Sonnet 19 by John Milton

Apr10

April is National Poetry Month.

Sonnet 19: When I consider how my light is spentBY JOHN MILTON

When I consider how my light is spent, 
Ere half my days, in this dark world and wide, 
And that one Talent which is death to hide 
Lodged with me useless, though my Soul more bent
To serve therewith my Maker, and present 
My true account, lest he returning chide; 
“Doth God exact day-labour, light denied?” 
I fondly ask. But patience, to prevent
That murmur, soon replies, “God doth not need 
Either man’s work or his own gifts; who best 
Bear his mild yoke, they serve him best. His state
Is Kingly. Thousands at his bidding speed 
And post o’er Land and Ocean without rest: 
They also serve who only stand and wait.”

If Only I Were King by A.A. Milne

Apr9

April is National Poetry Month.

If Only I Were King

I often wish I were a King,
And then I could do anything.

If only I were King of Spain,
I’d take my hat off in the rain.

If only I were King of France,
I wouldn’t brush my hair for aunts.

I think, if I were King of Greece,
I’d push things off the mantelpiece.

If I were King of Norroway,
I’d ask an elephant to stay.

If I were King of Babylon,
I’d leave my button gloves undone.

If I were King of Timbuctoo,
I’d think of lovely things to do.

If I were King of anything,
I’d tell the soldiers, “I’m the King!”

Seven Stanzas at Easter by John Updike

Apr8

April is National Poetry Month. I saw this portion of a poem on several of my friends’ Facebook pages over the Easter weekend, and I was reminded that Jesus was truly man, truly God, physically died and was resurrected in a physical human body. And for this we praise God, and for through this we realize hope.

Make no mistake: if he rose at all
It was as His body;
If the cell’s dissolution did not reverse, the molecule reknit,
The amino acids rekindle,
The Church will fall.

It was not as the flowers,
Each soft spring recurrent;
It was not as His Spirit in the mouths and fuddled eyes of the
Eleven apostles;
It was as His flesh; ours.

The same hinged thumbs and toes
The same valved heart
That—pierced—died, withered, paused, and then regathered
Out of enduring Might
New strength to enclose.

Let us not mock God with metaphor,
Analogy, sidestepping, transcendence,
Making of the event a parable, a sign painted in the faded
Credulity of earlier ages:
Let us walk through the door.

The stone is rolled back, not papier-mache,
Not a stone in a story,
But the vast rock of materiality that in the slow grinding of
Time will eclipse for each of us
The wide light of day.

And if we have an angel at the tomb,
Make it a real angel,
Weighty with Max Planck’s quanta, vivid with hair, opaque in
The dawn light, robed in real linen
Spun on a definite loom.

Let us not seek to make it less monstrous,
For our own convenience, our own sense of beauty,
Lest, awakened in one unthinkable hour, we are embarrassed
By the miracle,
And crushed by remonstrance.
— from John Updike’s Seven Stanzas at Easter

Always Marry an April Girl by Ogden Nash

Apr7

A poet looks at the world the way a man looks at a woman.

~Wallace Stevens

Praise the spells and bless the charms,
I found April in my arms.
April golden, April cloudy,
Gracious, cruel, tender, rowdy;
April soft in flowered languor,
April cold with sudden anger,
Ever changing, ever true —
I love April, I love you.

I’m not an April girl, but for those of you who are, this poem seems appropriate. In George MacDonald’s Phantastes, he indicates that he believes that the time of year we’re born does have some effect on our disposition and personality. I’m not sure I agree, but who knows? Maybe April Girls are changeable and spring-like.

The Voice of the Grass by Sarah Roberts Boyle

Apr6
Here I come, creeping, creeping, everywhere;
By the dusty roadside,
On the sunny hillside,
Close by the noisy brook,
In every shady nook,
I come creeping, creeping, everywhere.

Here I come, creeping, creeping everywhere;
All round the open door,
Where sit the aged poor,
Here where the children play,
In the bright and merry May,
I come creeping, creeping, everywhere.

Here I come, creeping, creeping, everywhere;
You can not see me coming,
Nor hear my low, sweet humming,
For in the starry night,
And the glad morning light,
I come, quietly creeping, everywhere.

Here I come, creeping, creeping, everywhere;
More welcome than the flowers,
In summer's pleasant hours;
The gentle cow is glad,
And the merry birds not sad,
To see me creeping, creeping, everywhere.

Here I come, creeping, creeping, everywhere;
When you're numbered with the dead,
In your still and narrow bed,
In the happy spring I'll come,
And deck your narrow home,
Creeping, silently creeping, everywhere.

Here I come, creeping, creeping, everywhere;
My humble song of praise,
Most gratefully I raise,
To Him at whose command
I beautify the land,
Creeping, silently creeping, everywhere.

Lo, the Earth Is Risen Again! by Samuel Longfellow

Apr5

Come, read to me some poem,
Some simple and heartfelt lay,
That shall soothe this restless feeling,
And banish the thoughts of day.

~Henry Wadsworth Longfellow

Samuel Longfellow was Henry Wadsworth Longfellow’s younger brother, the youngest of eight children, and he was an ordained Unitarian minister. He wrote a number of hymn lyrics, this poem being one of them.

Lo, the earth is risen again
From the winter’s bond and pain!
Bring we leaf and flower and spray
To adorn our holiday!

Once again the word comes true,
Lo, He maketh all things new!
Now the dark, cold days are o’er,
Light and gladness are before.

How our hearts leap with the spring!
How our spirits soar and sing!
Light is victor over gloom,
Life triumphant o’er the tomb.

Change, then, mourning into praise,
And, for dirges, anthems raise!
All our fears and griefs shall be
Lost in immortality.

George Herbert, b. April 3, 1593

Apr3

April is National Poetry Month.

I’ve posted poems by George Herbert, the seventeenth century Christian poet, on this blog numerous times. He’s one of my favorite poets. If one were to spend the entire month of April just reading through the poems of Mr. Herbert, one a day, it would be devotional enough to last you through the season and to bring you to an awareness of poetry of faith.

Other Links:
More poetry by George Herbert.
The God of Love My Shepherd Is by George Herbert at Rebecca Writes.

Colossians 3:3 OUR LIFE IS HID WITH CHRIST IN GOD

My words & thoughts do both express this notion,
That Life hath with the sun a double motion
The first Is straight, and our diurnal friend
The other Hid, and doth obliquely bend.
Our life is wrapt In flesh and tends to earth,
The other winds towards Him, whose happie birth
Taught me to live here so, That still one eye
Should aim and shoot at that which Is on high:
Quitting with daily labour all My pleasure,
To gain at harvest and eternal Treasure.

The Wind of the World by George MacDonald

Apr2

The greatest thoughts of the greatest thinkers have all passed through fire. The greatest poets have ‘learned in suffering what they taught in song.’ In bonds Bunyan lived the allegory that he afterwards wrote, and we may thank Bedford Jail for the Pilgrim’s Progress.

~George MacDonald
Chained is the Spring. The night-wind bold
Blows over the hard earth;
Time is not more confused and cold,
Nor keeps more wintry mirth.

Yet blow, and roll the world about;
Blow, Time---blow, winter's Wind!
Through chinks of Time, heaven peepeth out,
And Spring the frost behind.

This little poem, or piece of a poem, came from chapter twelve of Phantastes by George MacDonald, and I especially liked the idea of heaven peeping out through the chinks of Time. I don’t really understand Phantastes, but I do get inklings of ideas and images that are delightful.

Happy Second Day of April: Poetry Month.

My Future by Robert W. Service

Apr1

“The compliments of the season to my worthy masters and a merry first of April to us all. We have all a speck of motley.”

~Charles Lamb
"Let's make him a sailor," said Father,
"And he will adventure the sea."
"A soldier," said Mother, "is rather
What I would prefer him to be."
"A lawyer," said Father, "would please me,
For then he could draw up my will."
"A doctor," said Mother, "would ease me;
Maybe he could give me a pill."

Said Father: "Let's make him a curate,
A Bishop in gaiters to be."
Said Mother: "I couldn't endure it
To have Willie preaching to me."
Said Father: ""Let him be a poet;
So often he's gathering wool."
Said Mother with temper: "Oh stow it!
You know it, a poet's a fool.

Said Father: "Your son is a duffer,
A stupid and mischievous elf."
Said Mother, who's rather a huffer:
"That's right - he takes after yourself."
Controlling parental emotion
They turned to me, seeking a cue,
And sudden conceived the bright notion
To ask what I wanted to do.

Said I: "My ambition is modest:
A clown in a circus I'd be,
And turn somersaults in the sawdust
With audience laughing at me."
. . . Poor parents! they're dead and decaying,
But I am a clown as you see;
And though in no circus I'm playing,
How people are laughing at me!

No Joke, But Rather Poetry

Apr1

“Poetry is like making a joke. If you get one word wrong at the end of a joke, you’ve lost the whole thing.”
–W.S. Merwin

“The first of April is the day we remember what we are the other 364 days of the year.”
–Mark Twain

“April is the cruelest month, breeding
Lilacs out of the dead land, mixing
Memory and desire, stirring
Dull roots with spring rain.”
– T. S. Eliot, The Waste Land, 1922

April is National Poetry Month, and I intend to give you a gift this month: a poem a day and a suggested poetry book or poetical thought each day. If I miss a day, forgive me. If my poetical selections displease you, again forgive. If you enjoy deceptively simple poetry and light verse that’s not always so light and meaning cloaked in the language of poetry, you might have a good time celebrating National Poetry Month with me.