Poetry Sunday: February Days by Ellwood Roberts

Not many "northern blasts" have reached us here in the deep South this winter, but we are predicted to have some more winter-like weather next week. We shall see what the "February days" bring us, but this we know for sure: "The Spring-time days will soon be here."

February Days

by Ellwood Roberts

The icy northern blast sweeps by,
From wild wastes of the Arctic snow;

Above us droops a wintry sky,

A bleak white landscape lies below.

But, 'neath the chilly Polar blast,

A low, sweet undertone I hear:

"The wintry storms will soon be past,

And pleasant Spring-time days are near."

In Winter's stern and icy grasp,
Are river, pond, and rill, to-day;
Like iron bonds his fetters' clasp,
Like despot's rule his frosty sway.
But only yesterday I heard—
Though all the landscape was so drear—
The sweet voice of a lonesome bird:
"The Spring-time days will soon be here."

The air is icy, keen and chill,
All Nature lies in sleep profound,
That seems like death—so cold, so still—
But flowers are biding underground.
The sun mounts up, from day to day,
His beams each morn more full of cheer.
And to our hearts they seem to say:
"The Spring-time days will soon be here."

The ice and snow will soon be gone,
The Spring-time waits the sun's warm rays,
Already we can trace the dawn
Of brighter, warmer, sweeter days.
Each morn we watch for signs of Spring,
Each evening feel its coming near.
All Nature's voices seem to sing:
"The Spring-time days will soon be here."

And though an Arctic wind sweeps by
From wildest wastes of ice and snow,
And though above us wintry sky,
And desolate white fields below—
Beneath the wind's wild organ-blast,
A low, sweet undertone I hear:
"The wintry storms will soon be past,
The sunny Spring-time days are near."

Poetry Sunday: Don't Hesitate by Mary Oliver

How about we share another Mary Oliver poem? After all, you can never have too many of those. In this one, the poet seems to acknowledge that it is often hard to simply live in and enjoy the moment, perhaps because we are afraid it can't last. She urges us to give in to that moment and fully experience the joy. Although "much can never be redeemed, still, life has some possibility left." Don't Hesitate by Mary Oliver If you suddenly and unexpectedly feel joy, don’t hesitate. Give in to it. There are plenty of lives and whole towns destroyed or about to be. We are not wise, and not very often kind. And much can never be redeemed. Still, life has some possibility left. Perhaps this is its way of fighting back, that sometimes something happens better than all the riches or power in the world. It could be anything, but very likely you notice it in the instant when love begins. Anyway, that’s often the case. Anyway, whatever it is, don’t be afraid of its plenty. Joy is no...

Poetry Sunday: Hymn for the Hurting by Amanda Gorman

You probably remember poet Amanda Gorman from her appearance at the inauguration of President Biden. She read her poem "The Hill We Climb" on that occasion. After the senseless slaughter in Uvalde this week, she was inspired to write another poem which was published in The New York Times. It seemed perfect for the occasion and so I stole it in order to feature it here, just in case you didn't get a chance to read it in the Times . Hymn for the Hurting by Amanda Gorman Everything hurts, Our hearts shadowed and strange, Minds made muddied and mute. We carry tragedy, terrifying and true. And yet none of it is new; We knew it as home, As horror, As heritage. Even our children Cannot be children, Cannot be. Everything hurts. It’s a hard time to be alive, And even harder to stay that way. We’re burdened to live out these days, While at the same time, blessed to outlive them. This alarm is how we know We must be altered — That we must differ or die, That we must triumph or try. ...

Poetry Sunday: Blackberry-Picking by Seamus Heaney

My mother was a farm wife and a prodigious canner. She canned fruit and vegetables from the garden, even occasionally meat. But the best thing that she canned, in my opinion, was blackberry jam. Even as I type those words my mouth waters! Of course, before she could make that jam, somebody had to pick the blackberries. And that somebody was quite often named Dorothy. I think Seamus Heaney might have spent some time among the briars plucking those delicious black fruits as well, so he would have known that "Once off the bush the fruit fermented, the sweet flesh would turn sour." They don't keep; you have to get that jam made in a hurry! Blackberry-Picking by Seamus Heaney Late August, given heavy rain and sun For a full week, the blackberries would ripen. At first, just one, a glossy purple clot Among others, red, green, hard as a knot. You ate that first one and its flesh was sweet Like thickened wine: summer's blood was in it Leaving stains upon the tongue and lust ...

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