a love sonnet by pablo neruda

This love sonnet by the Chilean poet, Pablo Neruda, is some of the most beautiful writing I've read in a long time:

You will remember that leaping stream 

where sweet aromas rose and trembled,
and sometimes a bird, wearing water
and slowness, its winter feathers.
You will remember those gifts from the earth:
indelible scents, gold clay,
weeds in the thicket and crazy roots,
magical thorns like swords.
You'll remember the bouquet you picked,
shadows and silent water,
bouquet like a foam-covered stone.
That time was like never, and like always.
So we go there, where nothing is waiting;
we find everything waiting there.

the conch by e.b. white

A childhood favorite, author E. B. White, penned classics like "Charlotte's Web" and "Stuart Little". While reading recently, I stumbled across an E. B. White poem, The Conch, that is stunningly beautiful.

The Conch

Hold a baby to your ear

As you would a shell:

Sounds of centuries you hear

New centuries foretell.

Who can break a baby's code?

And which is the older --

The listener or his small load?

The held or the holder?

to autumn {john keats}

                                            1.

    SEASON of mists and mellow fruitfulness, 

        Close bosom-friend of the maturing sun; 

    Conspiring with him how to load and bless 

        With fruit the vines that round the thatch-eves run; 

    To bend with apples the moss’d cottage-trees, 

        And fill all fruit with ripeness to the core; 

            To swell the gourd, and plump the hazel shells 

    With a sweet kernel; to set budding more, 

        And still more, later flowers for the bees, 

        Until they think warm days will never cease, 

            For Summer has o’er-brimm’d their clammy cells.

                                            2.

    Who hath not seen thee oft amid thy store? 

        Sometimes whoever seeks abroad may find 

    Thee sitting careless on a granary floor, 

        Thy hair soft-lifted by the winnowing wind; 

    Or on a half-reap’d furrow sound asleep, 

        Drows’d with the fume of poppies, while thy hook 

            Spares the next swath and all its twined flowers: 

    And sometimes like a gleaner thou dost keep 

        Steady thy laden head across a brook; 

        Or by a cyder-press, with patient look, 

            Thou watchest the last oozings hours by hours.

                                            3.

    Where are the songs of Spring? Ay, where are they? 

        Think not of them, thou hast thy music too,— 

    While barred clouds bloom the soft-dying day, 

        And touch the stubble plains with rosy hue; 

    Then in a wailful choir the small gnats mourn 

        Among the river sallows, borne aloft 

            Or sinking as the light wind lives or dies; 

    And full-grown lambs loud bleat from hilly bourn; 

        Hedge-crickets sing; and now with treble soft 

        The red-breast whistles from a garden-croft; 

           And gathering swallows twitter in the skies.

rain, rain, don't go away!

As is much of the country, here in Madison, we are in the midst of one serious drought of a summer. It's without a doubt the driest, hottest summer in my memory. We've had about 10 minutes of gentle rain in the past month...until now! 

I've been up for awhile this morning, unable to sleep, and my cat Nino was first to alarm me to the approaching thunderstorm. Cats never seem to outgrow the fear of thunderstorms. Before I knew it, I saw a bright flash of light from the corner of my eye confirming Nino's odd behavior. And the downpour began. Saying this rain is like manna from heaven is not an exaggeration. We desperately needed this.

As I write this, I'm sitting on our screened-in porch surrounded by the heavy rain, the downpour is like a beloved melody that my ears haven't heard in so long. What a beautiful song! May we hear it often.

Rain in the Summer

by Henry Wadsworth Longfellow

How beautiful is the rain!

After the dust and heat, 

In the broad and fiery street, 

In the narrow lane, 

How beautiful is the rain!

How it clatters along the roofs, 

Like the tramp of hoofs 

How it gushes and struggles out 

From the throat of the overflowing spout!

Across the window-pane 

It pours and pours; 

And swift and wide, 

With a muddy tide, 

Like a river down the gutter roars 

The rain, the welcome rain!

my ode to fireflies

an amazing photo by Tsuneaki Hiramatsu,
capturing a surreal shot of hundred of fireflies
check out this link for more: stunning photography

Last night on my way home, I had my first firefly spotting of the summer. Is there anything more quintessentially summer than the firefly? That tiny little lightning bug's glow could be spotted from quite a distance, and it instantly put a smile on my face while my mind recalled the many summers' past when I was a kid and fireflies were at the top of my "favorites things ever" list. Here's a lovely poem, relevant to more than just fireflies.

"If You Catch a Firefly" by Lilian Moore

If you catch a firefly

            and keep it in a jar

You may find that

            you have lost

A tiny star.

If you let it go then,

            back into the night,

You may see it

            once again

Star bright.

poem in your pocket day

Did you know that today is national Poem In Your Pocket day? It's a way for us to share our favorite poetry with each other. Here's one I quite like:

To A Butterfly
by William Wordsworth

I've watched you now a full half-hour,
Self-poised upon that yellow flower;
And, little butterfly! indeed
I know not if you sleep or feed.
How motionless! And then
What joy awaits you, when the breeze
Has found you out among the trees,
And calls you forth again!

This plot of orchard-ground is ours;
My trees they are, my sister's flowers;
Here rest your wings when they are weary,
Here lodge as in a sanctuary!
Come often to us, fear no wrong;
Sit near us on the bough!
We'll talk of sunshine and of song,
And summer days, when we are young;
Sweet childish days, that were as long
As twenty days are now.

If you'd like to learn more about Poem In Your Pocket Day, check out: www.poets.org/pocket.

my haiku for summer

blades of cool green grass

blow softly beneath blue skies

summer warms my soul

a something in a summer's day

This poem by Emily Dickinson does justice to this beautiful summer day...

A something in a summer's Day

As slow her flambeaux burn away

Which solemnizes me.

A something in a summer's noon -

A depth - an Azure - a perfume - 

Transcending ecstasy.

And still within a summer's night

A something so transporting bright

I clap my hands to see - 

Then veil my too inspecting face

Lets such a subtle - shimmering grace

Flutter too far for me - 

The wizard fingers never rest - 

The purple brook within the breast

Still chafes its narrow bed - 

Still rears the East her amber Flag - 

Guides still the sun along the Crag 

His Caravan of Red - 

So looking on - the night - the morn

Conclude the wonder gay - 

And I meet, coming thro' the dews

Another summer's Day!

light and reflections

A thing of beauty is a joy for ever:

Its loveliness increases; it will never 

Pass into nothingness; but still will keep 

A bower quiet for us, and a sleep

Full of sweet dream, and health, and quiet breathing.

(first few lines of "A Thing of Beauty" by John Keats)

I highly recommend reading the rest of the poem.
Its title is so fitting.  

Wordworth's daffodils

No poem, in my mind, captures the love that some of us have for flowers as beautifully as  William Wordworth's (1770-1850) "Daffodils" (officially entitled "I wander'd lonely as a cloud"). It, to me, is perfection - it captures the author's first sight of the stunning flowers, describes the daffodils with such precision, and then the poet wraps up his text explaining to us how he can recall those daffodils within his "inward eye" - because they left such an impression - even from his couch. I adore this poem - its clarity, its gentleness, and its vivid descriptiveness. I hope you enjoy it too.

I wander'd lonely as a cloud

That floats on high o'ver vales and hills,

When all at once I saw a crowd

A host, of golden daffodils;

Beside the lake, beneath the trees, 

Fluttering and dancing in the breeze.

Continuous as the stars that shine

And twinkle on the Milky Way,

They Stretch'd in never-ending line

Along the margin of a bay:

Ten thousand saw I at a glance,

Tossing their heads in sprightly dance.

The wave beside them danced; by they 

Out-did the sparking waves in glee:

A poet could not but be gay,

In such a jocund company:

I gazed - and gazed - but little thought

What wealth the show to me had brought:

For oft, when on my couch I lie

In vacant or in pensive mood,

They flash upon that inward eye

Which is the bliss of solitude;

And then my heart with pleasure fills,

And dances with the daffodils.

love & sonnet 18

LOVE - so much as been written about it...it's what is in the air, it makes the world go 'round, it's patient and it's kind, and sometimes it is a battlefield. There are so many types of love. I recently learned that ancient Greek had a least 5 words for 5 different types of love - philia (brotherly love & love of the mind), eros (passionate love), agape (pure love & also the modern Greek word for love), storge (affection - like that of parents towards children), xenia (hospitality, which was highly revered in ancient Greek culture).

On this 14th of February, to me, only the Bard of Avon's Sonnet 18 can give love for another the justice it deserves.

Shall I compare thee to a summer's day?

Thou art more lovely and more temperate:

Rough winds do shake the darling buds of May,

And summer's lease hath all too short a date,

Sometime too hot the eye of heaven shines,

And often is his gold complexion dimmed,

And every fair from fair sometime declines,

By chance, or nature's changing course, untrimmed.

But thy eternal summer shall not fade,

Nor lose possession of that fair thou ow'st,

Nor shall death brag thou wand'rest in his shade,

When in eternal lines to time thou grow'st.

So long as men can breathe or eyes can see,

So long lives this, and this gives life to thee.

As Shakespeare writes, as long as we can read this beautiful written song his love for this unknown person lives on. What a gift! What this means to me and I like to think, for all of us - tell those whom we love that we love them, and put in it writing! We don't have to possess bard-like talent to let our love for our loved ones live for "as long as men can breathe". Happy Valentine's Day to all, wishing you much love and happiness.  Xoxo.