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Show ALL Forums  > Poems And Quotes  > “Every blade of grass has its angel that bends over it and whispers,      Home login  
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 woobytoodsday
Joined: 12/13/2006
Msg: 1
“Every blade of grass has its angel that bends over it and whispers, 'Grow, grow.'”Page 1 of 8    (1, 2, 3, 4, 5, 6, 7, 8)
“Every blade of grass has its angel that bends over it and whispers, 'Grow, grow.'”

...............................................................................................The Talmud

What/who have been the poems, the poets that influenced you to write, keep writing, or just given you great pleasure in your life?
 woobytoodsday
Joined: 12/13/2006
Msg: 3
of all these good friends
Posted: 12/17/2006 2:52:09 PM
Tim, I've felt that, strongly, since I've been lurking here. Checked out a bunch of poetry sites, and this ends up being top or near top.

Other than friends, this is one I've loved for long:

And Death Shall Have No Dominion


And death shall have no dominion.
Dead men naked they shall be one
With the man in the wind and the west moon;
When their bones are picked clean and the clean bones gone,
They shall have stars at elbow and foot;
Though they go mad they shall be sane,
Though they sink through the sea they shall rise again;
Though lovers be lost love shall not;
And death shall have no dominion.

And death shall have no dominion.
Under the windings of the sea
They lying long shall not die windily;
Twisting on racks when sinews give way,
Strapped to a wheel, yet they shall not break;
Faith in their hands shall snap in two,
And the unicorn evils run them through;
Split all ends up they shan't crack;
And death shall have no dominion.

And death shall have no dominion.
No more may gulls cry at their ears
Or waves break loud on the seashores;
Where blew a flower may a flower no more
Lift its head to the blows of the rain;
Though they be mad and dead as nails,
Heads of the characters hammer through daisies;
Break in the sun till the sun breaks down,
And death shall have no dominion.

-- Dylan Thomas

And, of course, much else of Thomas's, including, and especially, Fern Hill, which was perhaps the first poem I fell into and drowned in.
 woobytoodsday
Joined: 12/13/2006
Msg: 4
brolga ~~
Posted: 12/17/2006 2:59:53 PM
I don't recall anything that lovely from my early childhood schooling. As a smoker, rider, former horse owner, and desert born girl: grand imagery -- bites the bone. . .
 woobytoodsday
Joined: 12/13/2006
Msg: 5
Preface to a Twenty Volume Suicide Note
Posted: 12/17/2006 6:49:58 PM
Preface to a Twenty Volume Suicide Note

Lately, I've become accustomed to the way
The ground opens up and envelopes me
Each time I go out to walk the dog.
Or the broad edged silly music the wind
Makes when I run for a bus...

Things have come to that.

And now, each night I count the stars.
And each night I get the same number.
And when they will not come to be counted,
I count the holes they leave.

Nobody sings anymore.

And then last night I tiptoed up
To my daughter's room and heard her
Talking to someone, and when I opened
The door, there was no one there...
Only she on her knees, peeking into

Her own clasped hands

~~ LeRoi Jones

He prefers to be called Amiri Baraka now, but I have never loved him as well as Baraka, as I did as LeRoi Jones. . . .
 woobytoodsday
Joined: 12/13/2006
Msg: 6
Isn't poetry everywhere?
Posted: 12/18/2006 7:53:10 PM
During my one semester in teachers' training, I tried to tell my class that poetry was everywhere. Their faces told me they believed I lied. I didn't. To wit:

Ernest Daltroff be praised for this 1919 utterly midnight masterpiece aphrodisiac of ancient bone-dry leather and golden blond, cured tobacco with perfectly orchestrated notes of carnation, linden, iris, vetiver, ylang-ylang and lime tree leaf. At its core-of-the-earth base is a weighty collection of vanilla amber, cedar, patchouli and musk. Tabac Blond is one of the very few parfums of its kind that a woman with full, pouty, scarlet lips and a racing pulse would wear. Its potent, swarthy, sinfully dark and earthy qualities are enough to send a nun to the dark side ... and beyond. And that is its triumph.


And who could resist? Must run off now to eBay and get sum. . . .
 woobytoodsday
Joined: 12/13/2006
Msg: 7
“Every blade of grass has its angel that bends over it and whispers, 'Grow, grow.'”
Posted: 12/19/2006 8:04:42 PM
The Waking

~~Theodore Roethke


I wake to sleep, and take my waking slow.
I feel my fate in what I cannot fear.
I learn by going where I have to go.

We think by feeling. What is there to know?
I hear my being dance from ear to ear.
I wake to sleep, and take my waking slow.

Of those so close beside me, which are you?
God bless the Ground! I shall walk softly there,
And learn by going where I have to go.

Light takes the Tree; but who can tell us how?
The lowly worm climbs up a winding stair;
I wake to sleep, and take my waking slow.

Great Nature has another thing to do
To you and me; so take the lively air,
And, lovely, learn by going where to go.

This shaking keeps me steady. I should know.
What falls away is always. And is near.
I wake to sleep, and take my waking slow.
I learn by going where I have to go.
 woobytoodsday
Joined: 12/13/2006
Msg: 8
“Every blade of grass has its angel that bends over it and whispers, 'Grow, grow.'”
Posted: 12/20/2006 3:39:10 PM
mandielove ~~

I'd forgotten. . . Those are lovely. And thanks for the link!

Amazing, really, how one comes to poetry, isn't it? My second son asked me when he was small what it was I "did"? What I said was something on the order of "telling the true truth, in as compact and blazing a way as possible" ~~
 woobytoodsday
Joined: 12/13/2006
Msg: 9
“Every blade of grass has its angel that bends over it and whispers, 'Grow, grow.'”
Posted: 12/20/2006 9:16:58 PM

Singing out love, Singing out hate, Singing for herself
This is powerful. . . . Thank you for bringing it here.


This is my favorite Yeats, has been since I was a small thang. . . .

Sailing to Byzantium

That is no country for old men. The young
In one another's arms, birds in the trees
- Those dying generations - at their song,
The salmon-falls, the mackerel-crowded seas,
Fish, flesh, or fowl, commend all summer long
Whatever is begotten, born, and dies.
Caught in that sensual music all neglect
Monuments of unageing intellect.

An aged man is but a paltry thing,
A tattered coat upon a stick, unless
Soul clap its hands and sing, and louder sing
For every tatter in its mortal dress,
Nor is there singing school but studying
Monuments of its own magnificence;
And therefore I have sailed the seas and come
To the holy city of Byzantium.

O sages standing in God's holy fire
As in the gold mosaic of a wall,
Come from the holy fire, perne in a gyre,
And be the singing-masters of my soul.
Consume my heart away; sick with desire
And fastened to a dying animal
It knows not what it is; and gather me
Into the artifice of eternity.

Once out of nature I shall never take
My bodily form from any natural thing,
But such a form as Grecian goldsmiths make
Of hammered gold and gold enamelling
To keep a drowsy Emperor awake;
Or set upon a golden bough to sing
To lords and ladies of Byzantium
Of what is past, or passing, or to come.
 woobytoodsday
Joined: 12/13/2006
Msg: 10
“Every blade of grass has its angel that bends over it and whispers, 'Grow, grow.'”
Posted: 12/21/2006 10:58:25 PM
ADRENALIN MOTHER


Adrenalin Mother,
with your dress of comets
and shoes of swift bird wings
and shadow of jumping fish,
thank you for touching,
understanding and loving my life.
Without you, I am dead.

Richard Brautigan
 woobytoodsday
Joined: 12/13/2006
Msg: 11
“Every blade of grass has its angel that bends over it and whispers, 'Grow, grow.'”
Posted: 12/22/2006 4:10:46 PM
MY LITTLE ONE

My little one whose tongue is dumb,
whose fingers cannot hold to things,
who is so mercilessly young,
he leaps upon the instant things,

I hold him not. Indeed, who could?
He runs into the burning wood.
Follow, follow if you can!
He will come out grown to a man

and not remember whom he kissed,
who caught him by the slender wrist
and bound him by a tender yoke
which, understanding not, he broke.


~~Tennessee Williams
 woobytoodsday
Joined: 12/13/2006
Msg: 12
“Every blade of grass has its angel that bends over it and whispers, 'Grow, grow.'”
Posted: 12/23/2006 8:03:51 AM
That's one hell of a combo, seu! And yet, there's this certain, ummmm, logice to it, eh? Not an optimist in the lot, for one. . . .
 woobytoodsday
Joined: 12/13/2006
Msg: 13
“Every blade of grass has its angel that bends over it and whispers, 'Grow, grow.'”
Posted: 12/23/2006 9:06:03 AM

Not an optimist in the lot, for one. . . .


‘Scuse me? Who then wrote this poem, attributed to Blake


Ah! I stand corrected, defeated, and bowed. (And, blushing, slinks off into the corner dark. . .)(misspelled *logic*, too)
 woobytoodsday
Joined: 12/13/2006
Msg: 14
“Every blade of grass has its angel that bends over it and whispers, 'Grow, grow.'”
Posted: 12/23/2006 11:28:09 AM
to sing it to the next person you come into contact with.

Alas! Not possible. (Not words I utter easily. . . ) I have an incredibly bum ear -- still can't carry the melody of The Internationale (I drop and rise in the wrong places). And have no desire to torture anyone with my singing. I have, however, downloaded an mp3 version, and will work on "getting" enough of it that I can hum bits and pieces without distressing my companion, whomsoever, too much. . . .


. . .I’ve ended the sentence with a preposition. . . With a preposition? That is something up with which we will not put!































With honors, of course, to Churchill. . . . (attribution is, however, spotty)
 woobytoodsday
Joined: 12/13/2006
Msg: 15
“Every blade of grass has its angel that bends over it and whispers, 'Grow, grow.'”
Posted: 12/23/2006 12:24:49 PM
live*evil ~~ True that! But it also requires you/your senses be alive to that life. And language, which can be either a ball-peen hammer or a surgical instrument (or a violin. . . ) You seem to be doin' okay on all counts. . . .
 woobytoodsday
Joined: 12/13/2006
Msg: 16
“Every blade of grass has its angel that bends over it and whispers, 'Grow, grow.'”
Posted: 12/23/2006 6:38:07 PM
The Second Coming

Turning and turning in the widening gyre
The falcon cannot hear the falconer;
Things fall apart; the centre cannot hold;
Mere anarchy is loosed upon the world,
The blood-dimmed tide is loosed, and everywhere
The ceremony of innocence is drowned;
The best lack all conviction, while the worst
Are full of passionate intensity.

Surely some revelation is at hand;
Surely the Second Coming is at hand.
The Second Coming! Hardly are those words out
When a vast image out of Spiritus Mundi
Troubles my sight: somewhere in sands of the desert
A shape with lion body and the head of a man,
A gaze blank and pitiless as the sun,
Is moving its slow thighs, while all about it
Reel shadows of the indignant desert birds.
The darkness drops again; but now I know
That twenty centuries of stony sleep
Were vexed to nightmare by a rocking cradle,
And what rough beast, its hour come round at last,
Slouches towards Bethlehem to be born?

~~ William Butler Yeats
 woobytoodsday
Joined: 12/13/2006
Msg: 17
“Every blade of grass has its angel that bends over it and whispers, 'Grow, grow.'”
Posted: 12/24/2006 12:48:04 AM
from "Asphodel, That Greeny Flower"



Of asphodel, that greeny flower,
like a buttercup
upon its branching stem-
save that it's green and wooden-
I come, my sweet,
to sing to you.
We lived long together
a life filled,
if you will,
with flowers. So that
I was cheered
when I came first to know
that there were flowers also
in hell.
Today
I'm filled with the fading memory of those flowers
that we both loved,
even to this poor
colorless thing-
I saw it
when I was a child
little prized among the living
but the dead see,
asking among themselves:
What do I remember
that was shaped
as this thing is shaped?
while our eyes fill
with tears.
Of love, abiding love
it will be telling
though too weak a wash of crimson
colors it
to make it wholly credible.




~~ William Carlos Williams
 woobytoodsday
Joined: 12/13/2006
Msg: 18
“Every blade of grass has its angel that bends over it and whispers, 'Grow, grow.'”
Posted: 12/24/2006 2:57:56 PM
This is a boy that pats the floor
to see if the world is there, is flat,
for the widowed Jew in the newspaper hat
that dances weeping down the ward
waltzing the length of a weaving board
by the silent sailor
that hears his watch
that ticks the time
of the tedious man
that lies in the house of Bedlam.

These are the years and the walls and the door
that shut on a boy that pats the floor
to feel if the world is there and flat.
This is a Jew in a newspaper hat
that dances joyfully down the ward
into the parting seas of board
past the starting sailor
that shakes his watch
that tells the time
of the poet, the man
that lies in the house of Bedlam.

This is the soldier home from the war.
These are the years and the walls and the door
that shut on a boy that pats the floor
to see if the world is round of flat.
This is a Jew in a newspaper hat
that dances carefully down the ward,
walking the plank of a coffin board
with the crazy sailor
that shows his watch
that tells the time
of the wretched man
that lies in the house of Bedlam.

-- Elizabeth Bishop


The above is the final few stanzas of Visits to St. Elizabeth's ( the rest can be found here: http://www.poets.org/viewmedia.php/prmMID/15210 )

It's about Ezra Pound (if that matters. . . )
 woobytoodsday
Joined: 12/13/2006
Msg: 19
“Every blade of grass has its angel that bends over it and whispers, 'Grow, grow.'”
Posted: 12/27/2006 12:38:58 PM
One Art
by Elizabeth Bishop

The art of losing isn't hard to master;

so many things seem filled with the intent

to be lost that their loss is no disaster.



Lose something every day. Accept the fluster

of lost door keys, the hour badly spent.

The art of losing isn't hard to master.



Then practice losing farther, losing faster:

places, and names, and where it was you meant

to travel. None of these will bring disaster.



I lost my mother's watch. And look! my last, or

next-to-last, of three loved houses went.

The art of losing isn't hard to master.



I lost two cities, lovely ones. And, vaster,

some realms I owned, two rivers, a continent.

I miss them, but it wasn't a disaster.





--Even losing you (the joking voice, a gesture

I love) I shan't have lied. It's evident

the art of losing's not too hard to master

though it may look like (Write it!) like disaster.
 woobytoodsday
Joined: 12/13/2006
Msg: 20
“Every blade of grass has its angel that bends over it and whispers, 'Grow, grow.'”
Posted: 12/28/2006 11:57:23 AM


Everybody Knows That The Dice Are Loaded

Everybody rolls with their fingers crossed
Everybody knows the war is over
And everybody knows the good guys lost
Everybody knows the fight was fixed
The poor stay poor and the rich get rich
That’s how it goes
And everybody knows
Everybody knows that the boat is leaking
Everybody knows the captain lied
Everybody got this broken feeling
That their father or their dog just died
Everybody talkin’ to their pockets
Everybody wants a box of chocolates
And a long stem rose
And everybody knows

( chorus )
Everybody knows, everybody knows
That’s how it goes, and everybody

Everybody knows that you love me baby
Everybody knows that you really do
Everybody knows that you’ve been faithful
Give or take a night or two
Everybody knows that you’ve been discreet
There were so many people you just had to meet
Without your clothes
And everybody knows

Everybody knows that it’s now or never
Everybody knows that it’s me or you
Everybody knows that you live forever
When you’ve done a line or two
And everybody knows that the deal is rotten
Old black joe’s still pickin’ cotton
For your ribbons and bows
And everybody knows

( chorus x2 )

Everybody knows that the plague is comin’
Everybody knows that it’s movin’ fast
Everybody knows that the naked man and woman
Are just a shining artifact of the past
Everybody knows that the scene is dead,
But there’s gonna be a meter on your bed
That will disclose,
What everybody knows

Everybody knows that you’re in trouble
Everybody knows what you’ve been through
From the bloody cross on top of calvary
To the beach at malibu
And everybody knows it’s coming apart
Take one last look at this sacred heart
Before it blows,
And everybody knows

~~Don Henley
 woobytoodsday
Joined: 12/13/2006
Msg: 22
“Every blade of grass has its angel that bends over it and whispers, 'Grow, grow.'”
Posted: 12/28/2006 3:14:23 PM
Oh, heck. I'd thought it was, just did one check, thought, hmmmm, I was wrong, and went with the other. That'll teach me. . . .
 woobytoodsday
Joined: 12/13/2006
Msg: 23
“Every blade of grass has its angel that bends over it and whispers, 'Grow, grow.'”
Posted: 12/28/2006 4:47:57 PM
Pound? .......................................................................
..............................................................
 woobytoodsday
Joined: 12/13/2006
Msg: 24
“Every blade of grass has its angel that bends over it and whispers, 'Grow, grow.'”
Posted: 12/28/2006 5:02:01 PM
So, lol! are you going to voluteer who, and why? Or am I ever to be left unknowing?

This is what I was thinking of when I guessed Pound:

Erat Hora

“Thank You, whatever comes.” And then she turned
And, as the ray of sun on hanging flowers
Fades when the wind hath lifted them aside,
Went swiftly from me. Nay, whatever comes
One hour was sunlit and the most high gods
May not make boast of any better thing
Than to have watched that hour as it passed.

~~ Ezra Pound
 woobytoodsday
Joined: 12/13/2006
Msg: 25
“Every blade of grass has its angel that bends over it and whispers, 'Grow, grow.'”
Posted: 12/29/2006 11:26:19 AM


If I have made, my lady, intricate

If I have made, my lady, intricate
imperfect various things chiefly which wrong
your eyes (frailer than most deep dreams are frail)
songs less firm than your body's whitest song
upon my mind - if I have failed to snare
the glance too shy - if through my singing slips
the very skillful strangeness of your smile
the keen primeval silence of your hair

- let the world say "his most wise music stole
nothing from death" -
you will only create
(who are so perfectly alive) my shame:
lady whose profound and fragile lips
the sweet small clumsy feet of April came

into the ragged meadow of my soul.

-- e. e. cummings


 woobytoodsday
Joined: 12/13/2006
Msg: 26
“Every blade of grass has its angel that bends over it and whispers, 'Grow, grow.'”
Posted: 12/29/2006 11:36:30 AM
A Poet's Advice

A poet is somebody who feels, and who expresses his feelings through words. This may sound easy. It isn't.

A lot of people think or believe or know they feel --- but that's thinking or believing or knowing; not feeling. And poetry is feeling --- not knowing or believing or thinking.

Almost anybody can learn to think or believe or know, but not a single human being can be taught to feel. Why? Because whenever you think or you believe or you know, you're a lot of other people; but the moment you feel, you're nobody-but-yourself.

To be nobody-but-yourself --- in a world which is doing its best, night and day, to make you everybody else --- means to fight the hardest battle which any human being can fight; and never stop fighting.

As for expressing nobody-but-yourself in words, that means working just a little harder than anybody who isn't a poet can possibly imagine. Why? Because nothing is quite as easy as using words like somebody else. We all of us do exactly this nearly all of the time --- and whenever we do it, we are not poets.

If at the end of your first ten or fifteen years of fighting and working and feeling, you find you've written one line of one poem, you'll be very lucky indeed.

And so my advice to all young people who wish to become poets is: do something easy, like learning how to blow up the world --- unless you're not only willing, but glad, to feel and work and fight till you die.

Does this sound dismal? It isn't. It's the most wonderful life on earth.

Or so I feel.

-- e.e. cummings

 woobytoodsday
Joined: 12/13/2006
Msg: 27
“Every blade of grass has its angel that bends over it and whispers, 'Grow, grow.'”
Posted: 12/29/2006 12:13:04 PM
MY LAI CONVERSATION

How old are you, small Vietnamese boy?
Six fingers. Six years.
Why did you carry water to the wounded soldier, now dead?
Your father.
Your father was enemy of free world.
You also now are enemy of free world.
Who told you to carry water to your father?
Your mother!
Your mother is also enemy of free world.
You go into ditch with your mother.
American politician has said,
"It is better to kill you as a boy in the elephant grass of Vietnam
Than to have to kill you as a man in the rye grass in the USA."
You understand.
It is easier to die
Where you know the names of the birds, the trees, and the grass
Than in a stranger country.
You will be number 128 in the body count for today.
High body count will make the Commander-in-Chief of free world much encouraged.
Good-bye, small six-year-old Vietnamese boy, enemy of free world.

~~ Eugene McCarthy
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