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31st Virtual Poetry Circle

It’s the 31st Virtual Poetry Circle, and it’s time to visit with a classic poet, but before we do that, I wanted to thank everyone who has participated in this project thus far.  Feel free to spread the word.

Additionally, you should start noticing some small changes here on the blog, including possible article suggestions at the end of my posts (Thanks Bloggiesta for calling this widget to my attention) and some share buttons, which I’m not overly thrilled with, but they’ll do for now.

I would also love to get a new three-column template that meshes better with my header, so if anyone would like to volunteer, please email me.

OK, Here’s a poem up for reactions, interaction, and–dare I say it–analysis:

Remember, this is just for fun and is not meant to be stressful.

Keep in mind what Molly Peacock’s books suggested. Look at a line, a stanza, sentences, and images; describe what you like or don’t like; and offer an opinion. If you missed my review of her book, check it out here.

Today, we’ll be taking a look at a canto from Dante Alighieri‘s epic poem The Divine Comedy.  Be prepared this is a long one.

Canto 1 

Midway upon the journey of our life
I found myself within a forest dark,
For the straightforward pathway had been lost.

Ah me! how hard a thing it is to say
What was this forest savage, rough, and stern,
Which in the very thought renews the fear.

So bitter is it, death is little more;
But of the good to treat, which there I found,
Speak will I of the other things I saw there.

I cannot well repeat how there I entered,
So full was I of slumber at the moment
In which I had abandoned the true way.

But after I had reached a mountain's foot,
At that point where the valley terminated,
Which had with consternation pierced my heart,

Upward I looked, and I beheld its shoulders,
Vested already with that planet's rays
Which leadeth others right by every road.

Then was the fear a little quieted
That in my heart's lake had endured throughout
The night, which I had passed so piteously.

And even as he, who, with distressful breath,
Forth issued from the sea upon the shore,
Turns to the water perilous and gazes;

So did my soul, that still was fleeing onward,
Turn itself back to re-behold the pass
Which never yet a living person left.

After my weary body I had rested,
The way resumed I on the desert slope,
So that the firm foot ever was the lower.

And lo! almost where the ascent began,
A panther light and swift exceedingly,
Which with a spotted skin was covered o'er!

And never moved she from before my face,
Nay, rather did impede so much my way,
That many times I to return had turned.

The time was the beginning of the morning,
And up the sun was mounting with those stars
That with him were, what time the Love Divine

At first in motion set those beauteous things;
So were to me occasion of good hope,
The variegated skin of that wild beast,

The hour of time, and the delicious season;
But not so much, that did not give me fear
A lion's aspect which appeared to me.

He seemed as if against me he were coming
With head uplifted, and with ravenous hunger,
So that it seemed the air was afraid of him;

And a she-wolf, that with all hungerings
Seemed to be laden in her meagreness,
And many folk has caused to live forlorn!

She brought upon me so much heaviness,
With the affright that from her aspect came,
That I the hope relinquished of the height.

And as he is who willingly acquires,
And the time comes that causes him to lose,
Who weeps in all his thoughts and is despondent,

E'en such made me that beast withouten peace,
Which, coming on against me by degrees
Thrust me back thither where the sun is silent.

While I was rushing downward to the lowland,
Before mine eyes did one present himself,
Who seemed from long-continued silence hoarse.

When I beheld him in the desert vast,
"Have pity on me," unto him I cried,
"Whiche'er thou art, or shade or real man!"

He answered me: "Not man; man once I was,
And both my parents were of Lombardy,
And Mantuans by country both of them.

'Sub Julio' was I born, though it was late,
And lived at Rome under the good Augustus,
During the time of false and lying gods.

A poet was I, and I sang that just
Son of Anchises, who came forth from Troy,
After that Ilion the superb was burned.

But thou, why goest thou back to such annoyance?
Why climb'st thou not the Mount Delectable,
Which is the source and cause of every joy?"

"Now, art thou that Virgilius and that fountain
Which spreads abroad so wide a river of speech?"
I made response to him with bashful forehead.

"O, of the other poets honour and light,
Avail me the long study and great love
That have impelled me to explore thy volume!

Thou art my master, and my author thou,
Thou art alone the one from whom I took
The beautiful style that has done honour to me.

Behold the beast, for which I have turned back;
Do thou protect me from her, famous Sage,
For she doth make my veins and pulses tremble."

"Thee it behoves to take another road,"
Responded he, when he beheld me weeping,
"If from this savage place thou wouldst escape;

Because this beast, at which thou criest out,
Suffers not any one to pass her way,
But so doth harass him, that she destroys him;

And has a nature so malign and ruthless,
That never doth she glut her greedy will,
And after food is hungrier than before.

Many the animals with whom she weds,
And more they shall be still, until the Greyhound
Comes, who shall make her perish in her pain.

He shall not feed on either earth or pelf,
But upon wisdom, and on love and virtue;
'Twixt Feltro and Feltro shall his nation be;

Of that low Italy shall he be the saviour,
On whose account the maid Camilla died,
Euryalus, Turnus, Nisus, of their wounds;

Through every city shall he hunt her down,
Until he shall have driven her back to Hell,
There from whence envy first did let her loose.

Therefore I think and judge it for thy best
Thou follow me, and I will be thy guide,
And lead thee hence through the eternal place,

Where thou shalt hear the desperate lamentations,
Shalt see the ancient spirits disconsolate,
Who cry out each one for the second death;

And thou shalt see those who contented are
Within the fire, because they hope to come,
Whene'er it may be, to the blessed people;

To whom, then, if thou wishest to ascend,
A soul shall be for that than I more worthy;
With her at my departure I will leave thee;

Because that Emperor, who reigns above,
In that I was rebellious to his law,
Wills that through me none come into his city.

He governs everywhere, and there he reigns;
There is his city and his lofty throne;
O happy he whom thereto he elects!"

And I to him: "Poet, I thee entreat,
By that same God whom thou didst never know,
So that I may escape this woe and worse,

Thou wouldst conduct me there where thou hast said,
That I may see the portal of Saint Peter,
And those thou makest so disconsolate."

Then he moved on, and I behind him followed.


Let me know your thoughts, ideas, feelings, impressions. Let’s have a great discussion…pick a line, pick an image, pick a sentence.

I’ve you missed the other Virtual Poetry Circles, check them out here. It’s never too late to join the discussion.

FTC Disclosure:  Clicking on title links or images will bring you to my Amazon Affiliate page; No purchase necessary.

30th Virtual Poetry Circle

It’s the 30th Virtual Poetry Circle, and it’s time to visit with a contemporary poet, but before we do that, I wanted to thank everyone who has participated in this project thus far.  Feel free to spread the word.

Additionally, you should start noticing some small changes here on the blog, including possible article suggestions at the end of my posts (Thanks Bloggiesta for calling this widget to my attention) and some share buttons, which I’m not overly thrilled with, but they’ll do for now.

I would also love to get a new three-column template that meshes better with my header, so if anyone would like to volunteer, please email me.

OK, Here’s a poem up for reactions, interaction, and–dare I say it–analysis:

Remember, this is just for fun and is not meant to be stressful.

Keep in mind what Molly Peacock’s books suggested. Look at a line, a stanza, sentences, and images; describe what you like or don’t like; and offer an opinion. If you missed my review of her book, check it out here.

Here’s a contemporary poem from Reb Livingston from her book Your Ten Favorite Words:

No Bra Required(Page 11)

Someone scrawled
funny words
on our underwear.

Our underwear,
way too loose

on our rascal asses.
We must realize ourselves
into those big britches,

you declare.  Love
in a handbasket.  Hell
in my heart.  My camisole,

yours, evermore.  Never
have I believed in polygamy
more than I do rising this

daybreak.

Let me know your thoughts, ideas, feelings, impressions. Let’s have
a great discussion…pick a line, pick an image, pick a sentence.

I’ve you missed the other Virtual Poetry Circles, check them out here. It’s never too late to join the discussion.

FTC Disclosure:  Clicking on title links or images will bring you to my Amazon Affiliate page; No purchase necessary. 

29th Virtual Poetry Circle

It’s the 29th Virtual Poetry Circle, and it’s time to revisit a classic poet, but before we do that, I wanted to thank everyone who has participated in this project thus far.  Feel free to spread the word.

Additionally, you should start noticing some small changes here on the blog, including possible article suggests at the end of my posts (Thanks Bloggiesta for calling this widget to my attention) and some share buttons, which I’m not overly thrilled with, but they’ll do for now.

I would also love to get a new three-column template that meshes better with my header, so if anyone would like to volunteer, please email me.

OK, Here’s a poem up for reactions, interaction, and–dare I say it–analysis:

Remember, this is just for fun and is not meant to be stressful.

Keep in mind what Molly Peacock’s books suggested. Look at a line, a stanza, sentences, and images; describe what you like or don’t like; and offer an opinion. If you missed my review of her book, check it out here.

Why Should a Foolish Marriage Vow
by John Dryden

Why should a foolish marriage vow, 
Which long ago was made,
Oblige us to each other now
When passion is decay'd?
We loved, and we loved, as long as we could,
Till our love was loved out in us both:
But our marriage is dead, when the pleasure is fled:
'Twas pleasure first made it an oath.

If I have pleasures for a friend,
And farther love in store,
What wrong has he whose joys did end,
And who could give no more?
'Tis a madness that he should be jealous of me,
Or that I should bar him of another:
For all we can gain is to give our selves pain,
When neither can hinder the other.

Let me know your thoughts, ideas, feelings, impressions. Let’s have
a great discussion…pick a line, pick an image, pick a sentence.

I’ve you missed the other Virtual Poetry Circles, check them out here. It’s never too late to join the discussion.

28th Virtual Poetry Circle

It’s the 28th Virtual Poetry Circle, and it’s time to revisit a contemporary poet, but before we do that, I wanted to thank everyone who has participated in this project thus far.  Feel free to spread the word.

Additionally, you should start noticing some small changes here on the blog, including possible article suggests at the end of my posts (Thanks Bloggiesta for calling this widget to my attention) and some share buttons, which I’m not overly thrilled with, but they’ll do for now.

I would also love to get a new three-column template that meshes better with my header, so if anyone would like to volunteer, please email me.

OK, Here’s a poem up for reactions, interaction, and–dare I say it–analysis:

Remember, this is just for fun and is not meant to be stressful.

Keep in mind what Molly Peacock’s books suggested. Look at a line, a stanza, sentences, and images; describe what you like or don’t like; and offer an opinion. If you missed my review of her book, check it out here.

Today’s poem is from Diana Raab‘s latest collection, The Guilt Gene:

The Guilt Gene (Page 21)

The day before my birth
on the second Sunday in May

when the moon was full
and the stars already

twinkled in my father’s eyes,
a little fella appeared from

a dark corner of my womb-yard,
poked his head out

from between the bushes
and demanded that I ask for

forgiveness before I even knew
what the word meant.

Let me know your thoughts, ideas, feelings, impressions. Let’s have
a great discussion…pick a line, pick an image, pick a sentence.

I’ve you missed the other Virtual Poetry Circles, check them out here. It’s never too late to join the discussion.

27th Virtual Poetry Circle

It’s a new year and a new classic poem for the 27th Virtual Poetry Circle.

OK, Here’s a poem up for reactions, interaction, and–dare I say it–analysis:

Remember, this is just for fun and is not meant to be stressful.

Keep in mind what Molly Peacock’s books suggested. Look at a line, a stanza, sentences, and images; describe what you like or don’t like; and offer an opinion. If you missed my review of her book, check it out here.

Beloved, my Beloved . . . (a sonnet)
by Elizabeth Barrett Browning

Beloved, my Beloved, when I think 
That thou wast in the world a year ago,
What time I sate alone here in the snow
And saw no footprint, heard the silence sink
No moment at thy voice ... but, link by link,
Went counting all my chains, as if that so
They never could fall off at any blow
Struck by thy possible hand ... why, thus I drink
Of life's great cup of wonder! Wonderful,
Never to feel thee thrill the day or night
With personal act or speech,—nor ever cull
Some prescience of thee with the blossoms white
Thou sawest growing! Atheists are as dull,
Who cannot guess God's presence out of sight.

Let me know your thoughts, ideas, feelings, impressions. Let’s have
a great discussion…pick a line, pick an image, pick a sentence.

I’ve you missed the other Virtual Poetry Circles, check them out here. It’s never too late to join the discussion.

26th Virtual Poetry Circle

Here we are, Virtual Poetry Circle #26.  I know I have winners to announce from the big 25th Virtual Poetry Circle giveaway.  I hope you all took advantage of your possible 25 entries.

OK, Here’s a poem up for reactions, interaction, and–dare I say it–analysis:

Remember, this is just for fun and is not meant to be stressful.

Keep in mind what Molly Peacock’s books suggested. Look at a line, a stanza, sentences, and images; describe what you like or don’t like; and offer an opinion. If you missed my review of her book, check it out here.

We’re back to contemporary poets again this week.  Since we’ve had the pleasure of meeting Liz Gallagher, it’s only fitting that we share one of her poems from her collection The Wrong Miracle.

A Bruising on the Bone (page 2)

I saw my shoulder’s skeleton today.  Under the headlights
the bone’s shadow migrated into the half-crumbling step

it had bashed against.  I saw how a bone can bruise
and how my fear of a capsule sticking in the windpipe

cannot be swapped for a sachet of powder.  I recognised
by heart, the act of letting my shirt tails out.  The deep

breathing in the room did not stop.  I removed
the red wristwatch and the red bra-straps

and tilted my head.  She slammed the door shut.  And I
became a recumbent body being passed overhead,

hand over hand, right up to where the Edge was
playing.  I dreamt about stripping down to my

unlaced shoes.  I had glossy, bouffant hair and improvised
a Modus Vivendi.  All around me, I heard pleas

for every last result to go under the microscope.  I began
to recognise the tipping points.  Afterwards, I wore

a windbreaker and stopped pointing with my feet.

Let me know your thoughts, ideas, feelings, impressions. Let’s have a great discussion…pick a line, pick an image, pick a sentence.

I’ve you missed the other Virtual Poetry Circles, check them out here. It’s never too late to join the discussion.

25th Virtual Poetry Circle

It’s here!  The 25th Virtual Poetry Circle.  Today is the day everyone who has commented on these weekly events will have an opportunity to win some poetry for yourself.  I’ll pop your names in a hat and choose a winner.  All you have to do is keep commenting.  Easy right?!

OK, Here’s a poem up for reactions, interaction, and–dare I say it–analysis:

Remember, this is just for fun and is not meant to be stressful.

Keep in mind what Molly Peacock’s books suggested. Look at a line, a stanza, sentences, and images; describe what you like or don’t like; and offer an opinion. If you missed my review of her book, check it out here.

Today, we’re returning to the classics.  Let’s talk haiku and Basho Matsuo!  Haiku has a number of characteristics, including the use of nature and the syllable count of 5-7-5.  Because Haiku is a short form of poetry, we’ll take a look at a few of his poems:

Bush clover in blossom waves
Without spilling
A drop of dew.

The sound of hail —
I am the same as before
Like that aging oak.

an ancient pond
a frog jumps in
the splash of water.

Let me know your thoughts, ideas, feelings, impressions. Let’s have a great discussion…pick a line, pick an image, pick a sentence.

I’ve you missed the other Virtual Poetry Circles, check them out here. It’s never too late to join the discussion.

***Giveaway Details*** 3 Winners!!!  Anywhere in the World!!!

1.  Comment on the Virtual Poetry Circle posts about each poem for one entry.

Deadline is Dec. 18, 2009, 11:59PM EST

Prize Pack #1 (Click links for my reviews)

1.  One copy of Poet Lore, a magazine of The Writer’s Center in Bethesda, Md.
2.  A copy of John Amen’s At the Threshold of Alchemy and More of Me Disappears
3.  Fair Creatures of an Hour by Lynn Levin
4.  Carta Marina by Ann Fisher Wirth
5.  Green Bodies by Rosemary Winslow
6.  One book of classic poetry (your choice)

Prize Pack #2

1.  Apologies to an Apple by Maya Ganesan
2.  Becoming the Villainess by Jeannine Hall Gailey 
3.  Rubber Side Down Edited by Jose Gouveia
4.  Mainline to the Heart & Other Poems by Clive Matson
5.  One book of classic poetry (your choice)

Prize Pack #3

1.  Dear Anais by Diana Raab
2.  City Above the Sea & Other Poems by Stephen Alan
3.  Human Dark With Sugar by Brenda Shaughnessy
4.  One book of classic poetry (your choice)

Depending on the number of entrants, there could be additional, single volumes of poetry to runners up.

24th Virtual Poetry Circle

Welcome to the 24th Virtual Poetry Circle!  We’re one Virtual Poetry Circle away from the big giveaway.  Are you ready?

On December 12 everyone who has commented on these weekly events will have an opportunity to win some poetry for yourself.  I’ll pop your names in a hat and choose a winner.  All you have to do is keep commenting.  Easy right?!

OK, Here’s a poem up for reactions, interaction, and–dare I say it–analysis:

Remember, this is just for fun and is not meant to be stressful.

Keep in mind what Molly Peacock’s books suggested. Look at a line, a stanza, sentences, and images; describe what you like or don’t like; and offer an opinion. If you missed my review of her book, check it out here.

We’re back to contemporary poetry again today.  Today’s poem comes from Holocaust Poetry compiled by Hilda Schiff:

If
by Edward Bond (Page 155)

If Auschwitz had been in Hampshire
There would have been Englishmen to guard it
To administer records
Marshall transports
Work the gas ovens
And keep silent
The smoke would have drifted over these green hills

It’s not that all men are evil or creatures of instinct
We — even our subjective self — are products of history
Of political change
In history two things join
Our will and things beyond our will
We change what we are as a means of controlling these things
That is:  we create a new culture
We remain human only by changing
Each generation must create its own humanity

And the smoke will drift over these green hills
Our culture makes us barbarians
It does not allow us to live humanely
We must create a new culture
Or cease to be human

Let me know your thoughts, ideas, feelings, impressions. Let’s have a great discussion…pick a line, pick an image, pick a sentence.

I’ve you missed the other Virtual Poetry Circles, check them out here. It’s never too late to join the discussion.

23rd Virtual Poetry Circle

Welcome to the 23rd Virtual Poetry Circle!  I’m amazed that this project has been successful.  I really had no hope for it at all.  I thought each week would have zero comments.  I’m amazed.

So, if we all continue to do well, I’ll host a giveaway on the 25th Virtual Poetry Circle, which will fall on December 12, for all of you who’ve commented on these weekly events.  I’ll pop your names in a hat and choose a winner.  Easy right?!

And all you have to do is comment on these posts with your reactions to the poem posted.

OK, Here’s a poem up for reactions, interaction, and–dare I say it–analysis:

Remember, this is just for fun and is not meant to be stressful.

Keep in mind what Molly Peacock’s books suggested. Look at a line, a stanza, sentences, and images; describe what you like or don’t like; and offer an opinion. If you missed my review of her book, check it out here.

Today, we’re going to return to classic poetry, and in honor of Thanksgiving, we’re going to take a look at “The Pumpkin” by John Greenleaf Whittier, a 19th Century poet.

The Pumpkin
by John Greenleaf Whittier

Oh, greenly and fair in the lands of the sun, 
The vines of the gourd and the rich melon run,
And the rock and the tree and the cottage enfold,
With broad leaves all greenness and blossoms all gold,
Like that which o'er Nineveh's prophet once grew,
While he waited to know that his warning was true,
And longed for the storm-cloud, and listened in vain
For the rush of the whirlwind and red fire-rain.

On the banks of the Xenil the dark Spanish maiden
Comes up with the fruit of the tangled vine laden;
And the Creole of Cuba laughs out to behold
Through orange-leaves shining the broad spheres of gold;
Yet with dearer delight from his home in the North,
On the fields of his harvest the Yankee looks forth,
Where crook-necks are coiling and yellow fruit shines,
And the sun of September melts down on his vines.

Ah! on Thanksgiving day, when from East and from West,
From North and from South comes the pilgrim and guest;
When the gray-haired New Englander sees round his board
The old broken links of affection restored;
When the care-wearied man seeks his mother once more,
And the worn matron smiles where the girl smiled before;
What moistens the lip and what brightens the eye,
What calls back the past, like the rich Pumpkin pie?

Oh, fruit loved of boyhood! the old days recalling,
When wood-grapes were purpling and brown nuts were falling!
When wild, ugly faces we carved in its skin,
Glaring out through the dark with a candle within!
When we laughed round the corn-heap, with hearts all in tune,
Our chair a broad pumpkin, - our lantern the moon,
Telling tales of the fairy who travelled like steam
In a pumpkin-shell coach, with two rats for her team!

Then thanks for thy present! none sweeter or better
E'er smoked from an oven or circled a platter!
Fairer hands never wrought at a pastry more fine,
Brighter eyes never watched o'er its baking, than thine!
And the prayer, which my mouth is too full to express,
Swells my heart that thy shadow may never be less,
That the days of thy lot may be lengthened below,
And the fame of thy worth like a pumpkin-vine grow,
And thy life be as sweet, and its last sunset sky
Golden-tinted and fair as thy own Pumpkin pie!

Let me know your thoughts, ideas, feelings, impressions. Let’s have a great discussion…pick a line, pick an image, pick a sentence.

I’ve you missed the other Virtual Poetry Circles, check them out here. It’s never too late to join the discussion.

22nd Virtual Poetry Circle

Wow, 22 Virtual Poetry Circles!  I’m amazed that this project has been successful.  I really had no hope for it at all.  I thought each week would have zero comments.  Surprised me!

So, if we all continue to do well, I’ll host a giveaway on the 25th Virtual Poetry Circle, which will fall on December 12, for all of you who’ve commented on these weekly events.  I’ll pop your names in a hat and choose a winner.  Easy right?!

OK, Here’s a poem up for reactions, interaction, and–dare I say it–analysis:

Remember, this is just for fun and is not meant to be stressful.

Keep in mind what Molly Peacock’s books suggested. Look at a line, a stanza, sentences, and images; describe what you like or don’t like; and offer an opinion. If you missed my review of her book, check it out here.

Contemporary Poet John Amen is also a musician and editor of The Pedestal MagazineThis poem is from his most recent collection At the Threshold of Alchemy:

At The Funeral (Page 17)

The floorboards exhaled,
walls slept for the first time in years.

Grandma slouched in the foyer, 
her belly mounding in her lap, makeup streaked.
I distracted myself in the basement, thinking
of Ms Gilham, my face in her cleavage.

Upstairs, aunts and neighbors — the mercenaries
of resilience — cooked, cleaned, scrubbed
until the house could have passed for a delivery room.

I reemerged, 
dad and his brother gnawing the gristly silence.
No one noticed the stain on my corduroys
or saw me put a silver spoon in my pocket.

Let me know your thoughts, ideas, feelings, impressions. Let’s have a great discussion…pick a line, pick an image, pick a sentence.

I’ve you missed the other Virtual Poetry Circles, check them out here. It’s never too late to join the discussion.

21st Virtual Poetry Circle

I think we all know the routine by now, but just in case you don’t, here’s the spiel again.

OK, Here’s a poem up for reactions, interaction, and–dare I say it–analysis:

Remember, this is just for fun and is not meant to be stressful.

Keep in mind what Molly Peacock’s books suggested. Look at a line, a stanza, sentences, and images; describe what you like or don’t like; and offer an opinion. If you missed my review of her book, check it out here.

Today, its a return to classic poet.  John Keats’ Ode on a Grecian Urn is one of my favorites from the romantic period in poetry.

Ode on a Grecian Urn
by: John Keats

Thou still unravish’d bride of quietness,
Thou foster-child of Silence and slow Time,
Sylvan historian, who canst thus express
A flowery tale more sweetly than our rhyme:
What leaf-fringed legend haunts about thy shape
Of deities or mortals, or of both,
In Tempe or the dales of Arcady?
What men or gods are these? what maidens loth?
What mad pursuit? What struggle to escape?
What pipes and timbrels? What wild ecstasy?

Heard melodies are sweet, but those unheard
Are sweeter; therefore, ye soft pipes, play on;
Not to the sensual ear, but, more endear’d,
Pipe to the spirit ditties of no tone:
Fair youth, beneath the trees, thou canst not leave
Thy song, nor ever can those trees be bare;
Bold lover, never, never canst thou kiss,
Though winning near the goal–yet, do not grieve;
She cannot fade, though thou hast not thy bliss,
For ever wilt thou love, and she be fair!

Ah, happy, happy boughs! that cannot shed
Your leaves, nor ever bid the Spring adieu;
And, happy melodist, unwearied,
For ever piping songs for ever new;
More happy love! more happy, happy love!
For ever warm and still to be enjoy’d,
For ever panting, and for ever young;
All breathing human passion far above,
That leaves a heart high-sorrowful and cloy’d,
A burning forehead, and a parching tongue.

Who are these coming to the sacrifice?
To what green altar, O mysterious priest,
Lead’st thou that heifer lowing at the skies,
And all her silken flanks with garlands drest?
What little town by river or sea shore,
Or mountain-built with peaceful citadel,
Is emptied of this folk, this pious morn?
And, little town, thy streets for evermore
Will silent be; and not a soul to tell
Why thou art desolate, can e’er return.

O Attic shape! Fair attitude! with brede
Of marble men and maidens overwrought,
With forest branches and the trodden weed;
Thou, silent form, dost tease us out of thought
As doth eternity: Cold pastoral!
When old age shall this generation waste,
Thou shalt remain, in midst of other woe
Than ours, a friend to man, to whom thou say’st,
‘Beauty is truth, truth beauty’–that is all
Ye know on earth, and all ye need to know.

Let me know your thoughts, ideas, feelings, impressions. Let’s have a great discussion…pick a line, pick an image, pick a sentence.

I’ve you missed the other Virtual Poetry Circles, check them out here. It’s never too late to join the discussion. 

20th Virtual Poetry Circle

Don’t forget about the Verse Reviewers link I’m creating here on Savvy Verse & Wit.

Send me an email with your blog information to savvyverseandwit AT gmail DOT com

And now, for the twentieth edition of the Virtual Poetry Circle.  I can’t believe we’ve made it this far.

OK, Here’s a poem up for reactions, interaction, and–dare I say it–analysis:

Remember, this is just for fun and is not meant to be stressful.

Keep in mind what Molly Peacock’s books suggested. Look at a line, a stanza, sentences, and images; describe what you like or don’t like; and offer an opinion. If you missed my review of her book, check it out here.

We’re returning to contemporary poetry this week, and today’s poem if from Lynn Levin‘s poetry collection, Fair Creatures of an Hour (review forthcoming):

Helium (page 9)

I was happy as one
who offers her heart
and doesn’t care
if it’s accepted or not.
I was less, not more.
I skipped my stupid resentments
like stones across the river, 
forgave those who walked off
while I was speaking,
owed me money,
blamed me for things I didn’t do.
If spirits could rise like helium,
then my spirits rose like helium.
I couldn’t tell my breath
from the new-mown grass,
the scent of the white azalea.
You said that I thre myself away.
You said that resistance
would have been nobler
than resignation.  I began
to fear that you were right
for in the morning my heart was lighter
than air, but in the evening
I felt insolid and grew frantic.

Let me know your thoughts, ideas, feelings, impressions. Let’s have a great discussion…pick a line, pick an image, pick a sentence.

I’ve you missed the other Virtual Poetry Circles, check them out here. It’s never too late to join the discussion.