Stopping by Woods on a Snowy Evening – by Robert Frost (1874-1963) Weekly Poem

Whose woods these are I think I know.
His house is in the village though;
He will not see me stopping here
To watch his woods fill up with snow.
My little horse must think it’s queer
To stop without a farmhouse near
Between the woods and frozen lake
The darkest evening of the year.
He gives his harness bells a shake
To ask if there is some mistake.
The only other sound’s the sweep
Of easy wind and downy flake.
The woods are lovely, dark and deep,
But I have promises to keep,
And miles to go before I sleep,
And miles to go before I sleep.

This was one of my Mother's favourite poems, consequently I'm rather fond of it myself.
 More on the poet Robert Frost here.
Image courtesy of My Equestrian World.

One Perfect Rose by Dorothy Parker - Weekly Poem

 

A single flow'r he sent me, since we met.


All tenderly his messenger he chose;


Deep-hearted, pure, with scented dew still wet

-
One perfect rose.


I knew the language of the floweret;

'My fragile leaves,' it said, 'his heart enclose.'

Love long has taken for his amulet

One perfect rose.



Why is it no one ever sent me yet


One perfect limousine, do you suppose?


Ah no, it's always just my luck to get


One perfect rose.


Find out more about the witty Dorothy Parker  (August 22, 1893 – June 7, 1967) here 

Image : Source

Ice on the rabbit's paw - Weekly Poem - Laurie Lee 's Christmas Landscape

Tonight the wind gnaws
With teeth of glass,
The jackdaw shivers
In caged branches of iron,
The stars have talons.

 There is hunger in the mouth
Of vole and badger,
Silver agonies of breath
In the nostril of the fox,
Ice on the rabbit’s paw.

Tonight has no moon,

 No food for the pilgrim;
The fruit tree is bare,
The rose bush a thorn
And the ground is bitter with stones.

But the mole sleeps, and the hedgehog
Lies curled in a womb of leaves,
The bean and the wheat-seed
Hug their germs in the earth
And the stream moves under the ice.

It's the obligatory blogger's snowy post and as the photographs seem to  fit so well with one of my favourite poems I've used them to illustrate the first four verses of Laurie Lee's Christmas Landscape.

Judy Garland sings Have Yourself A Merry Little Christmas from the 1944 film Meet Me in St Louis

Have yourself a merry little christmas
Let your heart be light
Next year all our troubles will be
Out of sight
Have yourself a merry little christmas
Make the yule-tide gay
Next year all our troubles will be
Miles away
Once again as in olden days
Happy golden days of yore
Faithful friends who are dear to us
Will be near to us once more
Someday soon, we all will be together
If the fates allow
Until then, well have to muddle through somehow
So have yourself a merry little christmas now

Holy Innocents by Christina Rossetti - Weekly Poem

 With great sorrow because of Connecticut a poem about the Massacre of the Innocents

THEY scarcely waked before they slept,
They scarcely wept before they laughed;
They drank indeed death's bitter draught,
But all its bitterest dregs were kept
And drained by Mothers while they wept.

From:  The Poetical Works of Christina Georgina Rossetti

Image Source

Weekly Poem - Sea-Fever by John Masefield (1878-1967)

I must down to the seas again, to the lonely sea and the sky,
And all I ask is a tall ship and a star to steer her by,
And the wheel's kick and the wind's song and the white sail's shaking,
And a grey mist on the sea's face and a grey dawn breaking.

I must down to the seas again, for the call of the running tide
Is a wild call and a clear call that may not be denied;
And all I ask is a windy day with the white clouds flying,
And the flung spray and the blown splume, and the sea-gulls crying.

I must down to the seas again, to the vagrant gypsy life,
To the gull's way and the whale's way where the wind's like a whetted knife;
And all I ask is a merry yarn from a laughing fellow-rover,
And quiet sleep and a sweet dream when the long trick's over.

 

Sea-Fever

by John Masefield (1878-1967)

Find out more about John Masefield, poet and author of the wonderful children's books The Midnight Folk and The Box of Delights by clicking here

An old firewood rhyme - Weekly Poem

Beechwood fires burn bright and clear
If the logs are kept a year
Store your beech for Christmastide
With new holly laid beside
Chestnut's only good they say
If for years 'tis stayed away
Birch and firwood burn too fast
Blaze too bright and do not last
Flames from larch will shoot up high
Dangerously the sparks will fly
But ashwood green and ashwood brown
Are fit for a Queen with a golden crown.
Oaken logs, if dry and old
Keep away the winter's cold
Poplar gives a bitter smoke
Fills your eyes and makes you choke
Elmwood burns like churchyard mould
Even the very flames burn cold
Hawthorn bakes the sweetest bread
So it is in Ireland said
Applewood will scent the room
Pearwood smells like a flower in bloom
But ashwood wet and ashwood dry
A king may warm his slippers by!

Very appropriate for the time of year don't you think? Keep warm!

Rain...Rain...Rain... - Weekly Poem

It's still raining so what else could the weekly poem be but Rain... Rain...Rain... by Indira Babbellapati

Rain on tinned roof
Rain on concrete
Rain soaking into sands
Rain on soft earth
Rain on metal road
Rain on windscreen

Rain falling into the sea
Rain in the river

Rain on flowers
Rain on leaves
Rain under trees
Rain on hills

Rain on my skin…

Each with its own unique raga
Reverberates across the sky
On to the earth…

 Indira Babbellapati

I believe nothing by Kathleen Raine - Weekly Poem

 
I believe nothing - what need

Surrounded as I am with marvels of what is,

This familiar room, books, shabby carpet on the floor,

Autumn yellow jasmine, chrysanthemums, my mother's flower,

Earth-scent of memories, daily miracles,

Yet media-people ask, "Is there a God?"

What does the word mean

To the fish in his ocean, birds

In his skies, and stars?

I only know that when I turn in sleep

Into the invisible, it seems
I am upheld by love, and what seems is
Inexplicable here and now of joy and sorrow,
This inexhaustible, untidy world -
I would not have it otherwise.
 Kathleen Raine

Find out more about Kathleen Raine here

A Foggy November Day

 A blanket of fog has covered the land, obscuring the horses,

 dulling the sounds.

Who would know there was an orchard beyond the skeletal plant?

The water laden air brings it's own beauty as it clings to cobwebs that sparkle despite the lack of light.

A few wizened apples cling to the bare branches.

                                                        November                                                           

No sun - no moon!

No morn - no noon -

No dawn - no dusk - no proper time of day.

No warmth, no cheerfulness, no healthful ease,

No comfortable feel in any member -

No shade, no shine, no butterflies, no bees,

No fruits, no flowers, no leaves, no birds -

November!

By Thomas Hood 1799- 1845

Weekly Poem - You Love the Roses - So Do I by George Eliot

If you step out into the November garden chances are you'll see a lonely rose bloom gallantly flowering against the odds which brings us nicely to our weekly poem:

You Love the Roses  ~ So Do I

You love the roses - so do I. I wish
The sky would rain down roses, as they rain
From off the shaken bush. Why will it not?

 

 Then all the valley would be pink and white

And soft to tread on. They would fall as light
As feathers, smelling sweet; and it would be
Like sleeping and like waking, all at once!

~George Eliot 

 

Find out about George Eliot ( Mary Ann Evans) here