Category Archives: Poetry

Weekend Links

Why no one takes protest art seriously

Tyrannosaurus rex was a sensitive lover, new dinosaur discovery suggests

Capturing the essence of Pushkin

‘To Walk Invisible’ explores the suffering and genius of the Brontë sisters

The Freedom Caucus is the silver lining in the Obamacare debacle

Picasso portrait that became legend of the French Resistance could sell for $50 million

Don’t mock Mike Pence for protecting his marriage. Commend him.

Why Mosul is so hard to take

This is why you probably hate slam poetry, according to a linguistic scholar

Why are ‘doomed’ poets considered better?

Democrats are heading toward an epic miscalculation in filibustering Neil Gorsuch.

How did Monet become so popular?

President James K. Polk’s body may be moved. Again.

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Filed under Art, Literature, Poetry, Politics, Uncategorized

Your Morning Cup of Links

The surprising rising popularity of board games

Netflix to restore and release unfinished Orson Welles film

Unbelievable. Literacy is racist, guys.

The best Sinclair Lewis novels for these crazy times

Franz Kafka’s posthumous short stories

Bosch and Bruegel

The passions of Elizabeth Bishop

The poetry, politics, and madness of Ezra Pound

Mussolini’s last lover 

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Filed under Literature, Poetry, TV/Movies, Uncategorized

Poem for the Weekend

by William Henry Davies (1871-1940)

What is this life if, full of care,
We have no time to stand and stare.

No time to stand beneath the boughs
And stare as long as sheep or cows.

No time to see, when woods we pass,
Where squirrels hide their nuts in grass.

No time to see, in broad daylight,
Streams full of stars like skies at night.

No time to turn at Beauty’s glance,
And watch her feet, how they can dance.

No time to wait till her mouth can
Enrich that smile her eyes began.

A poor life this if, full of care,
We have no time to stand and stare.

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Music Monday/Poem for the Week


Darest Thou Now, O Soul
by Walt Whitman

Darest thou now, O Soul,
Walk out with me toward the Unknown Region,
Where neither ground is for the feet, nor any path to follow?

No map, there, nor guide,
Nor voice sounding, nor touch of human hand,
Nor face with blooming flesh, nor lips, nor eyes, are in that land.

I know it not, O Soul;
Nor dost thou–all is a blank before us;
All waits, undream’d of, in that region–that inaccessible land.

Till, when the ties loosen,
All but the ties eternal, Time and Space,
Nor darkness, gravitation, sense, nor any bounds, bound us.

Then we burst forth–we float,
In Time and Space, O Soul–prepared for them;
Equal, equipt at last–(O joy! O fruit of all!) them to fulfil, O Soul.


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Filed under Music, Poetry

Poem for the Weekend

Upon his Picture
by Thomas Randolph (1605-1635)

When age hath made me what I am not now;
And every wrinkle tells me where the plough
Of time hath furrowed; when an ice shall flow
Through every vein, and all my head wear snow;
When death displays his coldness in my cheek
And I myself in my own picture seek,
Not finding what I am, but what I was,
In doubt which to believe, this or my glass;
Yet though I alter, this remains the same
As it was drawn, retains the primitive frame
And first complexion; here will still be seen
Blood on the cheek, and down upon the chin.
Here the smooth brow will stay, the lively eye,
The ruddy lip, and hair of youthful dye.
Behold what frailty we in man may see
Whose shadow is less given to change than he.

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Your Morning Cup of Links

OMG, you guys. Cards Against Humanity, but with Shakespeare. Be still my heart.

Here are a bunch of police officers who need to be fired.

When polarization gets dangerous

How museums have gone from being about something to being for somebody

Beach Boys song too sexually offensive for University of Kentucky

How misguided federal policies keep Native Americans trapped in poverty

Ambiance for a Victorian spirit at a bar called Oscar Wilde

LOL Shocking!

Just another attack by our friend Russia

This will be a disaster. Yet another reason to wean myself off of Facebook.

Philip Larkin gets his memorial stone at Westminster Abbey

English medieval embroidery might seem an odd subject for a book, but this is no ordinary volume.

An “essential” Goethe that is anything but

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Filed under Poetry, Uncategorized, Unusually Stupid Primates

Poem for the Week

by Coventry Patmore (1823-1896)

I, singularly moved
To love the lovely that are not beloved,
Of all the Seasons, most
Love Winter, and to trace
The sense of the Trophonian pallor on her face.
It is not death, but plenitude of peace;
And the dim cloud that does the world enfold
Hath less the characters of dark and cold
Than warmth and light asleep,
And correspondent breathing seems to keep
With the infant harvest, breathing soft below
Its eider coverlet of snow.
Nor is in field or garden anything
But, duly looked into, contains serene
The substance of things hoped for, in the Spring,
And evidence of Summer not yet seen.
On every chance-mild day
That visits the moist shaw,
The honeysuckle, ‘sdaining to be crost
In urgence of sweet life by sleet or frost,
‘Voids the time’s law
With still increase
Of leaflet new, and little, wandering spray;
Often, in sheltering brakes,
As one from rest disturbed in the first hour,
Primrose or violet bewildered wakes,
And deems ’tis time to flower;
Though not a whisper of her voice he hear,
The buried bulb does know
The signals of the year,
And hails far Summer with his lifted spear.
The gorse-field dark, by sudden, gold caprice,
Turns, here and there, into a Jason’s fleece;
Lilies, that soon in Autumn slipped their gowns of green,
And vanished into earth,
And came again, ere Autumn died, to birth,
Stand full-arrayed, amidst the wavering shower,
And perfect for the Summer, less the flower;
In nook of pale or crevice of crude bark,
Thou canst not miss,
If close thou spy, to mark
The ghostly chrysalis,
That, if thou touch it, stirs in its dream dark;
And the flushed Robin, in the evenings hoar,
Does of Love’s Day, as if he saw it, sing;
But sweeter yet than dream or song of Summer or Spring
Are Winter’s sometime smiles, that seem to well
From infancy ineffable;
Her wandering, languorous gaze,
So unfamiliar, so without amaze,
On the elemental, chill adversity,
The uncomprehended rudeness; and her sigh
And solemn, gathering tear,
And look of exile from some great repose, the sphere
Of ether, moved by ether only, or
By something still more tranquil.

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