Poetry and Discussion

A poem begins as a lump in the throat, a sense of wrong, a homesickness, a lovesickness.  (Robert Frost)

Someday I'll Have the Courage to Say What I Want to the Crowd

As I move life
Forward
With hastily picked choices
I question.
 
Whether what I do is truly good
Whether love is worth it
Whether man is capable of saving himself
Whether I should eat a sub or pizza for lunch.

Sometimes though,
Actually, most of the time
The days choices and vexations grow too much for me

Forget It

 

Forget    v. 1. to no longer remember something. The one true art of the senile. Ex. Did you forget the girl again? 2. to cease to

It     n. 1. A thing. Ex. Look after that thing, won’t you? 2. What I kept reminding you of.  Ex. Remember to clean it up! 3. Stuff. Ex. Talk to it. Bring it in. 4. Nothing. Neither he nor she. Neither here nor there.

And all these demands, all these its I am continually reminding you of.

NPR: Character And Voice: Picks For National Poetry Month

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Character And Voice: Picks For National Poetry Month

I've discovered over my years of reading poems that voice is incredibly important to me. Whether it's the voice of an omniscient narrator or a narrator who's telling the story in the first person, I need to be captivated by the tone and language in order to get into the work and keep reading.

"Birches" read by Robert Frost

When I see birches bend to left and right
Across the lines of straighter darker trees,
I like to think some boy's been swinging them.
But swinging doesn't bend them down to stay.
Ice-storms do that. Often you must have seen them
Loaded with ice a sunny winter morning

Quatrain Release and Poetry Night: Thursday, April 15 6PM

Apr 15 2010 6:00 pm

Quatrain Release and Poetry Night . . . .

Thursday, April 15, 2010

6:00 pm

In the Alva deMars Megan Chapel  Art Center

 

Thoughts on the Snowman

 "Snowman" by Betsy Holmes"Snowman" by Betsy Holmes

 Thoughts on the Snowman by Dona Maria

What would Chris Cringle wear in Crete?
Does his dashboard have knobs
for cold and for heat?



What would Chris Cringle wear in Pompeii?
Would he take off his shirt
as he drives in his sleigh?


                                                                                                                                                
What would Chris Cringle wear when in Rome?
He would wear frescoes, cathedrals, and domes.

Ocean's Edge

Ocean's Edge by Andre Demers

 

When I wash up on that shore
and lift my eyes
to view the broad expansion
of that sandy line
to know my end
was realized,

 

I’ll arrive on land
and stand
to see the forest dark and cold
over banks of roots above the dunes
and smoky spires rising high
above the pines
into the audience
of the sky
as I shiver there
in a land that’s clear
and near.

 

Emily Dickinson: Living History. April 9th in New Boston

Apr 9 2010 7:15 pm

Emily Dickinson coming to New Hampshire for National Poetry Month tour

New Boston - at 7:15 p.m. at the Whipple Free Library. Other places and times below.

 

imageMeet the reclusive “Belle of Amherst” and hear about her life and writing when Emily Dickinson tours the Granite State in April during National Poetry Month. Dickinson, as portrayed by living history presenter Debra Conner, will visit Concord, Plymouth, New Boston and Portsmouth in a project coordinated by the Northeast Cultural Coop in partnership with four libraries and funded in part by a Humanities Council mini-grant.

Recalling Camus Today by Vincent Colapietro ('73)

Recalling Camus Today [2005]
by Vincent Colapietro
(Alumnus 1973)
Liberal Arts Research Professor at Pennsylvania State University

 Albert Camus died on  January 4, 1960 in an automobile accident

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You tried to teach us

to live

beyond hope and despair

 

though this was taken

unfairly

as a gesture

and even a pose

of despair

 

 

Magdalena

Love,
my dreams are alive
with your lies
Haunting visions
of lust
A conquest still in my sight
I'll always want you

You'll be betrayed
And you know it's not the first time
We've been here before
Nothing has changed
In the shadows of the backrooms
You were always a whore

Gold
Glistening silt
in your sand
We've all heard the legends
Damned
Confined by this violence I've mined
in disruptive presence

Running away
from your freedom and your brighter days
You are tilling the sea
What's left of your hope
is bloated like a rotten corpse
and it's breeding disease

Child,
keep coloring
inside the lines
'Til you've learned your lesson
Lost
and tired of what you call life
For you, it is too late

In an Instant

 

Come now and go
In the flow of each moment
As gentle and fitful
As the stifling breeze blows.
No force to impel it,
As the heartless sun presses
Down over upon us,
But still yet it comes.
 

"Kubla Khan" and the Creative Genius

 

Jaclyn Mula

Professor Cronin

Studies in Romantic Literature

November 3, 2009

“Kubla Khan” and the Creative Genius

Poetry reading in Manchester; Naomi Shihab Nye,May 5

imageWorld-renowned poet Naomi Shihab Nye will visit the Granite State in an event sponsored by the NH Humanities Council’s Connections adult literacy program. Nye will offer a public reading and discuss her work on Wednesday, May 5 at 7 p.m. at the NH Institute of Art in Manchester. A book signing will follow the program.

This event is free and open to the public, however space is limited and preregistration is strongly recommended. Register on-line at http://nhhumanitiesconnections.eventbrite.com or call 224-4071.

The dives mundi...

The dives mundi,

the riches of the world,

anger when slighted,

irritation of

a latent grudge,

passion under

these above,

yet too for attraction and pleasure.

How many things are the riches of the world!

How many things have

depth!

How much can we feel and do?

Amen.

 

Sonnet

 

Would ,Warm Waters, that your cleansing embrace,

my sole with timid touch burned anon,

(But what soul could shy from such soothing grace!)

Bubble and boil about ever long!

To cool now would betray your fountain’s lord,
abandoning your care to hostile air!
Dry enemy let each lung amply hoard,
that your imminent victim prolong despair.

 

For standing again will stiffen my bones,

O primitive man...

O primitive man!
What yearning compelled thee?
What virtue infused thine idols
and heroes exalt?
 

The hunter of brawn
or lover at dawn,
or didst thou revere the beasts
who without passion astir
graze in peace?
 

Why beget upon cavern walls,
what was your flame?
What enemy was there but Nature's rage?
 

Were there bonds
to vain concept,
community
and proper prospect?
 

Without great Intelligence,
the curse of Truth,
to learn of breathing
must have been sooth.

My words...

My words are the wrapping to a gift.
I give.
What is in the box I know not.

The strength of the cello...

The strength of the cello,
the ration of a viola,
and the contention
of peace and chaos
in the bipolarity
of violins-
a string quartet cadence
for dimly lit coffins
on a college campus.

A scribbled regurgitation
of some illumination
which escaped the capture of words-
lies sloppy and dripping
like the hopes of secrets revealed.

Spirit's of men
who in a similar room
slowly died for a virtue-
resurrect in the pages of books.

But You- you Madman,
you Miser, you Lover-
Hunter of Silence,
Death Itself-
captured the breath of God.

The gentle passing...

The gentle passing of finger tips,
over reeds. All the colors.
The breeze in lullaby
under willows
a cool tenderness for
my heavy swallow,
And the majesty of falling sun
teases- as do lips,

not ee

the dark sky sighed
and
silent scintillations of stars
cast a net enfolding you in
the universe’s arms
on the night you were
born
 
light from nowhere glowed on snow
and there was
silence
in the cold air
brittle with the weight of frozen light that
shone upon your entrance