  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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Crossed Threads
by Helen Hunt Jackson
The silken threads by viewless spinners spun,
Which float so idly on the summer air,
And help to make each summer morning fair,
Shining like silver in the summer sun,
Are caught by wayward breezes, one by one,
Are blown to east and west and fastened there,
Weaving on all the roads their sudden snare.
No sign which road doth safest, freest run,
The wingèd insects know, that soar so gay
To meet their death upon each summer day.
How dare we any human deed arraign;
Attempt to recon any moment's cost;
Or any pathway trust as safe and plain
Because we see not where the threads have crossed?
Nathan Welby Fiske and Deborah Waterman Vinal welcomed daughter Helen Maria Fiske into their family on October 18, 1830. Helen and her family lived in Amherst, Massachusetts. Helen had two brothers that died after birth and one sister, Anne. Her father was a minister and a professor at Amherst College. Helen’s mother, Deborah died 1844 of tuberculosis. Three years after her mothers death her father fell ill and died in 1847. Before his death he made arrangements for Helen to live with her aunt and for her education to be taken care of. As a child Helen formed a friendship with Emily Dickenson that lasted throughout her life.
At the age of 21 Helen Fiske married, United States Army Captain Edward Bissell Hunt. The couple had two boys Murray and Rennie. Murray died in 1854. Her husband Edward was killed in a military accident in 1863. Shortly after his death she lost her other son, Rennie. It was after these tragic times she really began to write. Her anonymous work Verses was published in 1870 followed by Mercy Philbrick's Choice in 1876. Her writing took off, but her health was starting to fail. She moved to Colorado Springs, Colorado. There she met William Jackson. They married in 1875.
In 1879, Helen took a trip back east to Boston to hear a lecture given by Ponca Chief Standing Bear. Ponca told of the treatment of American Indians in Nebraska. This infuriated Helen and she became an activist. Helen began researching everything she could about it and once well informed she started to write. A Century of Dishonor, was published in 1881. Helen sent this book to every member in congress with a message on it. "Look upon your hands: they are stained with the blood of your relations." The book made no difference to congress. Angry but not discouraged Helen continued to fight with her words; she wrote a fifty-six page report demanding more lands for reservations and for schools for the Indians. Her next novel Ramona published in November 1884 and was met with great success.
For the last ten years of her life Helen was determined to have her writing be the voice of the American Indians and had planned to write a children’s book. She worked up until the day she died trying to change things. She was in San Francisco, California examining the conditions of the California Indians, for the government when she passed away. Helen Hunt Jackson died August 12, 1885.
October's Bright Blue Weather
by Helen Hunt Jackson
O suns and skies and clouds of June,
And flowers of June together,
Ye cannot rival for one hour
October's bright blue weather;
When loud the bumblebee makes haste,
Belated, thriftless vagrant,
And goldenrod is dying fast,
And lanes with grapes are fragrant;
When gentians roll their fingers tight
To save them for the morning,
And chestnuts fall from satin burrs
Without a sound of warning;
When on the ground red apples lie
In piles like jewels shining,
And redder still on old stone walls
Are leaves of woodbine twining;
When all the lovely wayside things
Their white-winged seeds are sowing,
And in the fields still green and fair,
Late aftermaths are growing;
When springs run low, and on the brooks,
In idle golden freighting,
Bright leaves sink noiseless in the hush
Of woods, for winter waiting;
When comrades seek sweet country haunts,
By twos and twos together,
And count like misers, hour by hour,
October's bright blue weather.
O sun and skies and flowers of June,
Count all your boasts together,
Love loveth best of all the year
October's bright blue weather.
The Poet's Forge
by Helen Hunt Jackson
He lies on his back, the idling smith,
A lazy, dreaming fellow is he;
The sky is blue, or the sky is gray,
He lies on his back the livelong day,
Not a tool in sight, say what they may,
A curious sort of smith is he.
The powers of the air are in league with him;
The country around believes it well;
The wondering folk draw spying near;
Never sight nor sound do they see or hear;
No wonder they feel a little fear;
When is it his work is done so well?
Never sight nor sound to see or hear;
The powers of the air are in league with him;
High over his head his metals swing,
Fine gold and silver to shame the king;
We might distinguish their glittering,
If once we could get in league with him.
High over his head his metals swing;
He hammers them idly year by year,
Hammers and chuckles a low refrain:
"A bench and a book are a ball and a chain,
The adze is a better tool than the plane;
What's the odds between now and next year?"
Hammers and chuckles his low refrain,
A lazy, dreaming fellow is he:
When sudden, some day, his bells peal out,
And men, at the sound, for gladness shout;
He laughs and asks what it's all about;
Oh, a curious sort of smith is he.
Thank you all!
Stormy Lady
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The winners of "Stormy's poetry newsletter & contest" [ASR] are:
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Anticipation captivates my heart,
Its tender breeze becomes a hardened wind.
The roar of innocence is blown apart
To fragments hushed that will not sound again.
The charms of youth disperse into the crowd
And vanish amid strangers' glassy stares.
The lights are dim, the hum is getting loud,
As youthful tunes transform to fervent prayers.
The skipping slows into a measured gait -
From promising green pastures growing wild
To grey cement that's cracked from weary weight
That, thoughtless, made the trek unreconciled.
We see when autumn leaves give way to frost
That ev'ry journey's taken at a cost.
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The lights go out, and only stars remain.
We crowd together on the frosty grass.
Onstage the band I danced to as a lass
Strives for the glories of their past in vain.
Anticipation's hush stills band and crowd
As far away the ball begins to fall.
An icy breeze of "maybe" chills us all,
And someone somewhere starts to count aloud.
A roar erupts from all the gathered throng
As New Year's Day arrives, and we pretend
Those "maybes" vanished with the old year's end,
As the band begins to play its old sweet song.
Honorable mention:
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Poetry: October 01, 2008 Issue [#2633]
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