Versify

Word of the day: versify verb 1. to relate, describe, or treat (something) in the form of poetry. verb (used without object), 1. to compose verses. ... This interests me. Probably because poetry has begun to interest me. I think I would like to learn to versify.

 

World Poetry Day

Sometimes I show up late.

I was late to appreciate Michael Jackson and his incredible talent. 

Oh, I knew he was good but I didn't know how good.

I was also late to get to know Prince and his music.

… and other musicians.

… and writers.

I was late getting acquainted with Maya Angelou and her writings - but now I am getting started.

And Mary Oliver...

I had noticed things that people had written about her through the years.  Mostly things that they were quoting of hers.

I think the first was that mighty inspiring question:

What is it you plan to do

with your wild and precious life?

And then this winter she died - and I began to discover more of her words.

Late again, but not too late to start.

I came late to poetry and poets...

I had never really spent time with poetry, but I have begun - thanks to my new friend, Sarah*.  I didn't know how cool poetry could be.  I want to learn more.

I have even dared to wonder if maybe I could write a bit of poetry.  I might like to dabble - whatever that means.

My new friend encourages me to try.

But I’m so late to the game.

I have much to learn.

And the learning is such fun.

A whole new world for me.

And so I read and study and learn and enjoy.

Poetry is when

an emotion has found its thought

and the thought has found words.

- Robert Frost

I just discovered that today is World Poetry Day.

That made me happy.

Like an official day.  Worldwide.  How cool.

But nope; it was really yesterday.

Late again.

Oh, well.

...

How about you?
Would you like to learn to write poetry?
My friend, Sarah, is teaching an online course this spring, Introduction to the Prose Poem.  She is a really good writing teacher, drawing out things to write that I didn't know were in there.

wonder

Wonder is a cool thing. Wonder can be intense. Intensely wonderful - or intensely agonizing. Wonder seemingly can wander away. Sometimes I wish to get the wonder back. Sometimes I just wonder where it went.

Bring on the wonder
-by Susan Enan

I can't see the stars anymore living here
Let's go to the hills where the outlines are clear

Bring on the wonder
Bring on the song
I pushed you down deep in my soul for too long

I fell through the cracks at the end of our street
Let's go to the beach, get the sand through our feet

Bring on the wonder
Bring on the song
I pushed you down deep in my soul for too long

Bring on the wonder
We got it all wrong
We pushed you down deep in our souls for too long

I don't have the time for a drink from the cup
Let's rest for a while 'til our souls catch us up

Bring on the wonder
Bring on the song
I pushed you down deep in my soul for too long

Bring on the wonder
We got it all wrong
We pushed you down deep in our souls, so hang on

Bring on the wonder
Bring on the song
I pushed you down deep in my soul for too long.

September

Quite often as I ride the lawn tractor this time of year, these few lines run through my head. "The goldenrod is yellow The corn is turning brown The gentian's lovely fringes Hang halfway to the ground" ...and then that's all I can ever remember of the old poem, "September," from country school days. I used to wonder how/where I could find it, but hey, now that we're in the internet age, certainly I can find it online. Sure enough; after a few dead ends, Google led me to it. Turns out I didn't have those lines quite right, but not too bad. Here it is... for your autumn reading enjoyment. 

 September 

 

THE golden-rod is yellow; 

 The corn is turning brown; 

 The trees in apple orchards 

 With fruit are bending down. 

 

The gentian's bluest fringes 

 Are curling in the sun; 

 In dusty pods the milkweed 

 Its hidden silk has spun. 

 

The sedges flaunt their harvest, 

 In every meadow nook; 

 And asters by the brook-side 

 Make asters in the brook, 

 From dewy lanes at morning 

 The grapes' sweet odors rise; 

 At noon the roads all flutter 

 With yellow butterflies. 

 By all these lovely tokens 

 September days are here, 

 With summer's best of weather, 

 And autumn's best of cheer. 

 But none of all this beauty 

 Which floods the earth and air 

 Is unto me the secret 

 Which makes September fair. 

 'T is a thing which I remember; 

 To name it thrills me yet: 

 One day of one September I never can forget. 

 

- Helen Hunt Jackson (1830-1885)