Poem Identitfication Part 2

Millions of snowflakes out of a windless cloud;

They covered her close with a beautiful crystal shroud,

Covered her deep and silent.

But in the frost of the dawn,

Up from the life below,

Rose a column of breath

Through a tiny cleft in the snow,

Fragile, delicately drawn,

Wavering with its own weakness,

In the wilderness a sign of the spirit,

Persisting still in the sight of the sun

Till day was done.

Then all light was gathered up by the hand of God and hid in His breast,

Then there was born a silence deeper than silence,

Then she had rest.

The Forsaken by Duncan Campbell Scott

Behind her the round

Of a lonely island

Roared like a fire

With the voice of the storm

In the deeps of the cedars.

Valiant, unshaken,

She took of her own flesh,

Baited the fish-hook,

Drew in a gray-trout,

Drew in his fellows,

Heaped them beside her,

Dead in the snow.

The Foresaken by Duncan Campbell Scott

How such a glance came there; so, not the first

Are you to turn and ask thus. Sir, ’twas not

Her husband’s presence only, called that spot

Of joy into the Duchess’ cheek; perhaps

Fra Pandolf chanced to say, “Her mantle laps

Over my lady’s wrist too much,” or “Paint

Must never hope to reproduce the faint

Half-flush that dies along her throat.” Such stuff

Was courtesy, she thought, and cause enough

For calling up that spot of joy. She had

A heart—how shall I say?— too soon made glad,

Too easily impressed; she liked whate’er

She looked on, and her looks went everywhere.

My Last Duchess by Robert Browning

As if alive. Will’t please you rise? We’ll meet

The company below, then. I repeat,

The Count your master’s known munificence

Is ample warrant that no just pretense

Of mine for dowry will be disallowed;

Though his fair daughter’s self, as I avowed

At starting, is my object. Nay, we’ll go

Together down, sir. Notice Neptune, though,

Taming a sea-horse, thought a rarity,

Which Claus of Innsbruck cast in bronze for me!

My Last Duchess by Robert Browning

the queer

old balloonman whistles

far      and         wee

and bettyandisbel come dancing

from hop-scotch and jump-rope and

it's

spring

In Just- Spring by E.E. Cummings

luscious the little

lame balloonman

whistles      far      and wee

and eddieandbill come

running from marbles and

piracies and it's

spring

In Just- Spring by E.E. Cummings

I'm Nobody! Who are you?

Are you - Nobody - too?

Then there's a pair of us!

Dont tell! they'd banish us - you know!

I’m Nobody! Who are You? by Emily Dickinson

How dreary - to be - Somebody!

How public - like a Frog -

To tell your name - the livelong June -

To an admiring Bog!

I’m Nobody! Who are You? by Emily Dickinson

I willed my Keepsakes - Signed away

What portion of me be

Assignable - and then it was

There interposed a Fly -

With Blue - uncertain - stumbling Buzz -

Between the light - and me -

And then the Windows failed - and then

I could not see to see -

I heard a Fly buzz - when I died by Emily Dickinson

The Stillness in the Room

Was like the Stillness in the Air -

Between the Heaves of Storm -

The Eyes around - had wrung them dry -

And Breaths were gathering firm

For that last Onset - when the King

Be witnessed - in the Room -

I heard a Fly buzz - when I died by Emily Dickinson

Yet they had liberty!

Their kingdom was the sky:

They batted clouds with easy hand,

Found a mountain for their stand:

From wandering lonely they could catch

The inner magic of a heath-

A lake their palette, any tree

Their bush could be.

The Three Emilys by Dorothy Livesay

And still they cry to me

As in reproach

I, born to hear their inner storm

Of separate man in woman’s form,

I yet possess another kingdom, barred

I move as mother in a frame,

My arteries

Flow the immemorial way

Towards the child, the man;

And only for brief span

 

Am I an Emily on mountain snows

And one of these.

The Three Emilys by Dorothy Livesay

you fit into me

like a hook into an eye

a fish hook

an open eye

you fit into me by Margaret Atwood

Then there's the two

of us. This word

is far too short for us, it has only

four letters, too sparse

to fill those deep bare

vacuums between the stars

that press on us with their deafness.

It's not love we don't wish

to fall into, but that fear.

Variations on The Word Love by Margaret Atwood

This is a word we use to plug

holes with. It's the right size for those warm

blanks in speech, for those red heart-

shaped vacancies on the page that look nothing

like real hearts. Add lace

and you can sell

it. We insert it also in the one empty

space on the printed form

that comes with no instructions. There are whole

magazines with not much in them

but the word love, you can

rub it all over your body and you

can cook with it too.

Variations on The Word Love by Margaret Atwood

It ate the food it ne'er had eat,

And round and round it flew.

The ice did split with a thunder-fit;

The helmsman steered us through!

And a good south wind sprung up behind;

The Albatross did follow,

And every day, for food or play,

Came to the mariner's hollo!

In mist or cloud, on mast or shroud,

It perched for vespers nine;

Whiles all the night, through fog-smoke white,

Glimmered the white Moon-shine.'

The Rhyme of the Ancient Mariner by Samuel Taylor Coleridge

The very deep did rot: O Christ!

That ever this should be!

Yea, slimy things did crawl with legs

Upon the slimy sea.

About, about, in reel and rout

The death-fires danced at night;

The water, like a witch's oils,

Burnt green, and blue and white.

And some in dreams assurèd were

Of the Spirit that plagued us so;

Nine fathom deep he had followed us

From the land of mist and snow.

The Rhyme of the Ancient Mariner by Samuel Taylor Coleridge

Are those her ribs through which the Sun

Did peer, as through a grate?

And is that Woman all her crew?

Is that a DEATH? and are there two?

Is DEATH that woman's mate?

Her lips were red, her looks were free,

Her locks were yellow as gold:

Her skin was as white as leprosy,

The Night-mare LIFE-IN-DEATH was she,

Who thicks man's blood with cold.

The naked hulk alongside came,

And the twain were casting dice;

'The game is done! I've won! I've won!'

Quoth she, and whistles thrice.

The Rhyme of the Ancient Mariner by Samuel Taylor Coleridge

I looked to heaven, and tried to pray;

But or ever a prayer had gusht,

A wicked whisper came, and made

My heart as dry as dust.

I closed my lids, and kept them close,

And the balls like pulses beat;

For the sky and the sea, and the sea and the sky

Lay dead like a load on my weary eye,

And the dead were at my feet.

The cold sweat melted from their limbs,

Nor rot nor reek did they:

The look with which they looked on me

Had never passed away.

The Rhyme of the Ancient Mariner by Samuel Taylor Coleridge

Under the keel nine fathom deep,

From the land of mist and snow,

The spirit slid: and it was he

That made the ship to go.

The sails at noon left off their tune,

And the ship stood still also.

The Sun, right up above the mast,

Had fixed her to the ocean:

But in a minute she 'gan stir,

With a short uneasy motion—

Backwards and forwards half her length

With a short uneasy motion.

Then like a pawing horse let go,

She made a sudden bound:

It flung the blood into my head,

And I fell down in a swound.

The Rhyme of the Ancient Mariner by Samuel Taylor Coleridge

First Voice

'But why drives on that ship so fast,

Without or wave or wind?'

Second Voice

'The air is cut away before,

And closes from behind.

Fly, brother, fly! more high, more high!

Or we shall be belated:

For slow and slow that ship will go,

When the Mariner's trance is abated.'

I woke, and we were sailing on

As in a gentle weather:

'Twas night, calm night, the moon was high;

The dead men stood together.

The Rhyme of the Ancient Mariner by Samuel Taylor Coleridge

Those crimson shadows were:

I turned my eyes upon the deck—

Oh, Christ! what saw I there!

Each corse lay flat, lifeless and flat,

And, by the holy rood!

A man all light, a seraph-man,

On every corse there stood.

This seraph-band, each waved his hand:

It was a heavenly sight!

They stood as signals to the land,

Each one a lovely light;

The Rhyme of the Ancient Mariner by Samuel Taylor Coleridge

O sweeter than the marriage-feast,

'Tis sweeter far to me,

To walk together to the kirk

With a goodly company!—

To walk together to the kirk,

And all together pray,

While each to his great Father bends,

Old men, and babes, and loving friends

And youths and maidens gay!

Farewell, farewell! but this I tell

To thee, thou Wedding-Guest!

He prayeth well, who loveth well

Both man and bird and beast.

The Rhyme of the Ancient Mariner by Samuel Taylor Coleridge

A country of quiescence and still distance

a lean land

              not like the fat south

with inches of black soil on

              earth’s round belly –

And where the farms are

              it’s as if a man stuck

both thumbs in the stony earth and pulled

                                    it apart

                                    to make room

enough between the trees

for a wife

              and maybe some cows and

              room for some

of the more easily kept illusions –

And where the farms have gone back

to forest

The Country North of Bellville by Al Purdy

And this is a country where the young

                                    leave quickly

unwilling to know what their fathers knew

or think the words their mothers do not say –

Herschel Monteagle and Faraday

lakeland rockland and hill country

a little adjacent to where the world is

a little north of where the cities are and

sometime

we may go back there

                                    to the country of our defeat

Wollaston Elzevir and Dungannon

and Weslemkoon lake land

where the high townships of Cashel

                                    McClure and Marmora

The Country of Northern Bellville by Al Purdy

There is also (though this is more rare)
Bob Smith’s story about the man in the bar up north,
a man in his 50s, taking a poem from a new book Bob showed him
around from table to table, reading it aloud
to each group of drinkers because, he kept saying,
the poem was about work he did, what he knew about,
written by somebody like himself.

What Poems Are Good For by Tom Wayman

Out of all that is said, these particular words
put down roots in someone’s mind
so that he or she like to have them here—
these words no one was paid to write
that live with us for a while
in a small container
on the ledge where the light enters

What Good Poems Are For by Tom Wayman