March 23, 2010
In a comment on this blog (click here), Claudia Tilton Martin told an amusing story on her self, relating it to the poem, "When I Am Old I Shall Wear Purple". Here is a link to that poem - a good one for all of us to read. For when we get old! You can open and read it using this link, or Download When I Am Old I Shall Wear Purple
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March 14, 20
Charlotte Vann Dew sent the following:
As far back as I can remember, my mother wrote little snippets, love songs, commercial type diddies and some lovely poems. She would honor family and friends on their birthday with poems written just for them. These are truly treasures.
After she passed away, the manager of her retirement home sent this one to me. Mother had submitted it for their newsletter shortly before she died. I thought it was appropriate for our class.
The Treasure Chest (by Betty Lewis ~ 2005)
Who else but a friend can bring on a smile,
Whenever the skies are gray?
Who else takes the time to offer a hand,
To help push troubles away?
If I made a list of all I hold dear
A second is all it would take.
For it's 'people,' not 'things' that make up a life;
Relations that time cannot break.
My first thought would be of family and friends,
Not new cars and houses, and such.
And to some who would see, they might say,
"She doesn't own very much."
But I know my worth and hold my head high,
And know I'm as rich as can be.
For accepted by them, despite all my faults,
My friends and family are like rare "JEWELS" to me.
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Throughout the 3 year existence of this Milby 1960 blog, poetry has been inserted to enlighten, amuse, and inspire us. The contributions of Glenda Burns Minniece, Judy Kennedy, Laura McNeil Burns, and Sheila Steele Howard have been pulled from deep in the bowels of the blog to create the following anthology. Feel free to suggest others that I have missed.
Glenda has really expanded my literary horizons during these three years. Through her year-long monthly book reviews on “Speaking of Books” she inspired me to buy and read 8 new books. Through various contributions of poetry she has revived my own love of poetry. This first one might be appropriate for many of us attending the reunion.
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Are you nobody, too?
Then there's a pair of us — don't tell!
They'd banish us, you know.
How dreary to be somebody!
How public, like a frog
To tell your name the livelong day
To an admiring bog!
On the post “The Time You Enjoyed Wasting” Glenda gave us Richard LeGallienne's poem:
I meant to do my work today,
But a brown bird sang in the apple tree,
And a butterfly flitted across the field,
And all the leaves were calling to me;
And the wind went sighing over the land
Tossing the grasses to and fro,
And a rainbow held out its shining hand -
So what could I do but laugh and go?
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Mentioning her mother’s love of poetry, she also gave us a snippet of a poem written in 1900 by William Henry Davies
What is this life if, full of care,
We have no time to sit and stare?
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.
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Judy Kennedy wrote in response to the same post (“The Time You enjoyed Wasting”), “Mary Oliver is one of my favorite writers/poets. She knows so much about "wasting" time. Here is a favorite poem:
The Summer Day
Who made the world?
Who made the swan, and the black bear?
Who made the grasshopper?
This grasshopper, I mean---
the one who has flung herself out of the grass,
the one who is eating sugar out of my hand,
who is moving her jaws back and forth instead of up and down--
Now she lifts her pale forearms and thoroughly washes her face.
Now she snaps her wings open, and floats away.
I don't know exactly what a prayer is.
I do know how to pay attention, how to fall down
into the grass, how to kneel down in the grass,
how to be idle and blessed, how to stroll through the fields,
which is what I have been doing all day.
Tell me, what else should I have done?
Doesn't everything die at last, and too soon?
Tell me, what is it you plan to do
with your one wild and precious life?
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Glenda has given us many photos, some of which are sheer poetry in themselves. It seems she keeps her camera at the ready, stopping to snap photos that inspire heIn the photo album “Spring is Sprung” she has a beautiful picture of an old farmyard that features a pear tree in full bloom. Here is the poem she submitted to accompany it.
The Pear Tree
by Edna St. Vincent Millay
In this squalid, dirty door yard,
Where the chickens scratch and run,
White, incredible, the pear tree
Stands apart and takes the sun,
Mindful of the eyes upon it,
Vain of its new holiness,
Like the waste-man's little daughter
In her first communion dress.
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In the same photo album (“Spring is Sprung”), inspired by Glenda’s marrying of photos with poetry, I added this poem to a photo of bluebonnets that she took in the old Livingston Cemetery. I have included only the first few verses – it’s a very long, but very meaningful elegy. And it really did come to my feeble mind when I saw Glenda’s photo. (Of course, I had to look it up – couldn’t exactly quote it by memory as I am sure Glenda and Judy do!)
Elegy Written in a Country Churchyard
By Thomas Gray (1716-1771)
The Curfew tolls the knell of parting day,
The lowing herd wind slowly o'er the lea,
The plowman homeward plods his weary way,
And leaves the world to darkness and to me.
Now fades the glimmering landscape on the sight,
And all the air a solemn stillness holds,
Save where the beetle wheels his droning flight,
And drowsy tinklings lull the distant folds;
Save that from yonder ivy-mantled tow'r
The moping owl does to the moon complain
Of such as, wand'ring near her secret bow'r,
Molest her ancient solitary reign.
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More recently, I was thrilled by a poem submitted by Laura McNeil Burns for the page on Eugene Seastrand. She wrote, “My mother, a Milby alumna (class of 1929) and teacher there in the 1960s and 1970s, died in November, 2009 at age 96. My sisters and I were dividing up and disposing of personal effects and memorabilia last month. One item I got was the self-published book of poetry, "Remembered on Waking", by Gene Seastrand. For former high school musicians and others, here is a poem from it:
TROPHIES
Assorted plates of brass on wood,
A bowl extolling teacherhood,
Depicting honors variously
For living, not precariously.
No battle or heroic deed,
No answering a general need,
But, for some tunes and casual rhyme,
And, mostly, serving quite a time.
The recent days have brought a state
Of watching them accumulate
Until the shelf and closet space
Request a fitter resting place.
So back to where the things they praise
Had birth, to grace my passing days
With thoughts of thankfulness to those
Who praise a man before he goes.
Being a teacher in a family full of teachers, this poem really stirred my soul. I thought about Mr. Seastrand and his contribution to so many lives in our class, and in all of the many classes before and after us. I thought about my husband, my brother, my daughter-in-law and others in relation to their contributions to the lives of those they teach. I thought about my own legacy as a teacher. Back to Mr. Seastrand. I pictured him in his waning years, surrounded by the trophies that had been bestowed on him throughout his career. I know full well he appreciated these physical items, but treasured far more the realization that the lives he touched were his true trophies.
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From those lofty thoughts, back to another of my poetry contributions to the blog, this one much more profane. It’s the title piece for a photo album on the blog:
"Spring is sprung, the grass is riz,
I wonder where the boidies is?"
"The boid is on the wing!"
"That's absoid! I thought the wing was on the boid!"
The author is anonymous, and I can see why he or she would want to keep it that way.
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I’ll close for now with Sheila Steele Howard’s submission from the post “Remembrance of Things Past”. Sheila gave us the weather eye jingle:
Red light, warmer weather.
White light, cooler weather.
Green light, no change in view.
Blinking light, rain is due.
Then Sheila added this comment, “And I have trouble remembering my own phone number sometimes.”
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Now it’s your turn:
- Are there other poems on the blog that I have neglected to mention? Please refresh my memory and I will get them on post-haste.
- Do you have a favorite poem (not yet mentioned here) that you would like included in this post? Add it by way of a comment below.
- Finally, feel free to add your commentary in response to any of the poems printed in this post. We’d love to hear what’s on your mind!
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