September 25, 2018 | Filed Under Poem for Hela | Comments Off on Daily Poem: Villeggiature ~ Edith Nesbit
Villeggiature
~ Edith Nesbit
My window, framed in pear-tree bloom,
White-curtained shone, and softly lighted:
So, by the pear-tree, to my room
Your ghost last night climbed uninvited.
Your solid self, long leagues away,
Deep in dull books, had hardly missed me;
And yet you found this Romeo’s way,
And through the blossom climbed and kissed me.
I watched the still and dewy lawn,
The pear-tree boughs hung white above you;
I listened to you till the dawn,
And half forgot I did not love you.
Oh, dear! what pretty things you said,
What pearls of song you threaded for me!
I did not—till your ghost had fled—
Remember how you always bore me!
September 24, 2018 | Filed Under Poem for Hela | Comments Off on Daily Poem: September ~ Deborah Landau
September
~ Deborah Landau
Dazzling emptiness of the black green end of summer no one
running in the yard pulse pulse the absence.
Leave them not to the empty yards.
They resembled a family. Long quiet hours. Sometimes
one was angry sometimes someone called her “wife”
someone’s hair receding.
An uptick in the hormone canopy embodied a restlessness
and oh what to do with it.
(How she arrived in a hush in a looking away and not looking.)
It had been some time since richness intangible
and then they made a whole coat of it.
Meanwhile August moved toward its impervious finale.
A mood by the river. Gone. One lucid rush carrying them along.
Borderless and open the days go on—
September 21, 2018 | Filed Under Poem for Hela | Comments Off on Daily Poem: Changing Woman By Annie Finch
Changing Woman
By Annie Finch
If we change as she is changing,
if she changes as we change
(If she changes, I am changing)
Who is changing, as I bend
down to what the sky has sent us?
(Is she changing, or the same?)
September 20, 2018 | Filed Under Poem for Hela | Comments Off on Daily Poem: Katydids ~ Amy Lowell
Katydids
~ Amy Lowell
Shore of Lake Michigan
Katydids scraped in the dim trees,
And I thought they were little white skeletons
Playing the fiddle with a pair of finger-bones.
How long is it since Indians walked here,
Stealing along the sands with smooth feet?
How long is it since Indians died here
And the creeping sands scraped them bone from bone?
Dead Indians under the sands, playing their bones against strings of wampum.
The roots of new, young trees have torn their graves asunder,
But in the branches sit little white skeletons
Rasping a bitter death-dirge through the August night.
