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Beauty is the sole legitimate province of the poem.-Edgar Allan Poe

Poetry is when emotion has found its thought and thought has found words--Robert Frost

Poetry is an echo, asking a shadow to dance--Carl Sandburg

I have nothing to say, I am saying it, and that is poetry--John Cage

You will find poetry nowhere unless you bring some of it with you--Joseph Joubert

Poetry is what in a poem makes you laugh, cry, prickle, be silent, makes your toe nails twinkle, makes you want to do this or that or nothing, makes you know that you are alone in the unknown world, that your bliss and suffering is forever shared and forever all your own. ~Dylan Thomas

joybragi84
May 121 min read

A Poem for Poem-a-Week and a Yellow Indian-pink


According to Pl@ntNet Identify, the little beauty above is called an Indian-pink even though there is no pink on it. Well, maybe a slight bit of pink is at the top of the unopened bloom.


Kellie and I went on our flower walk yesterday. I have many, many pictures, and I posted them on my Facebook feed yesterday in the My Story section. Remember, when I add a picture here on Wix, I have to take one down from a previous post. Therefore, I am limiting my photos.


Anyhow, here is the Poem-a-Week poem for this week. Enjoy! Another picture of the Indian-pink will follow the poem.


After the Storm

 

After the beatings given them

By last night’s violent storms,

The silver maples bow and weep

Among prostrated forms.

 

The white oak like a giant nymph,

Showering in the sun,

Drips moisture from her leaves and limbs

But bends her trunk to none.

 

And, Iris—Ah! Sweet sister!

Who sobs without a sound,

The savage storm has beaten all

Your blossoms to the ground.

 

The rosebush looks to be untouched,

As wearing thorns will do,

The heavy storm-drops clinging like

A sweat of bloody dew.

 

The shameless sun’s protective light

Dries all the sodden tears

And swears to them that thrashing winds

Are put away for years.

 

But we know something of abuse,

Its festering greenish hue.

The sun may say it’s gone away

But he’s in on it too.

 

 

 


Happy Mother's Day to all you mothers out there!

Comments

I find that I cannot exist without Poetry--without eternal poetry--half the day will not do--the whole of it--I began with a little, but habit has made me a Leviathan.-John Keats

We do not quite say that the new is more valuable because it fits in; but its fitting in is a test of its value.-T. S. Eliot

A man may praise and praise, but no one recollects but that which pleases.-George Gordon, Lord Byron

The great beauty of poetry is that it makes everything in every place interesting.-John Keats

Our faulty elder poets sacrificed the passion and passionate flow of poetry to the subtleties of intellect and to the stars of wit; the moderns to the glare and glitter of a perpetual, yet broken and heterogeneous imagery, or rather to an amphibious something, made up, half of image, and half of abstract meaning. The one sacrificed the heart to the head; the other both heart and head to point and drapery.-S. T. Coleridge

The purpose of rhythm, it has always seemed to me, is to prolong the moment of contemplation, the moment when we are both asleep and awake, which is the one moment of creation.-W. B. Yeats

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