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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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A Barefoot Boy
by James Whitcomb Riley
A barefoot boy! I mark him at his play --
For May is here once more, and so is he, --
His dusty trousers, rolled half to the knee,
And his bare ankles grimy, too, as they:
Cross-hatchings of the nettle, in array
Of feverish stripes, hint vividly to me
Of woody pathways winding endlessly
Along the creek, where even yesterday
He plunged his shrinking body -- gasped and shook --
Yet called the water "warm," with never lack
Of joy. And so, half enviously I look
Upon this graceless barefoot and his track, --
His toe stubbed -- ay, his big toe-nail knocked back
Like unto the clasp of an old pocketbook.
The Old Swimmin'-Hole
by James Whitcomb Riley
OH! the old swimmin'-hole! whare the crick so still and deep
Looked like a baby-river that was laying half asleep,
And the gurgle of the worter round the drift jest below
Sounded like the laugh of something we onc't ust to know
Before we could remember anything but the eyes
Of the angels lookin' out as we left Paradise;
But the merry days of youth is beyond our controle,
And it's hard to part ferever with the old swimmin'-hole.
Oh! the old swimmin'-hole! In the happy days of yore,
When I ust to lean above it on the old sickamore,
Oh! it showed me a face in its warm sunny tide
That gazed back at me so gay and glorified,
It made me love myself, as I leaped to caress
My shadder smilin' up at me with sich tenderness.
But them days is past and gone, and old Time's tuck his toll
From the old man come back to the old swimmin'-hole.
Oh! the old swimmin'-hole! In the long, lazy days
When the humdrum of school made so many run-a-ways,
How plesant was the jurney down the old dusty lane,
Whare the tracks of our bare feet was all printed so plane
You could tell by the dent of the heel and the sole
They was lots o' fun on hands at the old swimmin'-hole.
But the lost joys is past! Let your tears in sorrow roll
Like the rain that ust to dapple up the old swimmin'-hole.
Thare the bullrushes growed, and the cattails so tall,
And the sunshine and shadder fell over it all;
And it mottled the worter with amber and gold
Tel the glad lilies rocked in the ripples that rolled;
And the snake-feeder's four gauzy wings fluttered by
Like the ghost of a daisy dropped out of the sky,
Or a wownded apple-blossom in the breeze's controle
As it cut acrost some orchard to'rds the old swimmin'-hole.
Oh! the old swimmin'-hole! When I last saw the place,
The scenes was all changed, like the change in my face;
The bridge of the railroad now crosses the spot
Whare the old divin'-log lays sunk and fergot.
And I stray down the banks whare the trees ust to be--
But never again will theyr shade shelter me!
And I wish in my sorrow I could strip to the soul,
And dive off in my grave like the old swimmin'-hole.
On October 7, 1849, James Whitcomb Riley was born in Greenfield, Indiana. He was the second son and the third of six children in his family. Riley's father, Reuben Riley was a civil war veteran, a politician and lawyer, Riley's mother Elizabeth was a homemaker, a poet and a story teller. Riley had a hard time in school and struggled academically. His father wanted him to fallow in his footsteps and become a lawyer, but Riley would not have any part of it and quit school by the age of sixteen. His first job was painting signs and houses. Like many other poets Riley's childhood greatly influenced his poetry. He wrote about spending his days swimming and fishing at the water hole. Also about a hired hand and an orphan girl who both worked on the family's farm.
Riley's first poems were written under a pen name, "Benjamin F. Johnson of Boone," and published in local newspapers. In 1878, Riley moved to Indianapolis and was hired by the Indianapolis Journal. He worked there until his first collection of poems, "The Old Swimmin' Hole and "Leven More poems," was published in 1883. Shortly after his book was published he began touring with other poets and authors, like Mark Twain and Bill Mye. He often wrote in his own dialect, which was appealing to many people because of his common use of words and his cheerful sense of humor. Riley never married and though he loved children, he never had any of his own. In 1890, "Rhymes of Childhood" was published, fallowed by, "Poems Here at Home" in 1893. Riley was invited to be a paying house guest of Major and Mrs. Charles Holstein and spent the last 23 years of his life there. In 1912 he published, "Knee Deep in June." Riley became the wealthiest writer of his time with of his poems being reaching international appeal. Riley was known as America's "Children's Poet."
On July 22, 1916, James Whitcomb Riley died of a stroke. He was buried in Crown Hill Cemetery in Indianapolis. His grave can be found at the top of Strawberry Hill. President Woodrow Wilson sent Riley's family a personal note after hearing about the poets death. In 1999 on what would have been Riley's 150th Birthday, Indiana's governor Frank O'Bannon proclaimed October 7, 1999, "James Whitcomb Riley Day." Indianapolis named a hospital after him, Riley Hospital for Children. His hometown of Greenfield put a statue of Riley outside the court house and named one of their parks on the east side after the poem "The Old Swimming Hole." The town also hosts the "James Whitcomb Riley Festival," very year.
A Summer Afternoon
by James Whitcomb Riley
A languid atmosphere, a lazy breeze,
With labored respiration, moves the wheat
From distant reaches, till the golden seas
Break in crisp whispers at my feet.
My book, neglected of an idle mind,
Hides for a moment from the eyes of men;
Or lightly opened by a critic wind,
Affrightedly reviews itself again.
Off through the haze that dances in the shine
The warm sun showers in the open glade,
The forest lies, a silhouette design
Dimmed through and through with shade.
A dreamy day; and tranquilly I lie
At anchor from all storms of mental strain;
With absent vision, gazing at the sky,
"Like one that hears it rain."
The Katydid, so boisterous last night,
Clinging, inverted, in uneasy poise,
Beneath a wheat-blade, has forgotten quite
If "Katy DID or DIDN'T" make a noise.
The twitter, sometimes, of a wayward bird
That checks the song abruptly at the sound,
And mildly, chiding echoes that have stirred,
Sink into silence, all the more profound.
And drowsily I hear the plaintive strain
Of some poor dove . . . Why, I can scarcely keep
My heavy eyelids--there it is again--
"Coo-coo!"--I mustn't--"Coo-coo!"--fall asleep!
The Old Times Were the Best
by James Whitcomb Riley
Friends, my heart is half aweary
Of its happiness to-night:
Though your songs are gay and cheery,
And your spirits feather-light,
There's a ghostly music haunting
Still the heart of every guest
And a voiceless chorus chanting
That the Old Times were the best.
CHORUS
All about is bright and pleasant
With the sound of song and jest,
Yet a feeling's ever present
That the Old Times were the best.
The Song of Yesterday
by James Whitcomb Riley
I
But yesterday
I looked away
O'er happy lands, where sunshine lay
In golden blots,
Inlaid with spots
Of shade and wild forget-me-nots.
My head was fair
With flaxen hair,
And fragrant breezes, faint and rare,
And, warm with drouth
From out the south,
Blew all my curls across my mouth.
And, cool and sweet,
My naked feet
Found dewy pathways through the wheat;
And out again
Where, down the lane,
The dust was dimpled with the rain.
II
But yesterday! --
Adream, astray,
From morning's red to evening's dray,
O'er dales and hills
Of daffodils
And lorn sweet-fluting whippoorwills.
I knew nor cares
Nor tears nor prayers --
A mortal god, crowned unawares
With sunset -- and
A scepter-wand
Of apple-blossoms in my hand!
The dewy blue
Of twilight grew
To purple, with a star or two
Whose lisping rays
Failed in the blaze
Of sudden fireflies through the haze.
III
But yesterday
I heard the lay
Of summer birds, when I, as they
With breast and wing,
All quivering
With life and love, could only sing.
My head was leant
Where, with it, blent
A maiden's, o'er her instrument;
While all the night,
From vale to height,
Was filled with echoes of delight.
And all our dreams
Were lit with gleams
Of that lost land of reedy streams,
Along whose brim
Forever swim
Pan's lilies, laughing up at him.
IV
But yesterday! . . .
O blooms of May,
And summer roses -- where away?
O stars above;
And lips of love,
And all the honeyed sweets thereof! --
O lad and lass,
And orchard pass,
And briered lane, and daisied grass!
O gleam and gloom,
And woodland bloom,
And breezy breaths of all perfume! --
No more for me
Or mine shall be
Thy raptures -- save in memory, --
No more -- no more --
Till through the Door
Of Glory gleam the days of yore.
Thank you all!
Stormy Lady
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The winner of "Stormy's poetry newsletter & contest" [ASR] is:
A SUMMER PAST
The afternoon hours brought more intense humidity
as the family gathered at the pool, all so eager to try
to survive the summer heat, a quick change to swimsuits
and looking forward to splashing in the water, sure to defy
any heatstroke, or headache or just feeling wiped out;
the sun's rays were too hot, of that there was no doubt.
The water was warm, a delight to sunburned senses,
and I swam the entire length with swift sure strokes.
It was good to be home and back with the family
listening to the music and just chatting with the folks.
No heatstroke, or headache, or just feeling wiped out,
the sun's rays were too hot, of that there was no doubt.
One of the hardier souls had started cooking hotdogs
while the girls brought out salads and cranberry wine.
Out of the pool came the last of the good swimmers,
all refreshed and ready to finally sit down and dine.
No heatstroke, or headache, or just feeling wiped out,
the sun's rays were too hot, of that there was no doubt.
The afternoon wore on in time with background music
and I made a promise to a youngster's shy advance
that once I had finished a bit of wine and relaxing
I would honor the lad with the favor of a slow dance.
No heatstroke, or headache, or just feeling wiped out,
the sun's rays were too hot, of that there was no doubt.
It's one of the memories of a seventy-year old heart,
a summer past that brought us all close together.
It's one of the best times that I've had in my lifetime,
one that I hope I will remember ever so fondly - forever.
No heatstroke, or headache, or just feeling wiped out,
the sun's rays were too hot, of that there was no doubt.
Countrymom
5/11/07
Honorable mention:
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Poetry: June 06, 2007 Issue [#1755]
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