Poetry Friday: Water

Water has been much on my mind the last few days. My sister lives in Oklahoma City, where more than 370,000 people were without power (I think over 200,000 still are) due to a massive, crippling ice storm. My sister was one of those without power for a while, though thankfully her household once again has electricity. 

Last night in our area, due to a damaged water main, we were without water. Today, we have running water (insert: renewed gratitude for flushing toilets!) but are being advised to boil water for consumption, food prep, and dishes for the coming days. 2020 is the gift that just keeps on giving, isn't it? 

Still, there is so much to be grateful for and that's what we're trying to focus on. Poetry Friday is one of those things. Emerson's poem covers it all: water as friend, foe, and everything in between. I hadn't read this one before but it seemed to cover all of this week's bases. 

Water 

by Ralph Waldo Emerson 

The water understands 

Civilization well; 

It wets my foot, but prettily, 

It chills my life, but wittily, 

It is not disconcerted, 

It is not broken-hearted: 

Well used, it decketh joy, 

Adorneth, doubleth joy: 

Ill used, it will destroy, 

In perfect time and measure 

With a face of golden pleasure 

Elegantly destroy.

~~~~~~~~~~

The lovely Linda Baie at TeacherDance has the round-up today. 

Poetry Friday: Looking at the Sky by Anne Porter

Anne Porter helps me redeem time. 

Time, of late, has been zooming past me at a frightening speed ("It's mid-October? What?! It's Friday again? Already? No!") We're still living in the midst of a pandemic and I'm still staying home most of the time, but there's so much to do at home when you work from home. 

But at my back I always hear

Time’s wingèd chariot hurrying near .... 

And yet. 

Anne Porter, who lived to be 100 years old, offers respite. 

Her life was busy, too (from The Poetry Foundation): 

Married to the painter Fairfield Porter, she raised five children in a busy, artistic household, frequently forced to pursue writing on the side. When her husband died in 1975, she began to write poetry much more seriously. As she told the Wall Street Journal: “I remember realizing that I was alone, and I'd have to be more organized. I had these poems, and I thought that it would be worthwhile working on them. I started to write.” Her first collection, An Altogether Different Language (1994), published when she was 83, was named a finalist for the National Book Award. 

Her first collection of poetry was published when she was 83. So, maybe I have a few years left, too. 

Time. It seems I never have enough time. And yet, perhaps, I do have time enough.  

Looking at the Sky 

by Anne Porter 

I never will have time 

I never will have time enough 

To say 

How beautiful it is 

The way the moon 

Floats in the air 

As easily 

And lightly as a bird

....

(Read the rest here.) 

~~~~~~~~~~

Janice Scully is hosting the Poetry Friday round-up this week at Salt City Verse. 

Poetry Friday: It's time for "The Writer"

Next week is the anniversary of the death of poet extraordinaire, Richard Wilbur. I miss him. I've shared his poem "The Writer" (one of my all-time-I-will-never-stop-loving-this-poem favorites) more times than I can remember (and you can find all of my Richard Wilbur posts here) but it's time to share it again. (If it's been more than ten minutes, it's time.) 

The Writer

by Richard Wilbur

In her room at the prow of the house

Where light breaks, and the windows are tossed with linden,

My daughter is writing a story.

I pause in the stairwell, hearing

From her shut door a commotion of typewriter-keys

Like a chain hauled over a gunwale.

Young as she is, the stuff

Of her life is a great cargo, and some of it heavy:

....

Read the whole poem here, at Poets.org, or do yourself a genuine favor and listen to Wilbur read it here, at The Internet Poetry Archive.

~~~~~

The Poetry Friday round up today is at Wee Words for Wee Ones. Thanks for hosting, Bridget!