National Poetry Month: Elizabeth Barrett Browning

I know it's probably her most famous, but I've always loved this sonnet, number 43.  I think it's a lovely testament of love.

Sonnet 43 - How Do I Love Thee? Let Me Count the Ways

By Elizabeth Barrett Browning


How do I love thee? Let me count the ways.
I love thee to the depth and breadth and height
My soul can reach, when feeling out of sight
For the ends of Being and ideal Grace.
I love thee to the level of everyday's
Most quiet need, by sun and candle-light.
I love thee freely, as men strive for Right;
I love thee purely, as they turn from Praise.
I love thee with the passion put to use
In my old griefs, and with my childhood's faith.
I love thee with a love I seemed to lose
With my lost saints,—I love thee with the breath,
Smiles, tears, of all my life!—and, if God choose,
I shall but love thee better after death.

National Poetry Month: John Muir

I studied about John Muir back in college. He was a naturalist, advocate for the wilderness, and co-founder of the Sierra Club. He spent some time in the Pacific Northwest and wrote about nature. Today is such a beautiful day here at home, I wanted to use one of his poems, which to me, are all beautiful and inspiring.

His legacy remains in the wild, having numerous locations in nature named after him. Among them, here in Washington, if you climb Mount Rainier, you may find refuge at Camp Muir.

If you've never heard of or read about the man, you should. He is a very interesting character, wild at heart.


Song
by John Muir

Here is calm so deep, grasses cease waving.
Everything in wild nature fits into us,
as if truly part and parent of us.
The sun shines not on us but in us.
The rivers flow not past, but through us,
thrilling, tingling, vibrating every fiber and cell
of the substance of our bodies,
Making them glide and sing.
The trees wave and the flowers bloom
in our bodies as well as our souls,
and every bird song, wind song,
and; tremendous storm song of the rocks
in the heart of the mountains is our song,
our very own, and sings our love.

National Poetry Month: Maya Angelou

Photo © Alyssa L. Miller

Today I've chosen a poem that speaks to me. It's short but meaningful. I've not slept well for months. This is how I feel, as if sleep taunts me while I struggle to catch it. I can't remember the last day I felt truly rested.

Insomniac 

by Maya Angelou

 There are some nights when
sleep plays coy,
aloof and disdainful.
And all the wiles
that I employ to win
its service to my side
are useless as wounded pride,
and much more painful.

National Poetry Month: William Carlos Williams

I have a very good reason for posting this poem by William Carlos Williams. A couple of friends of mine posted a blog that is in response to this poem. It is hilarious. So I will follow the lovely This is Just to Say, with the blog by The Bloggess...Also, that fucker ate all the hot pockets.

This is Just to Say
by William Carlos Williams

I have eaten
the plums
that were in
the icebox

and which
you were probably
saving
for breakfast

Forgive me
they were delicious
so sweet
and so cold

And here is  Also, that fucker ate all the hot pockets.

National Poetry Month: Lawrence Ferlinghetti

Photo by Christopher Michel

I had to include at least one beat poet.  Ferlinghetti was one of the San Francisco beat poets. He was the co-founder of City Lights Bookstore, which published poetry books called  the Pocket Poet series. The first in the series consisted of his own poems, then he followed up with the poems of Kenneth Rexroth, Kenneth Patchen, Marie Ponsot, Allen Ginsberg, Bob Kaufman, Denise Levertov, Robert Duncan, William Carlos Williams, and Gregory Corso.

When he published Ginsberg's poem Howl,  Ferlinghetti was arrested for obscenity and had to stand trial. He was acquitted.

This poem is about poets. I really like it. He forms an analogy between a poet and an acrobat.

Constantly Risking Absurdity
by  Lawrence Ferlinghetti

Constantly risking absurdity
and death
whenever he performs
above the heads
of his audience
the poet like an acrobat
climbs on rime
to a high wire of his own making
and balancing on eyebeams
above a sea of faces
paces his way
to the other side of the day
performing entrachats
and sleight-of-foot tricks
and other high theatrics
and all without mistaking
any thing
for what it may not be
For he's the super realist
who must perforce perceive
taut truth
before the taking of each stance or step
in his supposed advance
toward that still higher perch
where Beauty stands and waits
with gravity
to start her death-defying leap
And he
a little charleychaplin man
who may or may not catch
her fair eternal form
spreadeagled in the empty air
of existence