 Poetry: May 29, 2013 Issue [#5696] |
  Poetry
This week: James Whitcomb Riley 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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A Barefoot Boy
By James Whitcomb Riley
A barefoot boy! I mark him at his play --
For May is here once more, and so is he, --
His dusty trousers, rolled half to the knee,
And his bare ankles grimy, too, as they:
Cross-hatchings of the nettle, in array
Of feverish stripes, hint vividly to me
Of woody pathways winding endlessly
Along the creek, where even yesterday
He plunged his shrinking body -- gasped and shook --
Yet called the water 'warm,' with never lack
Of joy. And so, half enviously I look
Upon this graceless barefoot and his track, --
His toe stubbed -- ay, his big toe-nail knocked back
Like unto the clasp of an old pocketbook.
A Cup Of Tea
By James Whitcomb Riley
I have sipped, with drooping lashes,
Dreamy draughts of Verzenay;
I have flourished brandy-smashes
In the wildest sort of way;
I have joked with 'Tom and Jerry'
Till wee hours ayont the twal'--
But I've found my tea the very
Safest tipple of them all!
'Tis a mystical potation
That exceeds in warmth of glow
And divine exhilaration
All the drugs of long ago--
All of old magicians' potions--
Of Medea's filtered spells--
Or of fabled isles and oceans
Where the Lotos-eater dwells!
Though I've reveled o'er late lunches
With _blase_ dramatic stars,
And absorbed their wit and punches
And the fumes of their cigars--
Drank in the latest story,
With a cock-tail either end,--
I have drained a deeper glory
In a cup of tea, my friend.
Green, Black, Moyune, Formosa,
Congou, Amboy, Pingsuey--
No odds the name it knows--ah!
Fill a cup of it for me!
And, as I clink my china
Against your goblet's brim,
My tea in steam shall twine a
Fragrant laurel round its rim.
On October 7, 1849, James Whitcomb Riley was born in Greenfield, Indiana. He was the second son and the third of six children in his family. Riley's father, Reuben Riley was a civil war veteran, a politician and lawyer, Riley's mother Elizabeth was a homemaker, a poet and a story teller. Riley had a hard time in school and struggled academically. His father wanted him to fallow in his footsteps and become a lawyer, but Riley would not have any part of it and quit school by the age of sixteen. His first job was painting signs and houses. Like many other poets Riley's childhood greatly influenced his poetry. He wrote about spending his days swimming and fishing at the water hole. Also about a hired hand and an orphan girl who both worked on the family's farm.
Riley's first poems were written under a pen name, "Benjamin F. Johnson of Boone," and published in local newspapers. In 1878, Riley moved to Indianapolis and was hired by the Indianapolis Journal. He worked there until his first collection of poems, "The Old Swimmin' Hole and "Leven More poems," was published in 1883. Shortly after his book was published he began touring with other poets and authors, like Mark Twain and Bill Mye. He often wrote in his own dialect, which was appealing to many people because of his common use of words and his cheerful sense of humor. Riley never married and though he loved children, he never had any of his own. In 1890, "Rhymes of Childhood" was published, fallowed by, "Poems Here at Home" in 1893. Riley was invited to be a paying house guest of Major and Mrs. Charles Holstein and spent the last 23 years of his life there. In 1912 he published, "Knee Deep in June." Riley became the wealthiest writer of his time with of his poems being reaching international appeal. Riley was known as America's "Children's Poet."
On July 22, 1916, James Whitcomb Riley died of a stroke. He was buried in Crown Hill Cemetery in Indianapolis. His grave can be found at the top of Strawberry Hill. President Woodrow Wilson sent Riley's family a personal note after hearing about the poets death. In 1999 on what would have been Riley's 150th Birthday, Indiana's governor Frank O'Bannon proclaimed October 7, 1999, "James Whitcomb Riley Day." Indianapolis named a hospital after him, Riley Hospital for Children. His hometown of Greenfield put a statue of Riley outside the court house and named one of their parks on the east side after the poem "The Old Swimming Hole." The town also hosts the "James Whitcomb Riley Festival," very year.
The Old Swimmin' Hole
By James Whitcomb Riley
Oh ! the old swimmin'-hole! whare the crick so still and deep
Looked like a baby-river that was laying half asleep,
And the gurgle of the worter round the drift jest below
Sounded like the laugh of something we onc't ust to know
Before we could remember anything but the eyes
Of the angels lookin' out as we left Paradise;
But the merry days of youth is beyond our controle,
And it's hard to part ferever with the old swimmin'-hole.
Oh! the old swimmin'-hole! In the happy days of yore,
When I ust to lean above it on the old sickamore,
Oh! it showed me a face in its warm sunny tide
That gazed back at me so gay and glorified,
It made me love myself, as I leaped to caress
My shadder smilin' up at me with sich tenderness.
But them days is past and gone, and old Time's tuck his toll
From the old man come back to the old swimmin'-hole.
Oh! the old swimmin'-hole! In the long, lazy days
When the humdrum of school made so many run-a-ways,
How plesant was the jurney down the old dusty lane,
Whare the tracks of our bare feet was all printed so plane
You could tell by the dent of the heel and the sole
They was lots o' fun on hands at the old swimmin'-hole.
But the lost joys is past! Let your tears in sorrow roll
Like the rain that ust to dapple up the old swimmin'-hole.
Thare the bullrushes growed, and the cattails so tall,
And the sunshine and shadder fell over it all;
And it mottled the worter with amber and gold
Tel the glad lilies rocked in the ripples that rolled;
And the snake-feeder's four gauzy wings fluttered by
Like the ghost of a daisy dropped out of the sky,
Or a wownded apple-blossom in the breeze's controle
As it cut acrost some orchurd to'rds the old swimmin'-hole.
Oh! the old swimmin'-hole! When I last saw the place,
The scenes was all changed, like the change in my face;
The bridge of the railroad now crosses the spot
Whare the old divin'-log lays sunk and fergot.
And I stray down the banks whare the trees ust to be---
But never again will theyr shade shelter me!
And I wish in my sorrow I could strip to the soul,
And dive off in my grave like the old swimmin'-hole.
Thank you all!
Stormy Lady
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The winner of "Stormy's poetry newsletter & contest" [ASR] is:
| |  | Invalid Item
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#1932284 by Not Available. |
There you were on the empty shore
begging the sun, for so much more
Within a second was your call to the wild
the sun you only gazed up at and smiled
Futile waters from the mouth of the river
stains on the dry sands, made the sun quiver
Then the sun tenderly removes it's mask
bringing on the moon, to revel it's hidden task
Honorable mention:
| | | Invalid Item
This item number is not valid.
#1931522 by Not Available. |
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