Category: poetry

This poem is based on a shared cultural experience, the 1950’sTV show, You Asked For It.

Only one episode is recalled which sparks a question on life and meaning:

Is your slingshot useless in this new world? A gift forgotten?

You Asked For It

“On this day in 1940  Winston Churchill gave his first speech as prime minister to the House of Commons. Three days earlier, he had taken over the job from Neville Chamberlain, who resigned. . .

“So although the 65-year-old Churchill had been a politician for more than 30 years and delivered plenty of speeches to the House of Commons, this was his first as prime minister. . . the speech Churchill gave is considered one of his greatest. He said: “I would say to the House, as I said to those who have joined this government: ‘I have nothing to offer but blood, toil, tears, and sweat.’ We have before us an ordeal of the most grievous kind. We have before us many, many long months of struggle and of suffering. You ask, what is our policy? I can say: It is to wage war, by sea, land, and air, with all our might and with all the strength that God can give us; to wage war against a monstrous tyranny, never surpassed in the dark, lamentable catalogue of human crime.” (Source: Garrison Keillor, The Writer’s Almanac for May 13)

War Today

The folk singer Jesse Welles is a contemporary version of Woody Gutherie and Bob Dylan.   He writes and posts an average of a new ballad each week.

Here is his latest, Call Me When You Win the War.  Just over 2 minutes.

(https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Ntbj-kB3Ooc)

Edgar Allan Poe’s short stories and poems reflect a surreal and tragic life.  His father and mother died before the poet was three years old. He was raised by John and Frances Allan as a foster child in Richmond, VA.

In 1836 he married Virginia, a teenager, who would die of tuberculosis ten years later.  This poem, a meditation on a mother “who died early” but still knowing that unconditional, infinite love, his “heart of hearts,” via his wife.

To My Mother

                                     Edgar Allan :Poe  1809-1849

The angels, whispering to one another,
Can find, among their burning terms of love,
None so devotional as that of "Mother,"
Therefore by that dear name I long have called you—
You who are more than mother unto me,
And fill my heart of hearts, where Death installed you
In setting my Virginia's spirit free.
My mother—my own mother, who died early,
Was but the mother of myself; but you
Are mother to the one I loved so dearly,
And thus are dearer than the mother I knew
By that infinity with which my wife
Was dearer to my soul than its soul-life.

An unusual poetic sensibility.

April Prayer

by Stuart Kestenbaum

Just before the green begins there is the hint of green
a blush of color, and the red buds thicken
the ends of the maple’s branches and everything
is poised before the start of a new world,
which is really the same world
just moving forward from bud
to flower to blossom to fruit
to harvest to sweet sleep, and the roots
await the next signal, every signal
every call a miracle and the switchboard
is lighting up and the operators are
standing by in the pledge drive we’ve
all been listening to: Go make the call.

The flight of Artemis II has captured the attention of the world. The thunderous launch, the flight around the moon’s unseen surface and the pictures of earth floating alone in space.

The voyage is both a technical triumph and a remarkable achievement of human spirit and courage.

Over two centuries earlier, radical technology was being introduced at the beginning of England’s industrial revolution.  Wordsworth’s  romantic style celebrated the beauty of nature; but he  was similarly awed by the potential of these new technical creations.

He wrote of the future hope promised by human inventions. His poetic  sensitivity elebrating these innovations could easily portray our spirit as we track the Artemis II voyage.  His final stanza seems almost prescient of this deed, especially the use of the word space.

Steamboats, Viaducts and Railways

by William Wordsworth  (1770-1850)

From Endymion
Book I

A thing of beauty is a joy for ever:
Its loveliness increases, it will never
Pass into nothingness; but still will keep
A bower quiet for us, and a sleep
Full of sweet dreams, and health, and quiet breathing.
Therefore, on every morrow, are we wreathing
A flowery band to bind us to the earth,
Spite of despondence, of the inhuman dearth
Of noble natures, of the gloomy days,
Of all the unhealthy and o’er-darkened ways
Made of our searching; yes, in spite of all,
Some shape of beauty moves away the pall
From our dark spirits.

Excerpt from “Endymion” Book I by John Keats.

Or the beauty of song from Ukrainian Easter service.

(https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=6ZwLwyDqFTs)