Showing posts with label Linda Pastan. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Linda Pastan. Show all posts

Friday, December 14, 2018

Turning Towards the Solstice


As the earth turns towards the solstice, so do we:
December

The white dove of winter
sheds its first
fine feathers;
they melt

as they touch
the warm ground
like notes
of a once familiar

music; the earth
shivers and
turns towards
the solstice.


Linda Pastan, American Poet (b 1932)

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

For more Wintry Solstice Imagery
see my current post

Shorter by the Day

@ The Fortnightly Kitti Carriker
A literary blog of connection & coincidence;
custom & ceremony


~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Previous Linda Pastan Posts
Turning Towards the Solstice
Dogwood Days
Your Poem
Let Us Eat Quickly
Kiss Today
What Do Writers Want?

Shorter by the Day
Dogwood, Spring and Fall
Hopefully
Lucky Rock

Emily From Different Angles

Tuesday, February 23, 2016

Your Poem, My Poem

"If this moon doesn't change you . . .
Not enough for me
that this moon shines in your eye . . .
I want this moon to be in your mind . . . "*

See also "Your Poem, Man . . .

FROM "FORWARD to NEW NUMBERS"
by Christopher Logue


If this book doesn’t change you
give it no house space;
if having read it you
are the same person you
were before picking it up,
then throw it away.

Not enough for me
that my poems shine in your eye;
not enough for me
that they look from your walls
or lurk on your shelves;
I want my poems to be in your mind
so you can say them when you are in love
so you can say them when the plane takes off
and death comes near;
I want my poems to come between
the raised stick and the cowering back,
I want my poems to become
a weapon in your trembling hands,
a sword whose blade both makes and mirrors change;
but most of all I want my poems sung
unthinkingly between your lips like air.


[Now, try substituting the words
"Moon or Photos" for "Book / Poems"]


See also "What Do Writers Want?"

FROM "COVER NOTE"
by W.S. Merwin


. . . reader I do
not know that anyone
else is waiting for these
words that I hoped might seem
as though they had occurred
to you and you would take
them with you as your own
**

FROM "FINDING A NEW POET"
by Linda Pastan


Finding a new poet
is like finding a new wildflower
out in the woods . . .

And the words are so familiar,
so strangely new, words
you almost wrote yourself, if only

in your dreams there had been a pencil
or a pen or even a paintbrush,
if only there had been a flower.


. . . or a moon . . .
Such as this one by Jay Beets,
whose photographs are guaranteed to change you!
As my friend Burnetta wrote, in response to
The Last Full Moon of Winter:
"Why do we long for the winters of our youth?
(At least I do, the winters of my imagination.
Were they even real?)"

Thursday, November 22, 2012

Let Us Eat Quickly

Detail

So often it seems that artist Grant Wood (1891 - 1942)
is known only for American Gothic, but in fact there is so much more!

This one called
Dinner for Threshers
is perfect for Thanksgiving!

And it's also the perfect image
to go along with Linda Pastan's poem . . .

Home For Thanksgiving
The gathering family
throws shadows around us,
it is the late afternoon
Of the family.

There is still enough light
to see all the way back,
but at the windows
that light is wasting away.

Soon we will be nothing
but silhouettes: the sons'
as harsh
as the fathers'.

Soon the daughters
will take off their aprons
as trees take off their leaves
for winter.

Let us eat quickly--
let us fill ourselves up.
the covers of the album are closing
behind us.


Linda Pastan, American Poet (b 1932)

Detail

Previous Posts
. . . on "American Gothic"
Grim and Gram
Indiana Gothic
American / British / Indiana Gothic
. . . on Linda Pastan:
Your Poem
Hopefully
Kiss Today
Emily From Different Angles
What Do Writers Want?
Lucky Rock

Sunday, February 28, 2010

Kiss Today


March
When the Earl King came
to steal away the child
in Goethe's poem, the father said
don't be afraid,
it's just the wind...
As if it weren't the wind
that blows away the tender
fragments of this world—
leftover leaves in the corners
of the garden, a Lenten Rose
that thought it safe
to bloom so early.

from "The Months"
by Linda Pastan

Above and top:
Woodcut illustration for the Month of March
from "The Shepheardes Calender," 1579
by Edmund Spenser, English Poet (1552 - 1599)

The woodcut features two shepherds, Thomalin and Wyllie, discussing the difficulties of love in the springtime and their strategies for courtship in the coming months. Behind them is winged Cupid, and above them is the zodiac symbol for Aries, the Ram. To the left is Love's victim, "entangled [in a fowling net], and unwares wounded by the dart . . . of Cupides arrowe" and to the right is Thomalin fighting with Love, throwing stones to no avail. Of the Sweetness and Sorrow of love, Thomalin concludes ruefully:

Of Hony and of Gaule in loue there is store:
The Honye is much, but the Gaule is more.

Somewhat more hopefully, the following contemporary song finds the reverse to be true:

Kiss today goodbye,
The sweetness and the sorrow.
Wish me luck, the same to you.
But I can't regret
What I did for love,
what I did for love.

Look my eyes are dry.
The gift was ours to borrow.
It's as if we always knew,
And I won't forget
what I did for love,
What I did for love.

Gone,
Love is never gone.
As we travel on,
Love's what we'll remember.

Kiss today goodbye,
And point me toward tomorrow.
We did what we had to do.
Won't forget, can't regret
What I did for
Love


lyrics by by Edward Kleban
from A Chorus Line
music by Marvin Hamlisch

FOR MORE ON THE SHEPHEARDES CALENDAR
SEE MY FORTNIGHTLY BLOG POST:
FEBRUARY 28th, 2010: "KISS TODAY"

ON MY LITERARY BLOG
OF CONNECTION & COINCIDENCE
THE FORTNIGHTLY KITTI CARRIKER

Tuesday, August 18, 2009

What Do Writers Want?


FROM "COVER NOTE"
by W.S. Merwin


. . . reader I do
not know that anyone
else is waiting for these
words that I hoped might seem
as though they had occurred
to you and you would take
them with you as your own
*



FROM "FINDING A NEW POET"
by Linda Pastan


Finding a new poet
is like finding a new wildflower
out in the woods . . .

And the words are so familiar,
so strangely new, words
you almost wrote yourself, if only

in your dreams there had been a pencil
or a pen or even a paintbrush,
if only there had been a flower.