Poetry Friday: “A Light Exists in Spring” by Emily Dickinson

Nothing new to report here, other than this: I love springtime. 

So, I think, did dear Emily, in her beautiful, melancholy way: 

A Light exists in Spring

by Emily Dickinson

A Light exists in Spring
Not present on the Year
At any other period-
When March is scarcely here

A Color stands abroad
On Solitary Fields
That Science cannot overtake
But Human Nature feels.

It waits upon the Lawn,
It shows the furthest Tree
Upon the furthest Slope you know
It almost speaks to you.

Then as Horizons step
Or Noons report away
Without the Formula of sound
It passes and we stay-

A quality of loss
Affecting our Content
As Trade had suddenly encroached
Upon a Sacrament.

~~~~~~~~~~

Rose Cappelli is hosting the Poetry Friday round-up today. Thank you, Rose! 

Photo courtesy of Pixabay.

Poetry Friday: “Impressions” — An Ekphrastic

Last month, Tanita Davis shared the latest challenge from the Poetry Pals: 

Here’s the scoop: we’re writing ekphrastic poems, which might pair beautifully with your plans for National Poetry Month (I’m attempting poetry comics). Ekphrasis is a Greek word which means “description,” and you’re invited to choose your own image from anywhere – personal pictures or otherwise. Are you in? Good! You’ll have the month to craft your creation and share it April 24th in a blog post and/or on social media with the tag #PoetryPals. We hope you’ll play along!

Oooh, I love an ekphrastic. Even so, I put this assignment off until this week because … well, because that’s how I roll. Image choice was WIDE open, so I had trouble narrowing it down. Then yesterday, out of the blue, this one — A Sunday Afternoon on the Island of La Grande Jatte by Georges Seurat — came to mind. 

I realized I’ve never thought much about the people depicted in this painting. I’ve assumed they're an ordinary assortment of urbanites enjoying a day by the water. It turns out there's other speculation about them too. I found several commentaries that remarked on this idea: 

There has been scholarly debate as to why Seurat included certain motifs in the painting, possibly alluding to prostitution that took place on the island, where clients would meet. Two notable motifs include the woman to the left with the fishing rod and the woman to the right with the monkey.

The fishing rod could be suggestive of the idea of “fishing” for a possible desirable woman or that the prostitutes fished for prospective clients. The female monkey’s name in French was singesse, which was also a term utilized for prostitutes. The woman on the right could be with a client.

                                                     — from Art in Context

Who knew? 

On the other hand, given that women are routinely misjudged, unfairly labeled, frequently stereotyped, presumed upon, lied about, and otherwise wronged and maligned, the idea/poem/twist that came to me was this:   

Impressions  

(after A Sunday Afternoon on the Island of La Grand Jatte) 

People always have their opinions. 

Some of you eye us and think,
“Ah, another Sunday in the park 

with George.” 

But also? 

Many look askance. 

They assign a seedy motive

to my sister’s fishing expedition. 

Presume my pet monkey 

means I am a woman 

of questionable character. 

But perhaps I just love animals? 

Why has no one asserted 

or assumed that 

my predominant thoughts are these: 
"This fabric does not breathe. 

I’m ready to go. 

I hate this stupid bustle. 

It's hitting the floor the minute 

my monkey and I get home.” 

    — Karen Edmisten 

~~~~~~~~~~

The Queen of Ekphrastics — visit her entire “ArtSpeak” series here —

 Irene Latham, has the Poetry Friday round up this week. 

Progressive Poem is here! (Day 22)

"The Land of Poetry" — created by Tabatha Yeatts (place names added by Donna and Heidi)

It's my first year participating in the Progressive Poem, and I'm happy to add Line 22 to this delightful work in progress. 

What's the Progressive Poem? Thanks to Linda Baie at TeacherDance, we have this succinct summary:

It began with Irene Latham, who hosted it from 2012-2019. Those archives of the poem can be found HERE! Margaret Simon took over in 2020, and those archives are HERE!

Here are the rules:

The poem passes from blog to blog.

Each poet/blogger adds a line.

The poem is for children.

Each blogger copies the previous line exactly as written, unless permission from that poet has been given. They then add their own line, offering an introduction if they wish.

So today I’m following Irene’s lead. She said, "It seems time to bring it back around to the speaker of our poem...how is she feeling now, after listening to the birds? What will she DO?” 

Let’s find out! Here's the poem so far, with my line added in bold: 

The Land of Poetry

On my first trip to the Land of Poetry,
I saw anthologies of every color, tall as buildings.
A world of words, wonder on wings, waiting just for me!
Birding for words shimmering, flecked in golden gilding.

Binoculars ready, I toured boulevards and side streets,
exploring vibrant verses, verses so honest and tender.
feathery lyrics, bright flitting avian athletes
soaring ‘cross pages in rhythmic splendor.

In the Land of Poetry, I am the conductor,
seeking oodles of poems that tug at my heart,
a musical medley of sound and structure,
An open mic in Frost Forest! Wonder who’ll take part?

There’s a pause in the program; no one takes the stage
the trees quiver, the audience looks up. Raven lands,
singing Earth’s message of the sage.
“Poetry in motion will be forevermore, from forests to sands.”

“Scatter,” she croaked. “Beyond Wilde Pond, to each and every beach.”
Meek Dove mustered courage and sang, “Instill humanity with compassion and peace.
Let Thackeray’s middle name, from this thicket, hearts reach!”
Her gentle coo-ooo-ooos reverberate, soft as fleece.

Words dart, dimple—Do I dare warble what's in my soul?

I’ve inhaled inspiration…yes, I’ll risk my refrain. 

~~~~~

The fabulous Heidi Mordhorst is up next with Day 23! 

And here’s a full list of this year’s contributors. Tabatha launched us into the Land of Poetry with Line 1, and she’ll bring us full circle on April 28:

April 1 Tabatha Yeatts at The Opposite of Indifference
April 2 Cathy Stenquist at A Little Bit of This and That
April 3 Patricia Franz at Reverie
April 4 Donna Smith at Mainely Write
April 5 Janice Scully at Salt City Verse
April 6 Denise Krebs at Dare to Care
April 7 Ruth Hersey at There is no such thing as a God-forsaken town
April 8 Rose Cappelli at Imagine the Possibilities 
April 9 Margaret Simon at Reflections on the Teche
April 10 Janet Clare Fagel at Reflections on the Teche
April 11 Diane Davis at Starting Again in Poetry 
April 12 Linda Baie at Teacher Dance
April 13 Linda Mitchell at Another Word Edgewise
April 14 Jone MacCulloch at 
April 15 Joyce Uglow at Storied Ink
April 16 Carol Varsalona at Beyond Literacy Link
April 17 Robyn Hood Black at Life on the Deckle Edge
April 18 Michele Kogan at More Art for All
April 19 Kim Johnson at Common Threads
April 20 Buffy Silverman
April 21 Irene Latham at Live Your Poem
April 22 Karen Edmisten
April 23 Heidi Mordhorst at my juicy little universe 
April 24 Mary Lee Hahn at A(nother) Year of Reading
April 25 Tanita Davis at Fiction, instead of Lies
April 26 Sharon Roy at Pedaling Poet
April 27 Tracey Kiff-Judson at Tangles and Tails
April 28 Tabatha Yeatts at The Opposite of Indifference 

Poetry Friday: "For the Bird Singing Before Dawn" by Kim Stafford

We're halfway through National Poetry Month, and all I've managed to do so far is rant about the news. 

I know, I know — I'm allowed, given the state of things, but let's take a break from all that, shall we? 

First of all, be sure to visit the inimitable Jama Rattigan for a comprehensive round-up of the Kidlitosphere's NPM poetry projects. So many luscious plans! Thank you, Jama, for all the work that went into that post! It's brimming with places to go, people to visit, and poems to read. 

Secondly, birds. I wrote about birds last month and this morning, just after a walk during which I heard meadowlarks, killdeer, mourning doves, robins, and red-winged blackbirds, I was telling my sister about how much she'll love the Merlin app. 

Birdsong. Is there anything better? When you hear birds — a symphony of birds — tweeting their joyful, ridiculous, miraculous little heads off, it's as if you're part of something both immense and beyond your grasp, but also innate, somehow within you. 

I love them so much. 

Birds = Hope. 

Therefore, I bring you "For the Bird Singing Before Dawn." Of his poem, Kim Stafford said: 

“Many times in my life I’ve been told by serious people that I must be very naïve to be happy, to have hope, to celebrate this little life I’ve been given when, actually, they say, everything is pretty dire. There’s war, poverty, crushing injustice all over—what right do I have to talk back to all that with flimsy little poems about the good? What can I say? The birds are my teachers, my elders, my guides. Every day before dawn, in silence and darkness, I’m at my desk making poems on the page. And then, before light, I hear the first bird outside begin to sing.”

Oh, little plover, I want to hug you. 

 For the Bird Singing Before Dawn

by Kim Stafford

Some people presume to be hopeful
when there is no evidence for hope,
to be happy when there is no cause.
Let me say now, I’m with them.

In deep darkness on a cold twig
in a dangerous world, one first
little fluff lets out a peep, a warble,

a song—and in a little while, behold:

....

(Read the last two stanzas here, at Poets.org.) 

~~~~~~~~~~

Wishing you morsels — nay, a feast! — of joy as well as the company of birds, who are their own kind of poetry, during this National Poetry Month. 

Heidi Mordhorst has this week's Poetry Friday round-up at My Juicy Little Universe. 

Photo of killdeer courtesy of roamingowlsdotcom at Pixabay. 

Poetry Friday: "Of History and Hope" by Miller Williams

"How do we fashion the future?" 

Oh, what a week. 

My week has shone with the joy and hope of Easter, but it has also held despair and anger over a madman at the helm of what, at least for now, we still call our country. This poem by Miller Williams seemed fitting today. We hold so much responsibility in our hands. I vented on FB a couple of days ago: 

Nothing says “America in 2026” like calling my reps today, being put on hold, and hearing “Yankee Doodle Dandy” blare in my ear while waiting to register my objections to war crimes.  

Call your reps. Even when you want to scream.

It seems useless, futile, maddening. Especially when I later hear my rep double down and defend threats to wipe out an entire civilization. How do you address that? I don't know. I guess we keep turning to both history and hope? 

Of History and Hope
by Miller Williams 

We have memorized America,
how it was born and who we have been and where.
In ceremonies and silence we say the words,
telling the stories, singing the old songs.
We like the places they take us. Mostly we do.
The great and all the anonymous dead are there.
We know the sound of all the sounds we brought.
The rich taste of it is on our tongues.
But where are we going to be, and why, and who?
The disenfranchised dead want to know.
We mean to be the people we meant to be,

to keep on going where we meant to go.

But how do we fashion the future? Who can say how

....

(Read the rest here, at The Poetry Foundation.) 

~~~~~~~~~~~~

 Jone Rush MacCulloch has the Poetry Friday round-up this week. 

And be sure to check out the 2026 Progressive Poem. Nine poets have contributed thus far. Margaret Simon has today's line, as well as the rest of the work-in-progess. I'll be contributing a line on April 22, and Margaret has the whole schedule at this link. 

Photo courtesy of Eliens at Pixabay.