Well, let the repeats begin a day early. I have a request for “hope” on this most hope – filled night of the year. So, it must be dear Emily. Happy New Year’s Eve.
from “Hope” is the thing with feathers / by Emily Dickinson
“Hope” is the thing with feathers –
That perches in the soul –
And sings the tune without the words –
And never stops – at all –
For frozen mist and wavering flakes, from poetryfoundation.org.
from The Snow-Shower / by William Cullen Bryant
Here delicate snow-stars, out of the cloud,
Come floating downward in airy play,
Like spangles dropped from the glistening crowd
That whiten by night the milky way
For 15-degree football games and other ways to witness winter, from poetryfoundation.org.
from This Inwardness, This Ice / by Christian Wiman, b. 1966
This inwardness, this ice,
this wide boreal whiteness
For parents, teachers, and parent-teachers, and anyone who teaches anyone any one valuable thing, from poetryfoundation.org.
from On Education / by Elizabeth Bentley, December 1789
Point out betimes the course they should pursue;
Then with redoubled pleasure shall you view
Their reason strengthen as their years increase,
What? No Coleridge? This is the four-day countdown to end the run of no repeats. Beginning 1/1/16, I will no longer seek a new poet each day, but will pull favorite fragments willy nilly; I think I will have made it through two years of no individual poet repeats, except for Christmas Eve’s Moore and the days we lost Tate and Strand. This one’s for the last week of my favorite month, from poetryfoundation.org.
from Fragment 3: Come, come thou bleak December / by Samuel Taylor Coleridge
Come, come thou bleak December wind,
And blow the dry leaves from the tree!
For bent trees flies and bees, from poetryfoundation.org.
from Resolution / by Paul Violi (1944-2011)
Whereas the porch screen sags from
the weight of flowers (impatiens) that grew
against it, then piles of wet leaves,
then drifted snow; and
Whereas, now rolled like absence in its
drooping length, a dim gold wave,
sundown’s last, cast across a sea of clouds
and the floating year, almost reaches
the legs of the low-slung chair
For Gabriellan trumpets and beaches on Christmas Day, from poetryfoundation.org.
from Conches on Christmas / by Mike Chasar
Diluvian, draggled and derelict posse, this
barnacled pod so pales
next to everything we hear of red tides and pilot whales
that a word like “drama” makes me sound remiss
except that there
was a kind of littoral drama in the way the shells
silently, sans the heraldry of bells,
neatly, sans an astrological affair,
and swiftly, sans a multitude of feet, flat-out arrived—
an encrusted school of twenty-four
Gabriellan trumpets at my beach house door