{"id":3597,"date":"2021-11-11T07:06:10","date_gmt":"2021-11-11T12:06:10","guid":{"rendered":"https:\/\/www.holdsuponhappiness.com\/?p=3597"},"modified":"2021-11-11T07:06:12","modified_gmt":"2021-11-11T12:06:12","slug":"a-poem-for-a-thursday-154","status":"publish","type":"post","link":"https:\/\/www.holdsuponhappiness.com\/index.php\/2021\/11\/11\/a-poem-for-a-thursday-154\/","title":{"rendered":"A Poem for a Thursday #154"},"content":{"rendered":"\n
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Photo by Isaac Martin<\/a> on Unsplash<\/a><\/figcaption><\/figure><\/div>\n\n\n\n
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John Ciardi was born in Boston, Massachusetts on June 24, 1916. He wrote over 40 volumes of poetry, the book that became the standard text for college and high school poetry classes, a translation of Dante’s The Divine Comedy<\/em>, and served as an editor for the Sunday Review. <\/em>He also was a regular commentator on National Public Radio and taught English at Harvard University and Rutgers University. As well, Ciardi served in the Air Force. He started writing poetry as a way to get his own children interested in reading and always thought that poetry should be accessible to the average reader. <\/p>\n\n\n\n

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By pothole water down a seam of time\n     I walked away from Tuesday. Through my mind\na flap of crows tore from the roof of pine\n     like tarpaper from a shack in a high wind.\n\nA blue hole in a green flame, like a lens,\n     picked out a cloud. I stood and watched a drift \nout of all focus. Like a secret sense,  \n     a squirrel jangled in the nervous lift\n\n of the leaf-net that something wrong was there.\n     A blue-jay squawked, \"It's true!\"and blurred away.\nThat was the last sound but the water's lain\n     long rush through time - a holding silver-gray\n\nand quartz-lit sough, like silence drawing breath\n     in the age between two stars. Locked out, alone,\nand with nothing to listen to but the nothing said\n     by water going, I threw in a stone\n\nthe size of a brain to make one deliberate sound\n     of one weighed thing in the anchorless drift. And restored \nto my humor and gravity, I walked out\n     from time to Tuesday, satisfied and ignored.\n\nA Walk Down a Mountainside\nJohn Ciardi\n\nBrona<\/a> shared some charming poems this week. <\/pre>\n","protected":false},"excerpt":{"rendered":"
John Ciardi was born in Boston, Massachusetts on June 24, 1916. He wrote over 40 volumes of poetry, the book that became the standard text for college and high school poetry classes, a translation of Dante’s The Divine Comedy, and served as an editor for the Sunday Review. He also was a regular commentator on National Public Radio and taught English at Harvard University and Rutgers University. As well, Ciardi served in the Air Force. He started writing poetry as a way to get his own children interested in reading and always thought that poetry should be accessible to the average reader. By pothole water down a seam of time I walked away from Tuesday. Through my mind a flap of crows tore from the roof of pine like tarpaper from a shack in a high wind. A blue hole in a green flame, like a lens, picked out a cloud. I stood and watched a drift out of all focus. Like a secret sense, a squirrel jangled in the nervous lift of the leaf-net that something wrong was there. A blue-jay squawked, “It’s true!”and blurred away. That was the last sound but the water’s lain long rush through time – a holding silver-gray and quartz-lit sough, like silence drawing breath in the age between two stars. Locked out, alone, and with nothing to listen to but the nothing said by water going, I threw in a stone the size of a brain to make one deliberate sound of one weighed thing in the anchorless drift. And restored to my humor and gravity, I walked out from time to Tuesday, satisfied and ignored. A Walk Down a Mountainside John Ciardi Brona shared some charming poems this week.<\/p>\n","protected":false},"author":1,"featured_media":3598,"comment_status":"open","ping_status":"open","sticky":false,"template":"","format":"standard","meta":{"_monsterinsights_skip_tracking":false,"_monsterinsights_sitenote_active":false,"_monsterinsights_sitenote_note":"","_monsterinsights_sitenote_category":0,"_uf_show_specific_survey":0,"_uf_disable_surveys":false,"footnotes":""},"categories":[2],"tags":[],"class_list":["post-3597","post","type-post","status-publish","format-standard","has-post-thumbnail","hentry","category-poem-for-a-thursday"],"aioseo_notices":[],"_links":{"self":[{"href":"https:\/\/www.holdsuponhappiness.com\/index.php\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts\/3597","targetHints":{"allow":["GET"]}}],"collection":[{"href":"https:\/\/www.holdsuponhappiness.com\/index.php\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts"}],"about":[{"href":"https:\/\/www.holdsuponhappiness.com\/index.php\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/types\/post"}],"author":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/www.holdsuponhappiness.com\/index.php\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/users\/1"}],"replies":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/www.holdsuponhappiness.com\/index.php\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/comments?post=3597"}],"version-history":[{"count":2,"href":"https:\/\/www.holdsuponhappiness.com\/index.php\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts\/3597\/revisions"}],"predecessor-version":[{"id":3600,"href":"https:\/\/www.holdsuponhappiness.com\/index.php\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts\/3597\/revisions\/3600"}],"wp:featuredmedia":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/www.holdsuponhappiness.com\/index.php\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/media\/3598"}],"wp:attachment":[{"href":"https:\/\/www.holdsuponhappiness.com\/index.php\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/media?parent=3597"}],"wp:term":[{"taxonomy":"category","embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/www.holdsuponhappiness.com\/index.php\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/categories?post=3597"},{"taxonomy":"post_tag","embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/www.holdsuponhappiness.com\/index.php\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/tags?post=3597"}],"curies":[{"name":"wp","href":"https:\/\/api.w.org\/{rel}","templated":true}]}}