Tag Archives: Poets.org

SUNDAY MIX – MEMORIES

This month the Sunday Mix is based loosely on the idea of memories and the feeling that can occur of otherworldliness and a kind of a journey that you take, when a memory strikes.

The music reflects that feeling…

I remember
The crackle of the palm trees
Over the mooned white roofs of the town…
The shining town…
And the tender fumbling of the surf
On the sulphur-yellow beaches
As we sat…a little apart…in the close-pressing night.

The moon hung above us like a golden mango,
And the moist air clung to our faces,
Warm and fragrant as the open mouth of a child
And we watched the out-flung sea
Rolling to the purple edge of the world,
Yet ever back upon itself…
As we…

Inadequate night…
And mooned white memory
Of a tropic sea…
How softly it comes up
Like an ungathered lily.

A MemoryLola Ridge (1873 – 1941)

And I gave myself to the poem.
And the poem gave to me.
And I gave myself to the sky.
And the sky gave to me.
And I gave myself to the wind.
And the wind took what I gave
and passed it to the sky.

And I gave myself to women.
And women gave to me.
And I gave myself to the wound.
And the wound gave to me.
And I gave myself to hope.
And hope took what I gave
and passed it to the wound.

And I gave myself to wine.
And wine gave to me.
And I gave myself to candlelight.
And candlelight gave to me.
And I gave myself to memory.
And memory took what I gave
and passed it to candlelight.

And I gave myself to music.
And music gave to me.
And I gave myself to the tree.
And the tree gave to me.
And I gave myself to change.
And change took what I gave
and passed it to the tree.

And I gave myself to silence.
And silence gave to me.
And I gave myself to light.
And light gave to me.
And I gave myself to night.
And night took what I gave
and passed it to the stars.

In Vino VeritasHoward Altmann (2013)

But with the sentence: “Use your failures for paper.” Meaning, I understood, the backs of failed poems, but also my life. Whose far side I begin now to enter— A book imprinted without seeming season, each blank day bearing on its reverse, in random order, the mad-set type of another. December 12, 1960. April 4, 1981. 13th of August, 1974— Certain words bleed through to the unwritten pages. To call this memory offers no solace. “Even in sleep, the heavy millstones turning.” I do not know where the words come from, what the millstones, where the turning may lead. I, a woman forty-five, beginning to gray at the temples, putting pages of ruined paper into a basket, pulling them out again.

Waking the Morning Dreamless Long SleepJane Hirshfield (1953)

Poetry courtesy of Academy of American Poets

SUNDAY MIX – SLEEP

Once a month Feminatronic combines two favourite things, electronic music and poetry, to bring an oasis of calm and this month is no exception as the mix is about Sleep.

 

 

Sleep, little pigeon, and fold your wings,

Little blue pigeon with velvet eyes;

Sleep to the singing of mother-bird swinging—

Swinging the nest where her little one lies.

Away out yonder I see a star,—

Silvery star with a tinkling song;

To the soft dew falling I hear it calling—

Calling and tinkling the night along.

In through the window a moonbeam comes,—

Little gold moonbeam with misty wings;

All silently creeping, it asks, “Is he sleeping—

Sleeping and dreaming while mother sings?”

Up from the sea there floats the sob

Of the waves that are breaking upon the shore,

As though they were groaning in anguish, and moaning—

Bemoaning the ship that shall come no more.

But sleep, little pigeon, and fold your wings,—

Little blue pigeon with mournful eyes;

Am I not singing?—see, I am swinging—

Swinging the nest where my darling lies.

Japanese Lullaby – Eugene Field (1892)
 
 

 

Sleep, sleep, beauty bright,
Dreaming in the joys of night;
Sleep, sleep; in thy sleep
Little sorrows sit and weep.

Sweet babe, in thy face
Soft desires I can trace,
Secret joys and secret smiles,
Little pretty infant wiles.

As thy softest limbs I feel
Smiles as of the morning steal
O’er thy cheek, and o’er thy breast
Where thy little heart doth rest.

O the cunning wiles that creep
In thy little heart asleep!
When thy little heart doth wake,
Then the dreadful night shall break.

Cradle Song – William Blake (1757 – 1827)
 

 

O God! can I not save

One from the pitiless wave?

Is all that we see or seem

But a dream within a dream?

A Dream within a Dream – Edgar Allan Poe (1809 – 1849)