  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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Amazon's Price: $ 13.94
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Cities
by Hilda Doolittle
Can we believe -- by an effort
comfort our hearts:
it is not waste all this,
not placed here in disgust,
street after street,
each patterned alike,
no grace to lighten
a single house of the hundred
crowded into one garden-space.
Crowded -- can we believe,
not in utter disgust,
in ironical play --
but the maker of cities grew faint
with the beauty of temple
and space before temple,
arch upon perfect arch,
of pillars and corridors that led out
to strange court-yards and porches
where sun-light stamped
hyacinth-shadows
black on the pavement.
That the maker of cities grew faint
with the splendour of palaces,
paused while the incense-flowers
from the incense-trees
dropped on the marble-walk,
thought anew, fashioned this --
street after street alike.
For alas,
he had crowded the city so full
that men could not grasp beauty,
beauty was over them,
through them, about them,
no crevice unpacked with the honey,
rare, measureless.
So he built a new city,
ah can we believe, not ironically
but for new splendour
constructed new people
to lift through slow growth
to a beauty unrivalled yet --
and created new cells,
hideous first, hideous now --
spread larve across them,
not honey but seething life.
And in these dark cells,
packed street after street,
souls live, hideous yet --
O disfigured, defaced,
with no trace of the beauty
men once held so light.
Can we think a few old cells
were left -- we are left --
grains of honey,
old dust of stray pollen
dull on our torn wings,
we are left to recall the old streets?
Is our task the less sweet
that the larve still sleep in their cells?
Or crawl out to attack our frail strength:
You are useless. We live.
We await great events.
We are spread through this earth.
We protect our strong race.
You are useless.
Your cell takes the place
of our young future strength.
Though they sleep or wake to torment
and wish to displace our old cells --
thin rare gold --
that their larve grow fat --
is our task the less sweet?
Though we wander about,
find no honey of flowers in this waste,
is our task the less sweet --
who recall the old splendour,
await the new beauty of cities?
The city is peopled
with spirits, not ghosts, O my love:
Though they crowded between
and usurped the kiss of my mouth
their breath was your gift,
their beauty, your life.
My poet this month is, Hilda Doolittle. Hilda was born on September 10, 1886, in Bethlehem, Pennsylvania. She went to Bryn Mawr College in 1904 but bad health caused her to leave the school just two years later. In 1911 Hilda took a trip to England for a short vacation but ended up liking it there and decided to stay. After her move to England Hilda started publishing her poems in poetry magazines. This is where she met Richard Aldington. He was her editor. The two got married in 1913. She gave birth to her daughter in 1915, the child died shortly after being born. The couple had another daughter a few years later that was said not to be Aldington but another mans child.
1916 she published her first volume of verse, Sea Garden. Her promiscuous lifestyle allowed her to meet Annie Winifred Ellerman. The two became lovers and remained so for the rest of her life, often sharing men over the years. Her nightlife influenced her work. Hymen was published in 1921 fallowed by Heliodora and Other Poems in 1924 .Her next book Red Roses for Bronze was published in1931. The Walls Do Not Fall was published in 1944. One year later, Tribute to the Angels was published, fallowed by Flowering of the Rod and Trilogy in 1946. Selected Poems of H.D. was published in 1957. Hilda spent her adult life in England and Sweden.
In July of 1961 Hilda was invited back to Bethlehem, Pennsylvania to receive the American Academy of Arts and Letters medal. On her was back from America she suffered a stroke. On September 27, 1961 only a few months after her stroke, Hilda Doolittle died. Her ashes were brought back to be buried with her family. Her last book Helen in Egypt was published shortly after her death.
Sea Rose
by Hilda Doolittle
Rose, harsh rose,
marred and with stint of petals,
meagre flower, thin,
sparse of leaf,
more precious
than a wet rose
single on a stem --
you are caught in the drift.
Stunted, with small leaf,
you are flung on the sand,
you are lifted
in the crisp sand
that drives in the wind.
Can the spice-rose
drip such acrid fragrance
hardened in a leaf?
Sheltered Garden
by Hilda Doolittle
I have had enough.
I gasp for breath.
Every way ends, every road,
every foot-path leads at last
to the hill-crest --
then you retrace your steps,
or find the same slope on the other side,
precipitate.
I have had enough --
border-pinks, clove-pinks, wax-lilies,
herbs, sweet-cress.
O for some sharp swish of a branch --
there is no scent of resin
in this place,
no taste of bark, of coarse weeds,
aromatic, astringent --
only border on border of scented pinks.
Have you seen fruit under cover
that wanted light --
pears wadded in cloth,
protected from the frost,
melons, almost ripe,
smothered in straw?
Why not let the pears cling
to the empty branch?
All your coaxing will only make
a bitter fruit --
let them cling, ripen of themselves,
test their own worth,
nipped, shrivelled by the frost,
to fall at last but fair
with a russet coat.
Or the melon --
let it bleach yellow
in the winter light,
even tart to the taste --
it is better to taste of frost --
the exquisite frost --
than of wadding and of dead grass.
For this beauty,
beauty without strength,
chokes out life.
I want wind to break,
scatter these pink-stalks,
snap off their spiced heads,
fling them about with dead leaves --
spread the paths with twigs,
limbs broken off,
trail great pine branches,
hurled from some far wood
right across the melon-patch,
break pear and quince --
leave half-trees, torn, twisted
but showing the fight was valiant.
O to blot out this garden
to forget, to find a new beauty
in some terrible
wind-tortured place.
Thank you all!
Stormy Lady
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The winner of "Stormy's poetry newsletter & contest" [ASR] is:
| |  | Invalid Item
This item number is not valid.
#1438578 by Not Available. |
THE RED, WHITE, AND BLUE
 
Waving in the wind with great majesty
The brave SILHOUETTE of our nation's FLAG
Proclaiming our country's true destiny
The bright STARS and stripes, proudly we brag.
The call to arms by TRUMPET is sounded
A DRUM beats the march of many feet.
Our soldiers fight for glory and HONOR
For the country they love, they won't retreat.
GRANITE resolve and determination;
They stand for freedom wherever they FIGHT.
Loyal and brave, they carry the standard,
Red, white, and blue, what a glorious sight!
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Poetry: July 09, 2008 Issue [#2487]
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