By Louise Bogan

She gives most dangerous sight

To keep his life awake:
A sword sharp-edged and bright

That darkness must not break,

Not ever for her sake.

With it he sees, deep-hidden,
The sullen other blade

To every eye forbidden,

That half her life has made,

And until now obeyed.

Now he will know his part:
Tougher than bone or wood,

To clasp on that barbed heart

That once shed its own blood

In its own solitude.

There is a lot of merit to the indirect approach, especially in matters where people are shielded from seeing themselves. That’s where poetry can be an asset. An odd coupling of words, placed side-by-side, may galvanize those deeply buried thoughts and allow them to surface.

And yet we neglect this art form. I had never heard of Edwin Arlington Robinson (1869-1935), who was revered by Teddy Roosevelt, won the Pulitzer Prize three times and was nominated for a Nobel.

Don’t be like Miniver Cheevy so full of regret for a time long past.

Miniver Cheevy, child of scorn,
Grew lean while he assailed the seasons;
He wept that he was ever born, And he had reasons.

Miniver loved the days of old
When swords were bright and steeds were prancing;The vision of a warrior bold
Would set him dancing.

Miniver sighed for what was not, And dreamed, and rested from his labors;
He dreamed of Thebes and Camelot, And Priam's neighbors.

Miniver mourned the ripe renown
That made so many a name so fragrant;
He mourned Romance, now on the town, And Art, a vagrant.

Miniver loved the Medici, Albeit he had never seen one;
He would have sinned incessantly
Could he have been one.

Miniver cursed the commonplace And eyed a khaki suit with loathing;
He missed the mediæval grace
Of iron clothing.

Miniver scorned the gold he sought, But sore annoyed was he without it;
Miniver thought, and thought, and thought, And thought about it.

Miniver Cheevy, born too late,
Scratched his head and kept on thinking;
Miniver coughed, and called it fate, And kept on drinking.

Embrace the dynamism of the future, one of individual actors working towards their best lives independently or in collaboration. The trappings of royalty are but costumes.

We the People of the United States, in Order to form a more perfect Union, establish Justice, insure domestic Tranquility, provide for the common defence, promote the general Welfare, and secure the Blessings of Liberty to ourselves and our Posterity, do ordain and establish this Constitution for the United States of America.

By Carl Sandburg

The lawyers, Bob, know too much.
They are chums of the books of old John Marshall.
They know it all, what a dead hand wrote, A stiff dead hand and its knuckles crumbling, The bones of the fingers a thin white ash.
The lawyers know
a dead man's thoughts too well.
In the heels of the higgling lawyers, Bob,
Too many slippery ifs and buts and howevers, Too much hereinbefore provided whereas,
Too many doors to go in and out of.

When the lawyers are through
What is there left, Bob?
Can a mouse nibble at it
And find enough to fasten a tooth in?

Why is there always a secret singing
When a lawyer cashes in?
Why does a hearse horse snicker
Hauling a lawyer away?

The work of a bricklayer goes to the blue.
The knack of a mason outlasts a moon.
The hands of a plasterer hold a room together.
The land of a farmer wishes him back again.
Singers of songs and dreamers of plays
Build a house no wind blows over.
The lawyers — tell me why a hearse horse snickers hauling a law-
yer's bones.

I’ve got some more lawyerly ideas for poetic treatment, like — those who think they know so much train themselves to be myopic. Or those who busy themselves pointing out what others don’t know fail to hook an opportunity in their midst. And then those who think they know so much create an industry of people who know just how to leverage this blindness.

Between the hand and the waiting page
a quiet question breathes:

Is it the eye that reaches down
to press its longing onto paper,
or does the page lift itself
toward the gaze, hungry to be seen?

Pencil grazes, tentative,
then sure—
each line a whispered nerve
finding its twin across the white.

Logic wakes in the meeting of marks:
here a curve bows to angle,
there a straight path kisses its own return.
Edge finds edge like lovers
recognizing the shape of home.

Balance is not declared—
it arrives,
soft as breath held,
sudden as dawn
when the last connection
closes the circuit
and the project,
once mist,
now stands solid
inside the mind’s lit room.

Let the peace of Christ rule in your hearts, since as members of one body you were called to peace.

And be thankful. 

Let the message of Christ dwell among you richly as you teach and admonish one another with all wisdom through psalms, hymns, and songs from the Spirit, singing to God with gratitude in your hearts. 

And whatever you do, whether in word or deed, do it all in the name of the Lord Jesus, giving thanks to God the Father through Him.

COLOSSIANS 3:15-17

by Rudyard Kipling

We're foot—slog—slog—slog—sloggin’ over Africa!

Foot—foot—foot—foot—sloggin’ over Africa—

(Boots—boots—boots—boots—movin’ up and down again!)

            There’s no discharge in the war!

Everyone thinks of changing the world, but no one thinks of changing himself.

Ode to Pepe (Jean Pierre)

Oh Pepe, my Jean Pierre, with fur so wild and free,

A shaggy heart of gold, you bring such joy to me.

Your eyes, they gleam with mischief, your spirit pure and bright,

A faithful friend, a bounding soul, my beacon in the light.

With a ball in sight, you leap, a furry streak of glee,

Across the wooden floors, you chase so merrily.

Your tail a wagging metronome, your bark a song of play,

You fetch with such devotion, brightening every day.

Affection in your nuzzle, your warmth against my side,

A loyal companion, in you I can confide.

Through morning walks at sunrise, or evenings calm and still,

Your love, dear Pepe, is a gift, a void you’ll always fill.

Oh Jean Pierre, my Pepe, with your toy held oh so tight,

You dance through life with fervor, a canine pure delight.

Forever will I cherish each moment that we share,

My ball-fetching, faithful friend, my Pepe, Jean Pierre.

It’s good to think of flowers this time of year

When the ground’s frozen crust caps the earth in fear

The fluffy petals in playful colors gently sent the air

When the soft southern gusts tussle their hair

Today is harsh and hard- even the cheery sun turns ice to glare

But soon, dear friend, the earth’s soil will soften, so don’t despair

Simply think of flowers this time of year.

Clement Clarke Moore

1779 – 1863

‘Twas the night before Christmas, when all through the house
Not a creature was stirring, not even a mouse;
The stockings were hung by the chimney with care,
In hopes that St. Nicholas soon would be there;
The children were nestled all snug in their beds,
While visions of sugar-plums danced in their heads;
And mamma in her ’kerchief, and I in my cap,
Had just settled our brains for a long winter’s nap, 
When out on the lawn there arose such a clatter,
I sprang from the bed to see what was the matter.
Away to the window I flew like a flash,
Tore open the shutters and threw up the sash.
The moon on the breast of the new-fallen snow 
Gave the lustre of mid-day to objects below,
When, what to my wondering eyes should appear,
But a miniature sleigh, and eight tiny reindeer, 
With a little old driver, so lively and quick,
I knew in a moment it must be St. Nick.
More rapid than eagles his coursers they came,
And he whistled, and shouted, and called them by name;
“Now, Dasher! now, Dancer! now, Prancer and Vixen!
On, Comet! on, Cupid! on, Donder and Blitzen!
To the top of the porch! to the top of the wall!
Now dash away! dash away! dash away all!”
As dry leaves that before the wild hurricane fly,
When they meet with an obstacle, mount to the sky;
So up to the house-top the coursers they flew,
With the sleigh full of Toys, and St. Nicholas too.
And then, in a twinkling, I heard on the roof
The prancing and pawing of each little hoof.
As I drew in my head, and was turning around,
Down the chimney St. Nicholas came with a bound.
He was dressed all in fur, from his head to his foot,
And his clothes were all tarnished with ashes and soot;
A bundle of Toys he had flung on his back,
And he looked like a pedler just opening his pack.
His eyes—how they twinkled! his dimples how merry!
His cheeks were like roses, his nose like a cherry!
His droll little mouth was drawn up like a bow
And the beard of his chin was as white as the snow;
The stump of a pipe he held tight in his teeth,
And the smoke it encircled his head like a wreath;
He had a broad face and a little round belly,
That shook when he laughed, like a bowlful of jelly.
He was chubby and plump, a right jolly old elf,
And I laughed when I saw him, in spite of myself;
A wink of his eye and a twist of his head,
Soon gave me to know I had nothing to dread;
He spoke not a word, but went straight to his work,
And filled all the stockings; then turned with a jerk,
And laying his finger aside of his nose,
And giving a nod, up the chimney he rose;
He sprang to his sleigh, to his team gave a whistle,
And away they all flew like the down of a thistle,
But I heard him exclaim, ere he drove out of sight,
“Happy Christmas to all, and to all a good-night.”

If I can stop one heart from breaking, 
I shall not live in vain; 
If I can ease one life the aching, 
Or cool one pain, 
Or help one fainting robin 
Unto his nest again, 
I shall not live in vain.

Estates sales are the place to find,

well worn books of all kind.

This precious tomb of poetry

practically jumped out at me.

“Fool!” said my Muse to me, “look in thy heart and write.”

Sir Philip Sidney

The Savior must have been
A docile Gentleman—
To come so far so cold a Day
For little Fellowmen—

The Road to Bethlehem
Since He and I were Boys
Was leveled, but for that ‘twould be
A rugged Billion Miles—

Now that the Vikings are done for the season I’ve shifted my allegiances to the Kansas City Chiefs. Their quarter back Patrick Mahones is so fun to watch. This evening, their game against the Miami Dolphins holds the dubious distinction of being played in the coldest temps in NFL history. It’s minus seven in the third quarter. Yet Mahones is keeping it together and just lead his team to another touchdown bringing the score to 26 Chiefs 7 Dolphins.

A chilly environment is sometimes created by other factors than a north winter wind. I don’t think it was the same type of cold that Emily Dickinson is referring to in poem #538 below. The commentators say the feel of the football is not the same in the frigid temps. In the same way a greeting or expression of concern can be passed on heavy fumbling words.

‘Tis true — They shut me in the Cold– by Emily Dickinson

538
‘Tis true — They shut me in the Cold —
But then — Themselves were warm
And could not know the feeling ’twas —
Forget it — Lord — of Them —

Let not my Witness hinder Them
In Heavenly esteem —
No Paradise could be — Conferred
Through Their beloved Blame —

The Harm They did — was short — And since
Myself — who bore it — do —
Forgive Them — Even as Myself  —
Or else — forgive not me —

Luther made good on his intentions to craft congregational songs in the German language, and this legacy is preserved in these facsimile editions, but moreso it is preserved in Lutheran churches and hymnals, where Luther’s corpus of hymns is still performed via carefully curated translations. Baptist hymnal compilers and worship leaders have generally limited themselves to “The battle hymn of the Reformation,” but this year’s grand anniversary is an opportunity to explore the greater breadth of Luther’s hymn writing.

Luther’s final collection was published in 1545, the year before his death. Geystliche Lieder Mit einer newen vorrhede, printed by Valentin Babst, contained 120 German hymns, 35 of which were by Luther, with his final revisions. Among the newer pieces were Luther’s two Christmas hymns, the longer “Vom Himmel hoch da komm ich her,” known in English as “From heaven above to earth I come” by Catherine Winkworth, and the shorter hymn, “Vom Himmel kam der Engel Schaar,” translated as “To shepherds as they watched by night” by Richard Massie.

By Chris Fenner

Scandinavian humility was a mainstay thread throughout Garrison Keilor’s forty-year run of A Prairie Home Companion. The radio variety show ran weekly on Minnesota Public Radio to a large and devoted audience. Later the show was held at the Fitzgerald Theater in St. Paul and more than once I was unable to get tickets to a sold-out show when an out-of-town guest suggested we attend.

His material centered on the slow pace in a rural community, the Lutheran way of life and a matter of fact sensibility. He ended every show with: “That’s the news from Lake Wobegon where all the women are strong, all the men good looking and all the children above average.”

This same type of virtue of modesty appears here is a Viking poem:

On little shores and little seas 
live people of little sense; 
everyone has equal wisdom
where the world is half as wide.

Moderately wise a man should be-
don't wish for too much wisdom;
the men who live  the fairest lives
know just a number of things.

Moderately wise  a man should be-
don't wish for too much wisdom;
a man's heart  is seldom happy
if he is truly wise.

Moderately wise a man should be-
don't wish for too much wisdom; 
if you can't see far into the future, 
you can live free from care.

Flames from one log leap to another, fire kindles fire;
a man learns from the minds of others,
a fool prefers his own.

Get up early if you are after another man's life or money;
a sleeping wolf will seldom make a kill 
nor a warrior win lying down.

Get up early if you have few men, and attend to your tasks yourself; 
much slips by while you lie in bed-
work is half of wealth.

Taken from the Viking Poem: Sayings of the High One

Came across an excellent selection of books, with a penchant for the old Norse at a recent estate sale.

Take a walk on a blue sky day, enjoy the sunshine and feel the

Sway of the road as it curls to the left unaware of the view that drops off its

Shoulder a worry and let it fall into the brush where nature will recycle it into

Beauty is everywhere you look if you take the time to see it on a blue sky day.

by Emily Dickinson

The mushroom is the elf of plants,
At evening it is not;
At morning in a truffled hut
It stops upon a spot

As if it tarried always;
And yet its whole career
Is shorter than a snake’s delay,
And fleeter than a tare.

‘T is vegetation’s juggler,
The germ of alibi;
Doth like a bubble antedate,
And like a bubble hie.

I feel as if the grass were pleased
To have it intermit;
The surreptitious scion
Of summer’s circumspect.

Had nature any outcast face,
Could she a son contemn,
Had nature an Iscariot,
That mushroom, — it is him

Robert Louis Stevenson

1850 –1894

The moon has a face like the clock in the hall;
She shines on thieves on the garden wall,
On streets and fields and harbour quays,
And birdies asleep in the forks of the trees.

The squalling cat and the squeaking mouse,
The howling dog by the door of the house,
The bat that lies in bed at noon,
All love to be out by the light of the moon.

But all of the things that belong to the day
Cuddle to sleep to be out of her way;
And flowers and children close their eyes
Till up in the morning the sun shall arise.

By Amy Lowell

What is poetry? Is it a mosaic
Of coloured stones which curiously are wrought
Into a pattern? Rather glass that’s taught
By patient labor any hue to take
And glowing with a sumptuous splendor, make
Beauty a thing of awe; where sunbeams caught,
Transmuted fall in sheafs of rainbows fraught
With storied meaning for religion’s sake.

How are memories illusive and vivid at the same time? An image of the room. Scented air through the window. A beep at a distance for the gardener to open the gate. Reading. Evening fires in a hearth. Classical music from a turn table. Count the instruments says a voice.

Can you picture it? I ask my brother. Yes, absolutely.

by Lewis Carroll

I'll tell thee everything I can;

There's little to relate,

I saw an aged, aged man,

A-sitting on a gate.

"Who are you, aged man?" I said.

"And how is it you live?"

And his answer trickled through my head

Like water through a sieve.



He said, "I look for butterflies

That sleep among the wheat;

I make them into mutton-pies,

And sell them in the street.

I sell them unto men," he said,

"Who sail on stormy seas;

And that's the way I get my bread

A trifle, if you please."



But I was thinking of a plan

To dye one's whiskers green,

And always use so large a fan

That they could not be seen.

So, having no reply to give

To what the old man said,

I cried, "Come, tell me how you live!"

And thumped him on the head.



His accents mild took up the tale;

He said, "I go my ways,

And when I find a mountain-rill,

I set it in a blaze;

And thence they make a stuff they call

Rowland's Macassar Oil

Yet twopence-halfpenny is all

They give me for my toil."



But I was thinking of a way

To feed one's self on batter,

And so go on from day to day

Getting a little fatter.

I shook him well from side to side,

Until his face was blue,

"Come, tell me how you live," I cried,

"And what it is you do!"



He said, "I hunt for haddocks' eyes

Among the heather bright,

And work them into waistcoat-buttons

In the silent night.

And these I do not sell for gold

Or coin of silvery shine,

But for a copper halfpenny,

And that will purchase nine.



"I sometimes dig for buttered rolls,

Or set limed twigs for crabs;

I sometimes search the grassy knolls

For wheels of hansom-cabs.

And that's the way" (he gave a wink)

"By which I get my wealth

And very gladly will I drink

Your honor's noble health."



I heard him then, for I had just

Completed my design

To keep the Menai bridge from rust

By boiling it in wine.

I thanked him much for telling me

The way he got his wealth,

But chiefly for his wish that he

Might drink my noble health.



And now, if e'er by chance I put

My fingers into glue,

Or madly squeeze a right-hand foot

Into a left-hand shoe,

Or if I drop upon my toe

A very heavy weight,

I weep, for it reminds me so

Of that old man I used to know

Whose look was mild, whose speech was slow,

Whose hair was whiter than the snow,

Whose face was very like a crow,

With eyes, like cinders, all aglow,

Who seemed distracted with his woe,

Who rocked his body to and fro,

And muttered mumblingly and low,

As if his mouth were full of dough,

Who snorted like a buffalo

That summer evening long ago,

A-sitting on a gate.

List provied by: YuHansung’s Coffee

3 years ago (edited)1: Matthew Arnold, Dover Beach read by Eileen Atkins 0:06 2: W.H. Auden, Musee des Beaux Arts read by Jodie Foster 2:13 3: John Berryman, Henry’s Confession read by Gary Sinise 3:41 4: Elizabeth Bishop, Filling Station read by Glenn Close 4:55 5: William Blake, The Tyger read by Helem Mirren 6:48 6: Gwendolyn Brooks, We Real Cool read by Morgan Freeman 8:23 7: Elizabeth Barrett Browning, How do I love thee? Let me count the ways read by Helen Mirren 9:08 8: Robert Burns, To a Mouse read by Billy Connolly 10:18 9: George Gordon, Lord Byron, I would I were a careless child read by Robert Sean Leonard 12:29 10: Lewis Carroll, Jabberwocky  read by Eileen Atkins 15:17 11: Geoffrey Chaucer, The General Prologue read by Lynn Redgrave 16:48 12: Samuel Taylor Coleridge, Kubla Khan read by Robert Sean Leonard 19:31 13: Hart Crane, To Brooklyn Bridge read by Sam Waterston 22:13 14: e.e. cummings, if everything happens that can’t be done read by Eileen Atkins 25:17 15: Emily Dickinson, 1263 (There is no Frigate like a Book) read by Glenn Close 26:41 16: John Donne, Song (Go and catch a falling star) read by John Lithgow 27:14 17: T.S. Eliot, Rhapsody on a Windy Night read by Morgan Freeman 28:28 18: Robert Frost, Birches read by John Lithgow 32:01 19: William S. Gilbert, Love Unrequited, or The Nightmare Song read by John Lithgow 35:40 20: Allen Ginsberg, A Supermarket in California read by Gary Sinise 39:16 21: Robert Herrick, The Beggar to Mab, The Fairy Queen read by Billy Connolly 41:48 22: Gerald Manley Hopkins, Pied Beauty read by Kathy Bates 43:09 23: A.E. Housman, When I Was One and Twenty read by Robert Sean Leonard 44:02 24: Langston Hughes, The Weary Blues read by Morgan Freeman 44:57 25: Randall Jarrell, Death of a Ball Turret Gunner read by Gary Sinise 46:42 26: Ben Jonson, Inviting a Friend to Supper read by Robert Sean Leonard 47:19 27: John Keats, To Autumn read by Lynn Redgrave 49:52 28: Philip Larkin, Days read by Susan Sarandon 52:00 29: Edward Lear, The Owl and the Pussycat read by Billy Connolly 52:39 30: H.W. Longfellow, A Psalm of Life read by John Lithgow 54:10 31: Robert Lowell, The Public Garden read by Billy Conolly 55:58 32: Andrew Marvell, To His Coy Mistress read by John Lithgow 57:39 33: Edna St. Vincent Millay, Love is Not All read by Jodie Foster 1:00:00 34: Marianne Moore, Poetry read by Kathy Bates 1:01:07 35: Ogden Nash, No Doctor’s Today, Thank You read by John Lithgow 1:02:55 36: Dorothy Parker, Afternoon read by Glenn Close 1:04:29 37: Edgar Allen Poe, Annabel Lee read by Sam Waterston 1:05:27 38: Ezra Pound, The River Merchant’s Wife: A Letter read by Jodie Foster 1:07:50 39: Christina Rosetti, Up-Hill read by Helen Mirren 1:09:43 40: Carl Sandburg, Chicago read by Gary Sinise 1:10:56 41: Shakespeare, Fear No More the Heat o’ the Sun read by Lynn Redgrave 1:13:04 42: Percy Bysshe Shelley, To a Skylark read by Glenn Close 1:14:28 43: Edmund Spenser, Sonnet 75 (One day I wrote her name upon the strand) read by Susan Sarandon 1:18:55 44: Gertrude Stein, If I Told Him read by Kathy Bates 1:20:00 45: Wallace Stevens, The Emperor of Ice-Cream read by Kathy Bates 1:24:28 46: Dylan Thomas, Do Not Go Gentle into that Good Night read by Susan Sarandon 1:25:25 47: Walt Whitman, There was a Child went Forth read by Sam Waterston 1:26:44 48: William Carlos Williams, The Red Wheelbarrow read by Jodie Foster 1:31:38 49: William Wordsworth, I Wandered Lonely as a Cloud read by Helen Mirren 1:32:06 50: William Butler Yeats, The Lake Isle of Innisfree read by Eileen Atkins 1:33:25 You are welcome 😀

I have striven not to laugh at human actions, not to weep at them, nor to hate them, but to understand them.

Be thou thine owne home, and in thy selfe dwell;
Inne any where, continuance maketh hell.
And seeing the snaile, which every where doth rome,
Carrying his owne house still, still is at home,
Follow (for he is easie pac’d) this snaile,
Bee thine owne Palace, or the world’s thy gaole.
And in the worlds sea, do not like corke sleepe
Upon the waters face; nor in the deepe
Sinke like a lead without a line: but as
Fishes glide, leaving no print where they passe,
Nor making sound; so closely thy course goe,
Let men dispute, whether thou breathe, or no.

John Donne

Everything that can be said, can be said clearly.

Like as the waves make towards the pebbled shore,
So do our minutes hasten to their end;
Each changing place with that which goes before,
In sequent toil all forwards do contend.
Nativity, once in the main of light,
Crawls to maturity, wherewith being crown’d,
Crooked eclipses ’gainst his glory fight,
And Time that gave doth now his gift confound.
Time doth transfix the flourish set on youth
And delves the parallels in beauty’s brow,
Feeds on the rarities of nature’s truth,
And nothing stands but for his scythe to mow:
And yet to times in hope my verse shall stand,
Praising thy worth, despite his cruel hand.


—William Shakespeare

Rest in peace dear Margaret.

The truth I do not stretch or shove
When I state that the dog is full of love.
I’ve also found, by actual test,
A wet dog is the lovingest.

Ogden Nash

Home is where one starts from. As we grow older
The world becomes stranger, the pattern more complicated 
Of dead and living. Not the intense moment
Isolated, with no before and after,
But a lifetime burning in every moment
And not the lifetime of one man only
But of old stones that cannot be deciphered.
There is a time for the evening under starlight,
A time for the evening under lamplight
(The evening with the photograph album).
Love is most nearly itself
When here and now cease to matter.

The Butterfly

by Alice Freeman Palmer

I HOLD you at last in my hand,
— Exquisite child of the air.
Can I ever understand
— How you grew to be so fair?

You came to my linden tree
— To taste its delicious sweet,
I sitting here in the shadow and shine
— Playing around its feet.

Now I hold you fast in my hand,
— You marvelous butterfly,
Till you help me to understand
— The eternal mystery.

From that creeping thing in the dust
— To this shining bliss in the blue!
God give me courage to trust
— I can break my chrysalis too!