 Poetry: December 24, 2008 Issue [#2783] |
  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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And you love me
by Stephen Crane
And you love me
I love you.
You are, then, cold coward.
Aye; but, beloved,
When I strive to come to you,
Man's opinions, a thousand thickets,
My interwoven existence,
My life,
Caught in the stubble of the world
Like a tender veil --
This stays me.
No strange move can I make
Without noise of tearing
I dare not.
If love loves,
There is no world
Nor word.
All is lost
Save thought of love
And place to dream.
You love me?
I love you.
You are, then, cold coward.
Aye; but, beloved --
On November 1, 1871 Reverend Jonathan Townley Crane and his wife Mary Helen Peck Crane welcomed their fourteenth child, Stephen Crane into their family. Stephen was the last child the couple had, four of Stephen’s older siblings all died before their fist birthday. Stephen was a very sick child, always catching colds. His parent worried about his health all the time. At the eight Stephen’s father died leaving his mother to raise him. His mother passed away when he was 20.
In 1885 Stephen enrolled at Pennington Seminary, two years after hi enrollment he transferred to Claverack College, a quasi-military school. Stephen worked the summers with his brother at the New Jersey shore news bureau. Crane published his first stories Hunting Wild Dogs and {i]The Last of the Mohicans in the Tribune in February and July of 1892. Stephen’s poetry was published in two books, The Black Riders and Other Lines published in 1895 and War is Kind, published in May, 1899. His style was unconventional and written in free verse without rhyme or meter.
Stephen’s frail body continued to weaken over the years and by the age of 27 he was on his death bed. He had suffered a severe hemorrhage of the lungs followed by another hemorrhage a couple months later. Stephen spent the last couple of weeks of his life at a health spa, writing the end of his book, The O’Ruddy, published in 1903. Stephen died on June 5, 1900, at the age of 28. His body was returned to New Jersey where he was buried at the Evergreen Cemetery.
Upon the road of my life
by Stephen Crane
Upon the road of my life,
Passed me many fair creatures,
Clothed all in white, and radiant.
To one, finally, I made speech:
"Who art thou?"
But she, like the others,
Kept cowled her face,
And answered in haste, anxiously,
"I am good deed, forsooth;
You have often seen me."
"Not uncowled," I made reply.
And with rash and strong hand,
Though she resisted,
I drew away the veil
And gazed at the features of vanity.
She, shamefaced, went on;
And after I had mused a time,
I said of myself,
"Fool!"
Love walked alone
by Stephen Crane
Love walked alone.
The rocks cut her tender feet,
And the brambles tore her fair limbs.
There came a companion to her,
But, alas, he was no help,
For his name was heart's pain.
Thank you all!
Stormy Lady
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The winner of "Stormy's poetry newsletter & contest" [ASR] is:
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#1500627 by Not Available. |
The green of pine Christmas trees,
glowing lights of red and white,
intertwining popcorn strings
on the top, a bell that rings;
Sweet memories I recall.
“Merry Christmas one and all.”
Glowing lights of red and white,
boughs of berried mistletoe,
stars that twinkle in the night;
These are sights that stir my soul.
“Merry Christmas one and all.”
Intertwining popcorn strings
packages tied up with bows,
hope in nativity scenes,
I remember my first doll.
“Merry Christmas one and all.”
On the top, a bell that rings;
tall church steeples white with snow
“Silent Night” carolers sing,
Jesus born in lowly stall.
“Merry Christmas one and all.”
Copyright © November 30, 2008 by Karen M. Crump
Second Place:
| | | Invalid Item
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#1501260 by Not Available. |
FROZEN TEARS
White clouds, those fluffy gilt-edged popcorn balls,
still fight to dominate the frigid sky.
Day turns to darkness as the sun’s glow falls:
retreats behind a frozen earth, to die.
Gold tinges the red fingers in their brief
reach upward, outward, leaning toward the black
despair that numbs my aching heart with grief.
Oh death! Just take us all. We can’t go back.
The sands of time forever now entomb,
beneath the last note of the funeral bell,
one twin, of two born from my darling’s womb:
bring pain that even death can never quell.
Cold swirls the snow beneath this barren pine:
Green boughs, with roots that now my son enshrine.
Third Place:
| | | Invalid Item
This item number is not valid.
#1506723 by Not Available. |
Evergreen Traditions
Our artificial Christmas tree
Has gotten rather worn --
The trunk leans loosely in its stand;
Crushed plastic looks forlorn --
But sweeping, fluted, trumpet shape
And full, long-needle style
Have pre-lit pines for sale half-price
Outdistanced by a mile.
I wrap the strings of rainbow lights
Three times around each branch.
Eight hundred bulbs shine in the dark --
A starry avalanche.
One five-point star glows at the top;
Another spreads below --
Log cabins stitched in diamond blocks
From prints of red and snow.
She sprinkles in wood ginger-boys,
White paper-cuts in frames,
Two jumbo jingle bells that ring
When kids play peeking games.
Assorted choirs of angels fly
In brass or dressed in reeds,
Fine frosted glass, or corn shuck dyed
And glued with popcorn seeds.
Old satin spheres with ribboned caps,
Pinned sequins, strips of lace,
A feather and un-string of pearls
Add elegance and grace.
Glass balls hang crimson, gold, and blue,
Punched tin makes wreaths of green.
Our tree becomes as beautiful
As any you have seen.
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