Category Archives: poetry

Her Perfect Face

October 16, 2024beauty, nature, poetryEmily Dickinson, the moon, Winslow HomerGretchenJoanna

A few weeks ago when I ran across this poem, I scheduled it to publish this evening, when the moon is nearly full. But I didn’t know that I would be driving home from Vespers at 6:30 and along that road where it’s happened before that I found the moon rising huge and golden right in front of me; if only could lift off at a slight angle from the pavement, I could drive right up and park on it. But instead, I admired her perfect face for a few timeless moments…. and then I was home!

THE MOON

The moon was but a chin of gold
A night or two ago,
And now she turns her perfect face
Upon the world below.
Her forehead is of amplest blond;
Her cheek like beryl stone;
Her eye unto the summer dew
The likest I have known.
Her lips of amber never part;
But what must be the smile
Upon her friend she could bestow
Were such her silver will!
And what a privilege to be
But the remotest star!
For certainly her way might pass
Beside your twinkling door.
Her bonnet is the firmament,
The universe her shoe,
The stars the trinkets at her belt,
Her dimities of blue.

-Emily Dickinson

On the vanity of earthly greatness.

October 13, 2024history, humor, poetryAlbrecht Dürer, Arthur Guiterman, Charlemagne, rust, swords, vanityGretchenJoanna

ON THE VANITY OF EARTHLY GREATNESS

The tusks that clashed in mighty brawls
Of mastodons, are billiard balls.

The sword of Charlemagne the Just
Is ferric oxide, known as rust.

The grizzly bear whose potent hug
Was feared by all, is now a rug.

Great Caesar’s bust is on my shelf,
And I don’t feel so well myself.

-Arthur Guiterman

This is a fun poem. The poet joined the theme by embarking on his own transformation to dust some time back. I also like these other lines he wrote, on changes he saw happening around him:

New motor roads are dustless,
The latest steel is rustless,
Our tennis courts are sodless,
Our new religions—godless.

I’m sure that countless swords that have been swung through the ages are pretty rusty by now, but I happened to see this article about the Frankish king’s most famous sword, “Joyeuse” — and that one is not rust yet, because it has been preserved in the Louvre for many generations. Has any of you seen it?

Flying at Night

October 8, 2024poetryair travel, night, sky, Ted KooserGretchenJoanna

Back in May, I wrote about how I had been given a nighttime airplane ride with my son-in-law as pilot. I have had the experience on commercial flights, too, and found it enthralling whenever we were flying low enough to see the patterns of lights down below. I wonder if I will have that chance again…

FLYING AT NIGHT

Above us, stars. Beneath us, constellations.
Five billion miles away, a galaxy dies
like a snowflake falling on water. Below us,
some farmer, feeling the chill of that distant death,
snaps on his yard light, drawing his sheds and barn
back into the little system of his care.
All night, the cities, like shimmering novas,
tug with bright streets at lonely lights like his.

-Ted Kooser