  Poetry
This week: Edited by: Stormy Lady  
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| This is poetry from the minds and the hearts of poets on Writing.Com. The poems I am going to be exposing throughout this newsletter are ones that I have found to be, very visual, mood setting and uniquely done. Stormy Lady |
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Submitted By: monty31802
A poet I would like to read about is Phoebe Cary, I remember her poem "The leak in the dike" from school days. A very enjoyable News Letter as always.
I have to admit this is another poet I have not read. Thank you for introducing her to me.
The Leak in the Dike
BY Phoebe Cary
The good dame looked from her cottage
At the close of the pleasant day,
And cheerily called to her little son
Outside the door at play:
"Come, Peter, come! I want you to go,
While there is light to see,
To the hut of the blind old man who lives
Across the dike, for me;
And take these cakes I made for him--
They are hot and smoking yet;
You have time enough to go and come
Before the sun is set."
Then the good wife turned to her labor,
Humming a simple song,
And thought of her husband, working hard
At the sluices all day long;
And set the turf a-blazing,
And brought the coarse, black bread,
That he might find a fire at night,
And see the table spread.
And Peter left the brother
With whom all day he had played,
And the sister who had watched their sports
In the willow's tender shade;
And told them they'd see him back before
They saw a star in sight --
Though he wouldn't be afraid to go
In the very darkest night!
For he was a brave, bright fellow,
With eye and conscience clear;
He could do whatever a boy might do,
And he had not learned to fear.
Why, he wouldn't have robbed a bird's nest,
Nor brought a stork to harm,
Though never a law in Holland
Had stood to stay his arm!
And now, with his face all glowing,
And eyes as bright as the day
With the thoughts of his pleasant errand,
He trudged along the way;
And soon his joyous prattle
Made glad a lonesome place--
Alas! if only the blind old man
Could have seen that happy face!
Yet he somehow caught the brightness
Which his voice and presence lent;
And he felt the sunshine come and go
As Peter came and went.
And now, as the day was singing,
And the winds began to rise,
The mother looked from her door again,
Shading her anxious eyes,
And saw the shadows deepen,
And birds to their homes come back,
But never a sign of Peter
Along the level track.
But she said, "He will come at morning,
So I need not fret or grieve--
Though it isn't like my boy at all
To stay without my leave."
But where was the child delaying?
On the homeward way was he,
And across the dike while the sun was up
An hour above the sea.
He was stooping now to gather flowers;
Now listening to the sound,
As the angry waters dashed themselves
Against their narrow bound.
"Ah! well for us," said Peter,
"That the gates are good and strong,
And my father tends them carefully,
Or they would not hold you long!
You're a wicked sea," said Peter;
"I know why you fret and chafe;
You would like to spoil our lands and homes;
But our sluices keep you safe!"
But hark! through the noise of waters
Comes a low, clear, trickling sound;
And the child's face pales with terror,
As his blossoms drop to the ground.
He is up the bank in a moment,
And, stealing through the sand,
He sees a stream not yet so large
As his slender, childish hand.
'Tis a leak in the dike! He is but a boy,
Unused to fearful scenes;
But, young as he is, he has learned to know
The dreadful thing that means.
A leak in the dike! The stoutest heart
Grows faint that cry to hear,
And the bravest man in all the land
Turns white with mortal fear.
For he knows the smallest leak may grow
To a flood in a single night;
And he knows the strength of the cruel sea
When loosed in its angry might.
And the boy! He has seen the danger,
And, shouting a wild alarm,
He forces back the weight of the sea
With the strength of a single arm!
He listens for the joyful sound
Of a footstep passing nigh;
And lays his ear to the ground, to catch
The answer to his cry,--
And he hears the rough winds blowing,
And the waters rise and fall,
But never an answer comes to him
Save the echo of his call.
He sees no hope, no succor,
His feeble voice is lost;
Yet what shall he do but watch and wait,
Though he perish at his post!
So, faintly calling and crying
Till the sun is under the sea;
Crying and moaning till the stars
Come out for company;
He thinks of his brother and sister,
Asleep in their safe warm bed;
He thinks of his dear father and mother;
Of himself as dying, and dead;
And of how, when the night is over,
They must come and find him at last;
But he never thinks he can leave the place
Where duty holds him fast.
The good dame in the cottage
Is up and astir with the light,
For the thought of her little Peter
Has been with her all the night.
And now she watches the pathway,
As yester-eve she had done;
But what does she see so strange and black
Against the rising sun?
Her neighbors are bearing between them
Something straight to her door;
Her child is coming home, but not
As he ever came before!
"He is dead!" she cries; "my darling!"
And the startled father hears,
And comes and looks the way she looks,
And fears the thing she fears;
Till a glad shout from the bearers
Thrills the stricken man and wife--
"Give thanks, for your son has saved ou land,
And God has saved his life!"
So, there in the morning sunshine
They knelt about the boy;
And every head was bared and bent
In tearful, reverent joy.
'Tis many a year since then; but still,
When the sea roars like a flood,
Their boys are taught what a boy can do
Who is brave and true and good.
For every man in that country
Takes his dear son by the hand,
And tells him of little Peter,
Whose courage saved the land.
They have many a valiant hero,
Remembered through the years;
But never one whose name so oft
Is named with loving tears.
And his deed shall be sung by the cradle,
And told to the child on the knee,
So long as the dikes of Holland
Divide the land from the sea!
Phoebe Cary was born on September 4, 1824 in Cincinnati, Ohio. Phoebe was the sixth child, out of nine children, Robert and Elizabeth Jessup Cary had. Robert and Elizabeth were farmers in Ohio. Phoebe older sister was Alice Cary who was also a poet and the two published many pieces together. Phoebe father often recited poetry for the children as they were growing up and her mother encouraged the sisters to write their own poetry. The girls were taught mostly at home as they were often needed to help with the farm. In 1833 Phoebe lost two of her sisters, Rhoda an older sister and Lucy her baby sister. Just a couple years later, in 1835, Phoebe would lose her mother too. This was hard on Phoebe but not as hard as when her father remarried. Her stepmother would not allow her to write, she thought that it was a complete waste of time. This left Phoebe no choice but to write secretly most of the time late at night after everyone else had gone to bed. Her and her sister Alice started sending in their poetry into newspapers.
In 1838, at the age of 14 Phoebe had her first poem printed in a newspaper. Phoebe and her sister Alice continued writing their poetry for the next ten years and in 1849 their first volume of poetry, Poems of Alice and Phoebe Cary was published. That fallowing year Alice moved to New York to further her writing. Shortly after her move Phoebe and their younger sister Elmina moved to New York to be with their sister. Phoebe poetry appeared many times in the Scriber's Monthly, Galaxy, and Putnam's Monthy. Phoebe was a less prolific writer than her sister Alice. Phoebe works received great reviews and seemed more favorable by the public. In 1854 Poems and Parodies was published. Then in 1868 Poems of Faith, Hope, and Love, was published. She also edited Hymns for All Christians, in 1869. Phoebe also wrote many poems that she contributed to her sister Alice's books.
Phoebe spent her later years caring for Alice who had become very ill and was bedridden. She spent all her time taking care of Alice and no time taking care of herself, her health was starting to show the stress she was under. Alice died February 12, 1871. Phoebe friends were concerned for their friends health and asked Phoebe to move to Newport, Rhode Island in hopes that she could overcome her illness and be well again. Sadly that never happened. Phoebe Cary died five months after her beloved sister on July 31, 1871 and is buried in the Greenwood Cemetery in Brooklyn, New York next to Alice and Elmina.
Ballad of the Canal
By Phoebe Cary
We were crowded in the cabin,
Not a soul had room to sleep;
It was midnight on the waters,
And the banks were very steep.
'Tis a fearful thing when sleeping
To be startled by the shock,
And to hear the rattling trumpet
Thunder, "Coming to a lock!"
So we shuddered there in silence,
For the stoutest berth was shook,
While the wooden gates were opened
And the mate talked with the cook.
And as thus we lay in darkness,
Each one wishing we were there,
"We are through!" the captain shouted,
And he sat upon a chair.
And his little daughter whispered,
Thinking that he ought to know,
"Isn't travelling by canal-boats
Just as safe as it is slow?"
Then he kissed the little maiden,
And with better cheer we spoke,
And we trotted into Pittsburg,
When the morn looked through the smoke.
Burning the Letters
By Phoebe Cary
I said that they were valueless,
I'd rather have them not,
All that since made them precious
Was, or should have been, forgot;
I would do it very willingly,
And not because I ought,
But I did not, somehow, find it
Quite so easy as I thought.
Once was full of pleasant flattery;
I do not think I'm vain,
And yet I paused a moment
To read it once again.
Once repeated dear, old phrases
I had heard a thousand times;
I had read him once some verses,
And another praised my rhymes.
One was just exactly like him,
Such a pretty little note!
One was interspersed with poetry
That lovers always quote.
I don't know why I read them
Unless 'twas just to know,
Since they once had been so precious,
What had ever made them so.
I had told him when we parted
To think no more of me;
And I'm sure he's nothing to me,
Indeed, why should he be?
Yet the flame sunk down to ashes,
And I sat and held them still;
But I said that I would burn them,
And, some other time I will!
Thank you all!
Stormy Lady
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The winner of "Stormy's poetry newsletter & contest" [ASR] is:
Love Letters
After my mother passed away,
it fell to me to sort her things.
Some were easy: pots and pans,
Pictures, candles, her clock that sings,
Her sweatshirts, and clothes
that I wish I could wear,
Her lighthouse collection,
and my old teddybear.
Harder were books- all her favorites :
paging through Thackeray, Frost and Donne,
Rereading favorites
from when I was young
What I knew would be hardest,
I kept until last—
Her ‘treasure chest’ full
of her memories past.
In fact, I brought it home ‘for later,’
until the grief of her passing had fled
And there it sat for months all alone
at the foot of the guestroom's canopied bed.
Until one morning several months later,
a misty morning when lilacs bloomed,
for some reason I simply couldn’t fathom
I knew it was time to go to that room.
I had no idea what was in the trunk
more of Mom’s stuff she’d kept many a year--
So I settled in with bags and boxes,
Coffee and tissues to catch that tear
Or two I knew would fall. I opened
Her memory box and was hit with her scent.
She felt so there, so alive, so close
I sat there stunned, no clue what it meant.
A breeze came in and across that chest--
Youthdew perfume wafted through the air
I really saw her, heard her laugh
truly it was as if she were there!
I sorted through pictures I’d made as a child,
Report cards, ribbons, a pressed butterfly,
Her nursing cap, a set of keys,
a picture drawn of a kite way up high.
My dad’s goggles and leather flying helmet
Black and white photo of me as a kid—
Playing dress-up in his navy gear:
I turned back the years and saw all that I did.
Poems I’d written and sealed with a kiss
For Christmas and Valentines, birthdays too
Toothfairy teeth, beribboned curls,
Doily heart, a small bronze shoe.
Pictures of boyfriends she’d had before Dad,
My great grandmother’s christening gown,
My birth announcement in Redbook featured,
Newspaper clipping when her house burned down.
Overwhelmed by images, sent back in time
I leaned against the canopied bed
And simply let my mind’s eye wander
Remembering all the things she’d done and said.
The last few weeks she’d seemed so far,
A distance I could not traverse or travel
She felt so close to me today,
And in that closeness I began to unravel.
Down at the bottom of the trunk
Wrapped in linen, tied with twine
I found a packet of handwritten letters
And the name on all of them was mine!
Letters she’d written before I was born,
Her hopes and wishes as to what I would be,
One written on Mother’s Day, ‘54
The day I officially became me.
One when I was teething,
One when I was terribly two
one when I told a ridiculous lie
another one when I was sick with the flu.
Each letter showed me her boundless love,
As she shared those moments from beyond time
Knowing that down the road I’d read them--
She wrote knowing someday they’d be mine.
Some years she wrote ten or twelve letters
And other years perhaps one or three,
As I grew older she wrote of my writing,
The world through her eyes I might see.
She shared her sorrows when my father passed,
She shared her joys as grandchildren came,
She wrote of weddings, baptisms and deaths,
Of carrying on, forgetting blame.
The very last letter was written the day
Before she died, saying she missed my dad….
Telling me she’d be with him soon in heaven,
The doctors wouldn’t say how long she had,
At last we kids all were settled;
she was tired and ready to go.
Remember I love you, I’ll be in your heart
She told me this would always be so.
She packed away that very last letter
Deep in the chest for me to find.
I sat there smiling through my tears…
‘I love you, Quit crying!’
Was how it was signed.
Honorable mention:
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These are the rules:
1)You must use the words I give in a poem.
2)They can be in any order and anywhere throughout the poem.
3)All entries must be posted in your portfolio and you must post the link in this forum "Stormy's poetry newsletter & contest" [ASR] by March 9, 2007.
4)The winner will get 3000 gift points and the poem will be displayed in this section of the newsletter the next time it is my turn to post. (March 14, 2007)
The words are:
green dove charm tree rolling white cotton flowers
 Good luck to all
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| |  | Acts of Love (E)
Reaching out to the world shows that you love - yourself, me, and everyone.
#1215710 by Kenzie  |
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Make a mistake your replies double, LOL. I am sorry for the date mix up on my January 17, Newsletter.
Stormy Lady
Submitted By: Dejaa 
Good Morning Storm,
If you are going to be doing the Newsleter Feburary 14, 2005 , Do you really want to use Feb. 19, 2005, as your dates?
Great selection on the winner!
God Bless
Dejaa
Submitted By: Bella Bunny
Hello Stormy --
I am a bit confused about the contest you have posted in the Poetry Newsletter. The contest deadline is AFTER the date when you say you will print the entries in the next Newsletter, besides the fact that the year listed is 2005! Freudian slip or re-using old contest rules or "OMG, How did THAT happen??" LOL! Whatever the reason, I would love to enter, but just want to know by when.
Thanks!
"Bella Bunny"
It was a hurry up, cut and past mistake I should have noticed but didn't. I am sorry.
Thank you all,
Stormy Lady
Submitted By: SaxonLass
Stormy,
Great newsletter as usual, but can I put in a request about Viggo Mortensen's poetry please? He is the ultimate Renaissance man.
Many thanks,
Saxonlass
I will have to look into Viggo Mortensen, I have never read any of his poetry before.
Thank you,
Stormy Lady
Submitted By: Tigger thinks of Prancer
Well, thank you very much, Stormy! I really appreciate the link to my poem. Sure was a surprise!
About your newsletter - what does this poet mean to you? She must be very important to you for you to have dedicated a newsletter to her.
I had read several of her poems a few years back and wanted to get to know who she was and see how her life might have influenced her poetry.
Thank you,
Stormy Lady
Submitted By: Vivian 
Thanks, Stormy Rene, for highlighting my new poem, "Seasons under the Sun." That will be the title poem in a new book.
Good luck with the book.
Stormy Lady |
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Poetry: February 14, 2007 Issue [#1543]
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