 Poetry: March 19, 2008 Issue [#2292] |
  Poetry
This week: Edited by: Stormy Lady  
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| This is poetry from the minds and the hearts of poets on Writing.Com. The poems I am going to be exposing throughout this newsletter are ones that I have found to be, very visual, mood setting and uniquely done. Stormy Lady |
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The Town Between the Hills
by Katherine Mansfield
The further the little girl leaped and ran,
The further she longed to be;
The white, white fields of jonquil flowers
Danced up as high as her knee
And flashed and sparkled before her eyes
Until she could hardly see.
So into the wood went she.
It was quiet in the wood,
It was solemn and grave;
A sound like a wave
Sighed in the tree-tops
And then sighed no more.
But she was brave,
And the sky showed through
A bird's-egg blue,
And she saw
A tiny path that was running away
Over the hills to--who can say?
She ran, too.
But then the path broke,
Then the path ended
And wouldn't be mended.
A little old man
Sat on the edge,
Hugging the hedge.
He had a fire
And two eggs in a pan
And a paper poke
Of pepper and salt;
So she came to a halt
To watch and admire:
Cunning and nimble was he!
"May I help, if I can, little old man?"
"Bravo!" he said,
"You may dine with me.
I've two old eggs
From two white hens
and a loaf from a kind ladie:
Some fresh nutmegs,
Some cutlet ends
In pink and white paper frills:
And--I've--got
A little hot-pot
From the town between the hills."
He nodded his head
And made her a sign
To sit under the spray
Of a trailing vine.
But when the little girl joined her hands
And said the grace she had learned to say,
The little old man gave two dreadful squeals
And she just saw the flash of his smoking heels
As he tumbled, tumbled,
With his two old eggs
From two white hens,
His loaf from a kind ladie,
The fresh nutmegs,
The cutlet-ends
In the pink and white paper frills.
And away rumbled
The little hot-pot,
So much too hot,
From the ton between the hills.
On October 14th 1888, Annie and Harold Beauchamp welcomed daughter Kathleen Mansfield Beauchamp into their family. Harold Beauchamp was a clerk at the local bank. Kathleen's family started out in a small house in Wellington, New Zealand. Her father quickly advanced at the bank and the little home she spent her early childhood in, was replaced with a larger home in town. Kathleen had two sisters and one brother. She was also first cousin of Countess Elizabeth von Arnim. Her first published story appeared in her high school magazine.
At the age of fourteen Kathleen moved to London to attended Queen’s College. She played her cello at the school and was not interested in pursuing literature at that time. It wasn’t until she left the school and returned home that she turned to her writing. After living in London for several years, returning to New Zealand was just too slow for her. She missed the fast moving pace of the city. She returned to London in 1908. Within three weeks she had married George Bowden and was pregnant by another man. She ended up having a miscarriage and leaving George Bowden.
In 1909, Kathleen Mansfield Beauchamp took on the pen name Kathleen Mansfield. Then in 1911 Kathleen’s first collection of short stories, In German Pension, was published. Kathleen contracted a sexually transmitted disease shortly after the book was published. This disease would change her views of herself for the rest of her life. Kathleen was upset with the lack of interest in her first book so she published another story in “Rhythm” magazine. The Woman at the Store was a hit and she moved in with the editor John Middleton Murry. Her brother was killed October 1915, while serving in World War I. After his death she continued her writing but mostly for herself, not for publication. The next few years were full of pain for Kathleen. She contracted Tuberculosis and suffered a hemorrhage in 1918. Prelude was published that same year. Bliss and The Garden Party were published in the early 1920’s.
In February 1922 Kathleen began treatment for her illness, the unorthodox treatments left her in more pain. Kathleen believed that her sour outlook on life had contributed to her failing health so she turned to a spiritual approach to life. She moved to Georges Gurdjieff's Institute for the Harmonious Development of Man. On January 9, 1923 Kathleen suffered a pulmonary hemorrhage and died. Murry took it upon himself to publish Kathleen’s other books and in 1923 The Dove’s Nest was published fallowed by Something Childish in 1924. Kathleen’s book of poems The Aloe came out later that same year.
Very Early Spring
by Katherine Mansfield
The fields are snowbound no longer;
There are little blue lakes and flags of tenderest green.
The snow has been caught up into the sky--
So many white clouds--and the blue of the sky is cold.
Now the sun walks in the forest,
He touches the bows and stems with his golden fingers;
They shiver, and wake from slumber.
Over the barren branches he shakes his yellow curls.
Yet is the forest full of the sound of tears....
A wind dances over the fields.
Shrill and clear the sound of her waking laughter,
Yet the little blue lakes tremble
And the flags of tenderest green bend and quiver.
Jangling Memory
by Katherine Mansfield
Heavens above! here's an old tie of your--
Sea-green dragons stamped on a golden ground.
Ha! Ha! Ha! What children we were in those days.
Do you love me enough to wear it now?
Have you the courage of your pristine glories?
Ha! Ha! Ha! You laugh and shrug your shoulders.
Those were the days when a new tie spelt a fortune:
We wore it in turn--I flaunted it as a waist-belt.
Ha! Ha! Ha! What easily satisfied babies.
"I think I'll turn into a piano duster."
"Give it to me, I'll polish my slippers on it!"
Ha! Ha! Ha! The rag's not worth the dustbin.
"Throw the shabby old thing right out of the window;
Fling it into the faces of other children!"
Ha! Ha! Ha! We laughed and laughed till the tears
came!
Thank you all!
Stormy Lady
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The winner of "Stormy's poetry newsletter & contest" [ASR] is:
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Waterfalls
From high in mountain crevices,
a stream is born of melting snow
and follows down the timeless path,
past tender wood of Willows' young.
And so begins their love affair,
together tumbling unaware.
A trickle, quickly deepening
'neath restless water's swirling tongue,
becomes a river, uncontrolled,
cascading off the edge.
Like waterfalls, they plunge beyond
and crash below in broken bonds.
The rocks beneath, bear witness to
confessions of a muddied stream;
amidst the frothy, white tumult,
impurities are purged.
So like a wounded wolf, she cries
and licks away her shameful lies.
To waiting arms of Mother Earth,
the ripples whisper like regrets,
and roll and fade into the shore
before they're born again.
Through eyes, like open windows, flow
her tears. No wonder heartaches grow.
Honorable mention:
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