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A Poem for a Thursday #328
Marjorie Pickthall was born in England in 1883. She lived there until her family moved to Toronto when she was six. Pickthall started to write poems and short stories as a child and sold her first story to the Toronto Globe when she was fifteen. She went on to publish a number of melodramatic adventure novels, and a volume of poetry was published after her death. She died at the age of thirty-eight. Her poems are currently viewed as gentle, refined, and dated. I did enjoy this poem about daisies. It does come across as very old-fashioned but I am fine with that. See, the grass is full of stars,Fallen…
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Trinket Tuesday
First of all, I am fully aware that today is not Tuesday. However, I have been meaning to tell you about Trinket Tuesday for weeks now. Yesterday was my last Trinket Tuesday so now seems to be a good time to finally write this post. I am sure you are thinking to yourself, “What is Trinket Tuesday?” (You are also probably wondering how many times I can use the phrase “Trinket Tuesday” in one post. The answer is I will use it so often it will soon lose all meaning and simply become an annoying sound that rings in your head forever.) Trinket Tuesday sprang into being one slow week…
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A Poem for a Thursday #327
I promise I haven’t fallen off the face of the earth, though it must seem so based on how seldom I have been posting lately. Life has simply been more than usually chaotic with a lot of changes and decision-making going on. It isn’t bad stuff; just stressful stuff. I think about posting a lot but somehow it isn’t happening. I’m giving myself a bit of grace and appearing here as and when I can. Hopefully, things will be back to normal this summer. For this week, enjoy a lovely poem by Mary Oliver. All summerthe mocking-birdin his pearl-gray coatand his white-windowed wingsfliesfrom the hedge to the top of the…
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A Poem for a Thursday #326
Somehow, I have forgotten to post for the last few weeks. Life has, as usual, been a little crazy but I don’t usually completely forget. And, here it is, almost 9:00 and I only just remembered. Anyway, here is a poem for you. I hope you enjoy it. I want you and you are not here. I pausein this garden, breathing the colour thought isbefore language into still air. Even your nameis a pale ghost and, though I exhale it againand again, it will not stay with me. TonightI make you up, imagine you, your movements clearerthan the words I have you say you said before.Wherever you are now, inside…
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A Poem for a Thursday #325
L. E. Bowman is an American poet. She has published three volumes of poetry. Her work frequently examines the relationship between humans and nature. She also “focuses heavily on all facets of womanhood, including the shifting roles and definitions that we face as we change and age.” Because you ruined me.Tore my muse from my chest with yourconsistent presence, your faithful hands.How do I write about staying when you never leave?How do I turn tears into diamonds when you don't make me cry?I can't speak of unsteady ground when I'm no longer shaking.I can't lament one-sided affection when you've balanced me out.Love is now boring.Unwavering.Coffee in the morning, just how…
