Robert Louis Stevenson

Late lies the wintry sun a-bed,

A frosty, fiery sleepy-head;

Blinks but an hour or two; and then,

A blood-red orange, sets again.



Before the stars have left the skies,

At morning in the dark I rise;

And shivering in my nakedness,

By the cold candle, bathe and dress.



Close by the jolly fire I sit

To warm my frozen bones a bit;

Or with a reindeer-sled, explore

The colder countries round the door.



When to go out, my nurse doth wrap

Me in my comforter and cap;

The cold wind burns my face, and blows

Its frosty pepper up my nose.



Black are my steps on silver sod;

Thick blows my frosty breath abroad;

And tree and house, and hill and lake,

Are frosted like a wedding cake.

Spellbound
Emily Brontë

The night is darkening round me,

The wild winds coldly blow;

But a tyrant spell has bound me

And I cannot, cannot go.

The giant trees are bending

Their bare boughs weighed with snow.

And the storm is fast descending,

And yet I cannot go.

Clouds beyond clouds above me,

Wastes beyond wastes below;

But nothing drear can move me;

I will not, cannot go.

Fitting ways to kick off the New Year. I'll add another, which provoked images i liked. I can almost see the year working its way to us. There is a video of the poet reading his work. The photo looks as though i took it, frankly, as it is sideways. https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=cnQZU...

To the New Year
W.S. Merwin

With what stillness at last
you appear in the valley
your first sunlight reaching down
to touch the tips of a few
high leaves that do not stir
as though they had not noticed
and did not know you at all
then the voice of a dove calls
from far away in itself
to the hush of the morning

so this is the sound of you
here and now whether or not
anyone hears it this is
where we have come with our age
our knowledge such as it is
and our hopes such as they are
invisible before us
untouched and still possible

from Present Company

madrano wrote:
"so this is the sound of you
here and now whether or not
anyone hears it this is
where we have come with our age
our knowledge such as it is
and our hopes such as they are
invisible before us
untouched and still possible.."

Nice. I like the hopeful sentiment.

I liked that aspect, as well, Alias. Hope.

Some of us are due for quite a bit of snow this week (not me, though). Before it becomes a hated mess, i offer this lovely poem

For a reading by something called, "Claude the Reciter", a sock puppet (!), click here-- https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=UoxBO...

Snowfall
Ravi Shankar

Particulate as ash, new year's first snow falls
upon peaked roofs, car hoods, undulant hills,
in imitation of motion that moves the way

static cascades down screens when the cable
zaps out, persistent & granular with a flicker
of legibility that dissipates before it can be

interpolated into any succession of imagery.
One hour stretches sixty minutes into a field
of white flurry: hexagonal lattices of water

molecules that accumulate in drifts too soon
strewn with sand, hewn into browning
mounds by plow blade, left to turn to slush.

From Deepening Groove--Ravi Shankar

Being a winter loving gal, I do love snow. Today we had a few snow squalls. It's like you are in a snow globe. And it only lasts maybe 2- 5 minutes. ❄️☃️❄️

We also had very strong gusty wind. That I can do without.

The last holiday we spent in NYC, just before heading overseas for several months, we experienced a squall. We were walking around Manhattan when, the skies darkened & the swirling began. It was enchanting...we were near the place with the giant tree bulbs. However, when it ended, we were soaking wet. It fell, sat 10 seconds, then melted all over us. It put a cramp in our evening but the thrill of being in the middle of it remains.

Imagine with snow flurries...

Manhattan can be magical at Christmas time. The snow squall would make it enchanting. Though better to watch from a coffee shop window. :)

LOL--that would have been wise!


I don't usually associate poetry with John Updike. As it happens, he published several volumes of his poetry. This is one of the simpler offerings, from

Poem recited with an intriguing art cartoon
https://www.google.com/search?q=youtu...

January
John Updike

The days are short,
The sun a spark,
Hung thin between
The dark and dark.

Fat snowy footsteps
Track the floor.
Milk bottles burst
Outside the door.

The river is
A frozen place
Held still beneath
The trees of lace.

The sky is low.
The wind is gray.
The radiator
Purrs all day.

I didn't know he wrote poetry either. Thanks for sharing that.

It made me wonder if younger folks think, why would a milk bottle be outside? Why is it in glass? LOL.

Is there such a thing as a dairy delivery anymore? (besides delivery from a store).

I'm not aware of it, if so. The last time i had milk delivered was when we lived in North Dakota, '79. On cold mornings, if i left the door unlocked, the deliverer would put the milk (& yogurt, etc.) in my fridge!

That is amazing, deb. In NY if someone came into your home they would probably get shot !

I googled to find out when the last milkman in NYC was and lo and behold, they are still here ! Who knew?


The milkman job is still alive and well in New York City. Companies like Manhattan Milk deliver milk, eggs, and other dairy, fruit, and vegetable products to homes and businesses.

https://manhattanmilk.com/

Remarkable. I suppose with home delivery on many other products, they decided to give it a try. It makes sense to have dairy products delivered to larger businesses.

I don't know why, but i 'm rather tickled by this. :-)

Claude McKay was born Festus Claudius McKay in Jamaica, 1889. He was a part of the Harlem Renaissance of the 1920s. This is a rather lightweight poem but i could see that snow!

(I wanted to note that i credited the poem to his book of poetry, published in 1922. If you click on it, you can see the book cover for several different editions. I found each of them pleasing.)

For a good look at McKay, his life and poetry, click here, scrolling past the poem below--https://blog.wob.com/the-snow-fairy-c...

Listen to a reading of the poem, shared by a regular person, not trying to be artful. The photos are achingly ho-hum. Thankfully, the reader doesn't present the poem in a sing song manner. https://www.google.com/search?client=...

The Snow Fairy
Claude McKay     

I

Throughout the afternoon I watched them there,
Snow-fairies falling, falling from the sky,
Whirling fantastic in the misty air,
Contending fierce for space supremacy.
And they flew down a mightier force at night,
As though in heaven there was revolt and riot,
And they, frail things had taken panic flight
Down to the calm earth seeking peace and quiet.
I went to bed and rose at early dawn
To see them huddled together in a heap,
Each merged into the other upon the lawn,
Worn out by the sharp struggle, fast asleep.
The sun shone brightly on them half the day,
By night they stealthily had stol’n away.

II

And suddenly my thoughts then turned to you
Who came to me upon a winter’s night,
When snow-sprites round my attic window flew,
Your hair disheveled, eyes aglow with light.
My heart was like the weather when you came,
The wanton winds were blowing loud and long;
But you, with joy and passion all aflame,
You danced and sang a lilting summer song.
I made room for you in my little bed,
Took covers from the closet fresh and warm,
A downful pillow for your scented head,
And lay down with you resting in my arm.
You went with Dawn. You left me ere the day,
The lonely actor of a dreamy play.


From Harlem Shadows: Poems--Claude McKay (1922)

That was really nice, deb. Perfect for today as we once again has snow flurries.

Though her reading isn't professional, I do like the music.

I also like the last thing she says is, "Let's go read". :)

Yes!

More of the USA will be subjected to cold temperatures this week. The poem below echoes memories, both of our own reflected moments, as well as those of the past.

For a rather dramatic rendition of this May Oliver poem, complete with photos, click here--
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=lKrxD...

Cold Poem
Mary Oliver

Cold now.
Close to the edge. Almost
unbearable. Clouds
bunch up and boil down
from the north of the white bear.
This tree-splitting morning
I dream of his fat tracks,
the lifesaving suet.

I think of summer with its luminous fruit,
blossoms rounding to berries, leaves,
handsful of grain.

Maybe what cold is, is the time
we measure the love we have always had, secretly
for our own bones, the hard knife-edged love
for the warm river of the I, beyond all else; maybe
that is what it means, the beauty
of the blue shark cruising toward the tumbling seals.

In the season of snow,
in the immeasurable cold,
we grow cruel but honest; we keep
ourselves alive,
if we can, taking one after another
the necessary bodies of others, the many
crushed red flowers.

From American Primitive

madrano wrote: "Cold now.
Close to the edge. Almost
unbearable. Clouds
bunch up and boil down
from the north of the white bear.
This tree-splitting morning
I dream of his fat tracks,
the lifesaving suet..."

Very nice, deb.

I put out suet blocks for the birds. I get a lot of sparrows. I feel bad for them in this below freezing temps.

Thoughtful idea, Alias. We used to do that when we owned a home, but it hadn't occurred to me as a renter. But, why not?

W B Yeats has come to symbolize the ideas of Ireland at the beginning of the 20th century. In this one, he suggests his belief that the century would bring about a new age of magic and mysticism, a reawakening of the Irish monuments such as ancient burial grounds (see photo below). In many ways, he correctly assessed the era.

For me, this poem fits the new year, even though the title & beginning seem to indicate the opposite, a twilight. I feel this because of the concluding two lines. And because i want to see it that way. lol

I was intrigued by the following site for its "correction" of Yeats' work. What? Why? Anyway, i wanted to share it.
http://www.cosmoetica.com/TOP1-DES1.htm

Finally, a youtube video reading, complete with moving pictures of a field, i guess. What i liked was that it was read by someone with an Irish accent. Appropriate. https://www.google.com/search?q=youtu...

Into the Twilight
W. B. Yeats

Out-worn heart, in a time out-worn,
Come clear of the nets of wrong and right;
Laugh heart again in the gray twilight,
Sigh, heart, again in the dew of the morn.

Your mother Eire is always young,
Dew ever shining and twilight gray;
Though hope fall from you and love decay,
Burning in fires of a slanderous tongue.

Come, heart, where hill is heaped upon hill:
For there the mystical brotherhood
Of sun and moon and hollow and wood
And river and stream work out their will;

And God stands winding His lonely horn,
And time and the world are ever in flight;
And love is less kind than the gray twilight,
And hope is less dear than the dew of the morn.

It seemed like a sad sentiment to me.

LOL. Dan Schneider apparently is not impressed at all.

I know! I was surprised by much of what he wrote.

I have a file of poems, but i don't recall where i ran across most of them. This one, however, i noted was from Sherry Thurner, a late member of this group. She apparently included the following quote, as well. I haven't seen any version of this poem which includes the quote, however.

I include it here to honor Sherry, an avid reader, who was a teacher, artist and Book Nook Buddy, who died in 2019. To see her GR page, click here--https://www.goodreads.com/user/show/1...

The Quote: I like in a good author isn't what he says, but what he whispers.
-Logan Pearsall Smith, essayist (1865-1946)


For an audio version: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=ljwwh...

My Life Before I Knew It
Lawrence Raab

I liked rainy days
when you didn't have to go outside and play.
At night I'd tell my sister
there were snakes under her bed.
When I mowed the lawn I imagined being famous.
Cautious and stubborn, unwilling to fail,
I knew for certain what I didn't want to know.

I hated to dance. I hated baseball,
and collected airplane cards instead.
I learned to laugh at jokes I didn't get.
The death of Christ moved me,
but only at the end of Ben-Hur.
I thought Henry Mancini was a great composer.

My secret desire was to own a collie
who would walk with me in the woods
when the leaves were falling
and I was thinking about writing the stories
that would make me famous.

Sullen, overweight, melancholy,
writers didn't have to be good at sports.
They stayed inside for long periods of time.
They often wore glasses. But strangers
were moved by what they accomplished
and wrote them letters. One day

one of those strangers would introduce
herself to me, and then
the life I'd never been able to forsee
would begin, and everything
before I became myself would appear
necessary to the rest of the story.

I remember Sherry from AOL message boards.

It seems as the person in the poem is unhappy with her/him present lot in life and not so much living in the present time as wishing/dreaming of the future. On some level that is sad as the only day we have really is today.

What was your take on the poem, Deb ?

I can see why you'd understand the poem to be unhappy. For me, it was more a love poem, stating how things were before "one of those strangers" entered his life. So, it almost seems as though he is explaining the life he'd led which led them to one another.

One thing i liked about this poem is that it named the parts of his life that seemed important enough to include. They weren't particularly abnormal or wild, just the everyday likes & dislikes that helped to form what he was...before her.

At least that was my take. The first go 'round, i thought he was just sharing about his life & how it led him to become a writer. The last stanza altered that impression, for me.

The post Alias & i shared about the previous poem reminded me of this poem. In a different manner, he's talking about what makes him who he is, as well as what he hopes to do now, when he writes.

Poet Ted Kooser was born in Ames, Iowa, and now lives in rural Nebraska. I mention this because i found a number of comments from contemporary poets, who remark upon Kooser's sense of amazement at the core of his work. This is something one might not have thought could happen, coming from his "homes".

This poem calls to me because i spent some time over the last few years, writing about my memories of my family. In the work below, i see my mother at her sewing machine, making our clothes. I see my teenaged dad standing in a concrete pit in west Texas. Cars would be parked above my dad, while he changed their oil. And more...

For more about Kooser, try this Wiki accounting--https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Ted_Kooser

To hear Kooser recite his recently written poem, click here https://www.google.com/search?client=...

Legacy
Ted Kooser

I have spent seventy years trying to persuade you,
to manipulate you with the poems I’ve written,
to remember my people as if they’d been yours—
to flesh out in evocative detail my parents,
my grandparents, cousins, uncles and aunts—
knowing that one day I’ll be gone, and without me
to remember them, the poems I’ve written
will have to go it alone. I owe my people
so much, and I want them to enjoy—if not
immortality—a few more good years in the light,
my grandfather patching a tire for a quarter,
his brother weaving a rag rug on his sun porch,
my mother at her humming sewing machine,
my father un-thumping a bolt of brocade,
measuring for new draperies. Perhaps they were
for you, to draw open and see on your lawn
Cousin Eunice Morarend playing her accordion.

madrano wrote:

knowing that one day I’ll be gone, and without me
to remember them, the poems I’ve written
will have to go it alone.
..."

Poignant.

I recall reading in a book, (Quaker or Amish?) the sentiment that one doesn't truly die if their name is still spoken.

I tried to google where this comes from and I found many sources some even going back to ancient Egypt. Some online said it's from the Talmud. There is even a Hemingway quote. "Every man has two deaths, when he is buried in the ground and the last time someone says his name."

Either way, this notion has always stayed with me.

Ok, no laughing, but when i watch movies set in times of early human history, i think about that same thing. Same with dynasties, too, given all their work, it seems sad that knowledge of their names & existence is lost to the world.

It reminds me of the poem "Ozymandias". The more familiar one was written for a contest between Percy Bysshe Shelley and Horace Smith. At this web site, you can read both versions. I prefer Smith's, because he makes a final connection to their own lives. Therefore, i offer his here. https://gurglewords.wordpress.com/201...

Ozymandias
Horace Smith

IN Egypt’s sandy silence, all alone,
Stands a gigantic Leg, which far off throws
The only shadow that the Desert knows:—
“I am great OZYMANDIAS,” saith the stone,
“The King of Kings; this mighty City shows
“The wonders of my hand.”— The City’s gone,—
Nought but the Leg remaining to disclose
The site of this forgotten Babylon.

We wonder,—and some Hunter may express
Wonder like ours, when thro’ the wilderness
Where London stood, holding the Wolf in chase,
He meets some fragment huge, and stops to guess
What powerful but unrecorded race
Once dwelt in that annihilated place.–

madrano wrote: "Ok, no laughing, but when i watch movies set in times of early human history, i think about that same thing. Same with dynasties, too, given all their work, it seems sad that knowledge of their nam..."

That fits well, deb.

Walking around a cemetery it's sad to see names of people long gone and maybe no family members to remember them.

Like you, i get that sense about abandoned graves. It's particularly sad when the grave is of a baby or child. One wonders if the family moved away, hoping to leave bad luck behind or, did they have more children and little time to return to the grave site.

And on it goes.

German-born poet Charles Bukowski spent much of his life in Los Angeles. Known for his poetry and prose, which was often filled with violence, sexism, racism, poverty, alcohol, and plenty of descriptions about vomiting, he could create life affirming literature, as well. An example is the poem below. Critics mostly ignored him for much of his life.

According to the Wiki page about him, his posthumously published works have been highly edited and with some themes dramatically reduced
Read more, if you care to do so, here--https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Charles...

For a neat reading of this poem, click here: https://www.google.com/search?q=youtu...


a song with no end
Charles Bukowski

when Whitman wrote, "I sing the body electric"
I know what he
meant
I know what he wanted:

to be completely alive every moment
in spite of the inevitable.

we can't cheat death but we can make it
work so hard
that when it does take
us

it will have known a victory just as
perfect as
ours.

From: The Night Torn Mad With Footsteps

Nice.

I always think of the movie Fame when someone mentions, The Body Electric.

I Sing The Body Electric- Fame
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=tG-wl...

I've enjoyed his book, Ham on Rye

The Laughing Heart by Charles Bukowski

your life is your life
don’t let it be clubbed into dank submission.
be on the watch.
there are ways out.
there is light somewhere.
it may not be much light but
it beats the darkness.
be on the watch.
the gods will offer you chances.
know them.
take them.
you can’t beat death but
you can beat death in life, sometimes.
and the more often you learn to do it,
the more light there will be.
your life is your life.
know it while you have it.
you are marvelous
the gods wait to delight
in you.

-- by Charles Bukowski

I usually think of Bukowski as being a kind of pessimist. But this is a wonderful uplifting poem. 😊

It is curious, isn't it, Barbara? I wonder if there are people who are aware of his moods when he wrote such uplifting material? My mother, who was an alcoholic, could present positive thoughts in loving ways, while quite drunk. When not, she was more pessimistic. Not direly so, just a contrast not to be missed.

So, i wonder the "mood" of the writer when such words are written. Not that the answer would change anything about it. What inspires, inspires. Living the life he did for so many years, the optimism is a gift.

Well, our 36 hour winter is over. The accumulated snow was around an inch, but is melting quickly today in our 40 degree "heat". And so, tongue in cheek, i offer the following verse.

I cannot find out anything about the author of today's work. I found this one in the Sept. 1930 issue of the publication Poetry: A Magazine of Verse. Goodreads lists a volume of her poetry, Lower than the angels, but nothing other than the '34 publication date.

January Thaw
Rosalie Dunlap Hickler

There was rain in the night, a dull delivering rain
That washed the air of sparkle and hard blue gleam,
And bent the frozen grasses in the meadow,
And loosed the stream.

Now is talk and laughter of running water,
Light imperious talk of water freed.
Indolent winds stray through the winter meadow,
Winter indeed!

Everyone knows that death is a season only.
Though laughter is hushed again, and tempests shout,
It is not long till fire runs in the maples
And ice goes out.

I'll be sad when it "goes out". Winter, Fall, Spring are my seasons. I dread summer the way most dread winter.

I hear ya!

I've been going through some online links and found poems by Wendy J. Herbert. I did not recognize the name. After some research, i still know little. However, she won the Anna Davidson Rosenberg Prize, which is awarded for works "on the Jewish experience were established by Nedda Fratkin, Marvin Rosenberg and Violet Ginsburg in memory of their mother, Anna Rosenberg, née Davidson in 1987."

I suspect the poem below is from her sole volume of poetry, Dear Specimen: Poems. This is not a sentimental poem about a deceased parent, but i liked it, as it sounds human.

Narcissist’s Daughter
W.J. Herbert

After his death, I didn’t know that the chair
he’d needed a cane to cantilever himself out of
would darken under my elms,
as if still shadowed by his date palm and cholla;
that butterflies painted on his Chinese plate
were dragonflies I’d never seen
for what they really were;
that the Stickley table he’d thought might
someday have significant value
was just old furniture to the appraiser
who in kindness misled him;
that his mother’s gas lamp
which I was told to never touch
would cast a glow she must have mended by at night;
that I’d inherit gravy boats, baby spoons,
an ornate frame, its cornices filled
with dust from Bratnell Place
where Grandma’s gas lamp helped her midwife
clean my father of his caul;

That the realtor I hired to sell his house
had seen him eating alone
at Denny’s and played golf with him
once or twice just to be kind;
that his retirement party had been filled
with my mother’s friends
and that, after her stroke, he’d badgered them
until they fell away;
that his mother had not only given birth
in her lamp’s light, but had written stories
that he’d discarded in a fit of pique,
although he had saved the remains
of several gifts she’d given him:
a slide rule, cuff link, prayer shawl
missing its fringe;
and that, on top of these, he’d left a letter to me
that didn’t say, I love you,
but rather: the key to the safe deposit
_is in my right desk drawer
_ and, for God’s sake, be careful with the lamp.

:( It sounds like he was a very lonely man after his wife died. Living alone, I guess we get into ways of doing things or keeping things that most can't comprehend.

I often thought about things which I kept for sentimental value or because of the person who gave them to me or my parents. After I'm gone the stories behind these items will also be gone. It makes me sad to think about it.

This reminded me of the recent article in the Feb. Atlantic magazine article.

"Americans are now spending more time alone than ever, Derek Thompson writes. It may be the most significant social fact of our age".

For The Atlantic’s February cover story, staff writer Derek Thompson explores “The Anti-Social Century”: why Americans are spending more time alone than ever, and how that’s changing our personalities, our politics, and even our relationship to reality. Thompson argues that self-imposed solitude might just be the most important social fact of 21st-century America, and that the nature of our social crisis is that most Americans don’t seem to be reacting to the biological cue to spend more time with other people."

https://www.goodreads.com/topic/show/...

Alias Reader wrote: "Americans are now spending more time alone than ever, Derek Thompson writes. It may be the most significant social fact of our age"..."

As nations increase the age people die, i believe the numbers will continue to rise, just as the dementia numbers are, in today's headlines. It's the flip side of living longer, i suppose.

Like you, Alias, i look at some items from my parent's & grandparent's lives, which i treasure. However, neither of our children seem interested. I've told them to please contact cousins, even 3rd or 4th, so see if they would like the items. Finding old beauties in resale stores make me sigh.

Kwame Dawes was born in Ghana and raised in Jamaica, where his father was deputy director of the Institute of Jamaica (https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Institu... ). After attaining his BA in that nation, he achieved his PhD in Comparative Literature from the University of New Brunswick, in Canada. From there he taught at the University of South Carolina, then to University of Nebraska-Lincoln, where he now teaches and edits Prairie Schooner.

The poem below is one written while there. In addition he is an actor, musician, critic and activist. He founded the African Poetry Book Fund, begun in 2014. Its goal is to promote & publicize books, contests, workshops and seminars with those who share an interest in the poetic arts of Africa.

For a fuller bio-- https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Kwame_D...

For more poems-- https://poets.org/poems/kwame-dawes

Dawn
Kwame Dawes

If in the blue gloom of early morning,
the sky heavy with portents of snowfall,
the air crisp with the cold that will
gather about us for the long season ahead,
you see the slick blackness of my car
humming in the empty A lot; and if you
see the light of the dash against
my face, and notice my mouth moving
like a sputtering madman’s might,
and if you see me wave a hand
toward my head and pull away
the knit tam I wear close to the skull,
and if you see me rocking, eyes
closed—then do not second guess
yourself—it is true, I have been
transported into the net of naked
trees, above it all, and my soul
is crying out the deep confusion
of gospel—the wet swelling in my chest
is the longing in me, and these tears
are the language of the unspeakable,

From Nebraska: Poems

madrano wrote: "As nations increase the age people die, i believe the numbers will continue to rise, just as the dementia numbers are, in today's headlines. It's the flip side of living longer, i suppose...."

I think the problem now has also migrated to younger adults. Apprentlly studies show that they spend more time online, video games and TV then with friends in real life.

The book Bowling Alone: The Collapse and Revival of American Community by Robert D. Putnam was written in 2000. Things apparently have only gotten worse.

Deb, I'm not sure what to make of the Kwame Dawes poem. What do you think the sentiment he is trying to convey is ?

Alias, i think there could probably be many ideas drawn from this one. My first thought was that as he parked his car, a gospel song he knew came on the radio and he was transported, either to a memory or to the message of the song.

I've experienced this when in my car, so this may be why i thought the above. Some songs transport me, usually because i haven't heard it in so long & it is unexpectedly present. I will stay in the car until the song is over, not wanting to disturb that moment.

The "transported" above the trees almost sounds as though he could be describing anticipation of the first snowfall, being a part of it. Or, opposite, he dreads it. LOL! I've never lived in Nebraska but, since he was raised in Ghana & Jamaica, an upcoming winter could represent something special to him. Good or bad, who knows? Again, from my own perspective, having moved from Texas to Pennsylvania, i marveled at each snow fall.

The title of the poem, leads to something else, though. It hints of a new beginning. Maybe the season change? Maybe he resolved an issue? Whatever it is, he doesn't want us to think his behavior is strange, he's just "elsewhere", in some form.

How about you, do my ideas sound odd?

Alias Reader wrote: "
I think the problem now has also migrated to younger adults. Apprentlly studies show that they spend more time online, video games and TV then with friends in real life.

The book Bowling Alone: The Collapse and Revival of American Community by Robert D. Putnam was written in 2000. Things apparently have only gotten worse..."

As usual, i find myself wondering if we have new parameters for the term "dementia", as well. More stages are known now, so professionals can declare people in the beginnings of dementia earlier. I'm not denying the facts, don't get me wrong. It just seems that the more we know, the more we recognize. When made public, it just seems more frightening.

Honestly, i don't know enough about it to go further, though.

madrano wrote: "Alias, i think there could probably be many ideas drawn from this one. My first thought was that as he parked his car, a gospel song he knew came on the radio and he was transported, either to a me..."

I re-read the poem and I think you are spot on. The music transported him, as only music can do at times. Thank you.

Believe me, it was my joy to share on that one. I cannot sing, but in the car, i am brilliant. :-) And the words seem to ring more true, in some ways. Again, i think the unexpectedness is at play at those times.