The Children's Hour

Of all the poets that I admire, one of my favorite is Henry Wadsworth Longfellow.  His gift for rhyme and meter, (not to mention his ability to convey depth of emotion,) never ceases to inspire me.
Soon I will do a series of posts about the poet; but today I want to share one of his poems with you.
This is one of his many tributes to his own family; in this case, his daughters.

Between the dark and the daylight,
When the night is beginning to lower,
Comes a pause in the day's occupations,
That is known as the Children's Hour.

I hear in the chamber above me
The patter of little feet,
The sound of a door that is opened,
And voices soft and sweet.

From my study I see in the lamplight,
Descending the broad hall stair,
Grave Alice, and laughing Allegra,
And Edith with golden hair.

A whisper, and then a silence:
Yet I know by their merry eyes
They are plotting and planning together
To take me by surprise.

A sudden rush from the stairway,
A sudden raid from the hall!
By three doors left unguarded
They enter my castle wall!

They climb up into my turret
O'er the arms and back of my chair;
If I try to escape, they surround me;
They seem to be everywhere.

They almost devour me with kisses,
Their arms about me entwine,
Till I think of the Bishop of Bingen
In his Mouse-Tower on the Rhine!

Do you think, o blue-eyed banditti,
Because you have scaled the wall,
Such an old mustache as I am
Is not a match for you all!

I have you fast in my fortress,
And will not let you depart,
But put you down into the dungeon
In the round-tower of my heart.

And there will I keep you forever,
Yes, forever and a day,
Till the walls shall crumble to ruin,
And moulder in dust away!

Henry Wadsworth Longfellow

The Fool's Prayer

Another treasured poem from Crimson Trove.  This one really strikes home for me.  It reminds me of the words of the prophet who said "For behold, are we not all beggars? Do we not all depend upon the same Being, even God, for all the substance which we have...?" 
Oh Lord, be merciful to me, a fool!

The royal feast was done the king
Sought some new sport to banish care,
And to his jester cried: “Sir Fool,

kneel now, and make for us a prayer!”

The jester doffed his cap and bells,
And stood the mocking court before:
They could not see the bitter smile
Behind the painted grin he wore.

He bowed his head and bent his knee
Upon the monarch’s silken stool
His pleading voice arose
“Oh Lord be merciful to me, a fool!

No pity, Lord, could change the heart
From red with wrong to white as wool
The rod must heal the sin but, Lord
Be merciful to me, a fool!

‘Tis not by guilt the onward sweep
Of truth and right, Oh Lord we stay
‘Tis by our follies that so long
We hold the Earth from Heaven away.

These clumsy feet, still in the mire,
Go crushing blossoms without end
These hard well-meaning hands we trust
Among the heartstrings of a friend.

The ill-timed truth we might have kept-
Who knows how sharp it pierced and stung?
The word we had not sense to say-
Who knows how grandly it had rung?

Our faults no tenderness should ask,
The chastening stripes must cleanse the all
But for our blunders-oh, in shame
Before the eyes of heaven we fall.

Earth bears no balsam for mistakes
Men crown the knave, and scourge the tool
That did his will; but thou, Oh Lord
Be merciful to me, a fool!”

The room was hushed; in silence rose
The King, and sought his garden cool,
And walked apart and murmured low,
“Be merciful to me, a fool!”

Edward Rowland Sill

Psalm 23

As I have said before, death makes you look at things from a different perspective.  And a funeral does that even more; for then the news of the person's death is real, then it really means that they've gone from this life into another.
For this post I am including a passage from the Holy Bible.  While it doesn't follow the usual rules of poetry that I apply to my writing, it is as touching as anything written by modern poets.
I know that somewhere out there, on the other side of my computer screen, there is someone going through the same thing I am at this very moment.  If you are that person, I hope that this helps you find comfort, as it has me.

The Lord is my shepherd;
I shall not want.
He maketh me to lie down in green pastures:
He leadeth me beside the still waters.
He restoreth my soul:
He leadeth me in the paths of righteousness for his name's sake.
Yea, though I walk through the valley of the shadow of death,
I will fear no evil:
For thou art with me;
Thy rod and thy staff they comfort me.
Thou preparest a table before me in the presence of mine enemies:
Thou anointest my head with oil;
My cup runneth over.
Surely goodness and mercy shall follow me all the days of my life:
And I will dwell in the house of the Lord for ever.

King David, the Psalmist

Love

Remember the new book I'm working on?  Well, here is a preview of one of the poems, a little piece I did while sitting in a class.  I don't recall why, but for some reason I got thinking about what love really is, what true love can be defined as.  I hope you enjoy it.

Love is not just a word,
that is declaration.
Love is not a feeling,
that is but affection.
Love is not starry eyes,
that is just attraction.
Love is actions, service -
that is called devotion.

David Jamison

After the Rain

A poem from my first book, Nature's Voice.

After the rain comes
Earth is a cleaner place;
dirt, grime and stress
the waters do erase.

All about in nature
is rebirth to be seen:
birdsong sounds the sweeter,
the grass looks more green,

the temperature is more fair,
the sky is so much lighter,
more free is the air,
the Sun so much brighter.

As it is in nature,
so it is in life;
to have the greatest peace
you must know the greatest strife.

The rainstorms of life,
unpleasant though they be,
leave us the cleaner
and make us more free.

Refreshed and renewed,
washed free of sin and pain,
life is better, brighter,
after comes the rain.

David Jamison

Death...

The death of a loved one makes you look at life differently.  Especially when that death comes too early.  It takes the breath out of your lungs, leaving you unsure how to progress from where you are, wondering how to move on.
In the words of Madame de Stael, "we understand Death for the first time when he puts his hand upon one whom we love."  So it is for me.  Today I lost someone very close to me.
I am a Christian, and I believe in the Resurrection with all my heart.  I have no doubts that I will see this dear one again, but still I feel the ache, still I sorrow.  I don't sorrow for them - I know they are with a loving God in Heaven now - I sorrow for their family, for all those left behind.
Good-bye dear little one; God be with you, and with us, till we meet again.

Believe Me If All Those Endearing Young Charms

As I work on compiling my new book of love poetry, I am also reading an increased amount of love poems by other poets.  Here is one that over the years has never failed to touch me.  I even once wrote a poem inspired by it.  Here it is, an example of what true love is all about.

Believe me if all those endearing young charms,
which I gaze on so fondly today,
were to change by tomorrow and fleet in my arms
like fairy gifts fading away;
thou would'st still be adored as this moment thou art,
let thy loveliness fade as it will,
and around the dear ruin each wish of my heart
would entwine itself verdantly still.

It is not while beauty and youth are thine own
and thy cheeks unprofaned by a tear
that the ferver and faith of a soul can be known
to which time will but make thee more dear;
no the heart that has truly loved never forgets,
but as truly loves on to the close,
as the sunflower turns on her god when he sets
the same look which she'd turned when he rose.

Thomas Moore

Book # 2

Last December I finally completed a twenty-month project of mine and self-published my first poetry book, "Nature's Voice."  It's a collection of one-hundred poems about nature.  I wrote it over the course of seventy-five days, but with typing (I hand write most of my work first,) and compiling, (not to mention procrastination,) I didn't get it printed and bound until just before last Christmas.
Don't go looking for it at your local Barnes & Noble store just yet though.  I haven't found someone to mass-publish it.  The search continues, but while I wait it's a great feeling to see my own words in book form.
Anyway, I'm now working on book two.  I don't foresee this involving much writing, (though you never know when the Muse will descend,) as I will be gathering up and printing my previously written works on the chosen topic, which works are very numerous.  This second book will be on that which all poets fall under the spell of - love.

P.S.  I'll be sure and let you all know as soon as I get this as-yet-unnamed book printed and bound.

Comments...

A poet is an artist.  They may be a good one, a bad one, or a really bad one, but they are still an artist.  And like all other artists, they want to be seen and heard, recognized and given validation.  This is one of the reasons that I started this blog; I wanted to be heard.  But just as importantly I started it because I wanted to hear others too.
I want to know what draws you to poetry; what kinds you like or dislike; especially I want to hear what you think about what I'm writing.  So please don't have me do all the talking, (or typing as the case may be,) I would love to hear your thoughts.  I also welcome your suggestions for future page content.
I do ask that your comments stay civil and on topic, but otherwise say whatever you think about what you see here.  Remember, poetry only comes into being when someone speaks what is on their mind and in their heart.

Don't Quit

We've all had those days when we just want to quit.  I've had quite a few myself, some more recent than others.  If today is one of those days for you, here is a poem to help pick you back up.  It is by that remarkably prolific poet, Anonymous.

When things go wrong as they sometimes will,
When the road you're trudging seems all uphill,
When funds are low and the debts are high,
And you want to smile, but you have to sigh;
When care is pressing you down a bit;
Rest, if you must, but don't you quit.
Life is queer with its twists and turns
As every one of us sometimes learns;
And many a failure turns about
When he might have won had he stuck it out:
Don't give up though the pace seems slow -
You may succeed with another blow.
Success is failure turned inside out -
The silver tint of the clouds of doubt.
And you never can tell how close you are,
It may be near when it seems so far.
So stick to the fight when you're hardest hit -
It's when things seem worst that you must not quit.

Anonymous