Haiku Reflections - by Geraldine Helen Hartman

Geraldine Hartman presents in this little book (78 pages), published in 2012 by CreateSpace, an assortment of her thoughts on nature through the seasons.

Some of the haikus in this collection have appeared previously on Geraldine’s blog, My Poetic Path, where she has paired them with her beautiful photography. In fact, I was wondering, before starting to read them in the book, how they would fare without the enhancement of images.

It turns out they are doing very well. Even better, I would say, since the readers can create their own images.

Because Geraldine does not simply write about the four seasons, she somehow, miraculously, but in fact very skillfully, captures them in her words.

Spring sings of renewed life in crunchy bulbs, summer lounges lavishly by the lake, autumn throws carpets of crisp colours underneath our feet, winter is a quiet beast, safer to be observed from within the warmth of familiar things, yet hinting at the promise of another spring.

In her verse, Geraldine weaves an enchanted array of colours, smells, sounds, textures, temperatures, and feelings. The imagery is simple, yet always surprising in the best of ways. A robin is a feathered talisman, felines are furry kisses… Even the occasional sadness or nostalgia, unavoidable, are soothed by the awareness of the permanence of nature, of our place in it.

This is a collection of delicate beauty, to which one can return time and again, a pleasure to the soul, one that refreshes, inspires, and ultimately gives hope.

I liked it so much that I wrote for it my first review on Amazon! Very highly recommended.

The Thing with Feathers

A bit more than a month ago, I was searching the net for inspiration for a title for a short story I had just written (I’m really bad at titles) and I found this poem by Emily Dickinson. I thought I’d share with you…

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,

And sweetest in the gale is heard;

And sore must be the storm

That could abash the little bird

That kept so many warm.

I've heard it in the chillest land

And on the strangest sea;

Yet, never, in extremity,

It asked a crumb of me.

Dear Vesper

The other day, the guy I mentioned about a year ago on the blog sent me an e-mail in which he wrote out of the blue, “Do you want me to send you a poem?”

“Certainly,” I answered, rather curious to see if it was going to be one of those little poem-jokes that circulate on the Internet.

What he sent surprised me and moved me in an unexpected way.

“It’s a little bit romantic,” he wrote afterward as a half-embarrassed justification. “I had to learn it for some acting lessons.”

This tickled my silly, artistic, romantic soul even more. Acting lessons?

“I thought of you at the recital,” he added. Huh? Impressive enough?

Yes, I think it is very romantic and I’m glad I got to read it because I had no idea it existed. It is a beautiful love song, immensely sad but somehow hopeful at the same time. Here it is.

a painting by Pino Daeni

Paul McNeely

By Edgar Lee Masters
(from the Spoon River Anthology, 1916)

DEAR Jane! dear winsome Jane!
How you stole in the room (where I lay so ill)
In your nurse’s cap and linen cuffs,
And took my hand and said with a smile:
“You are not so ill—you’ll soon be well.”
And how the liquid thought of your eyes
Sank in my eyes like dew that slips
Into the heart of a flower.
Dear Jane! the whole McNeely fortune
Could not have bought your care of me,
By day and night, and night and day;
Nor paid for you smile, nor the warmth of your soul,
In your little hands laid on my brow.
Jane, till the flame of life went out
In the dark above the disk of night
I longed and hoped to be well again
To pillow my head on your little breasts,
And hold you fast in a clasp of love—
Did my father provide for you when he died,
Jane, dear Jane?

Happy New Year!

A Song For The New Year

By Barry Cornwall

(from “English Songs and Other Small Poems", 1844)

HARK!
The Old Year is gone!
And the young New Year is coming!
Through minutes, and days, and unknown skies,
My soul on her forward journey flies;
Over the regions of rain and snow;
And beyond where the wild March-trumpets blow:
And I see the meadows, all cowslip-strewn;
And I dream of the dove in the greenwood lone:
And the wild bee humming:-
And all because the New Year is coming!

The Winter is cold, the Winter is gray,
But he hath not a sound on his tongue to-day:
The son of the stormy Autumn, he
Totters about on a palsied knee,
With a frozen heart and a feeble head:
Let us pierce a barrel and drink him dead!
The fresh New Year is almost here;
Let us warm him with mistletoe boughs, my dear!
Let us welcome him hither, with songs and wine,
Who holdeth such joys in his arms divine!

What is the Past, - to you, or me,
But a thing that was, and was to be?
And now it is gone to a world unknown:
Its deeds are done; its flight is flown!

Hark to The Past! In a bitter tone,
It crieth “The good Old Year is flown,”-
The sire of a thousand thoughtful hours,
Of a thousand songs, of a thousand flowers!
Ah! why, thou ungrateful child of rhyme,
Rail’st thou at the deeds of our father Time?
Hath he not fed thee, day by day,
With fancies that soothe thy soul away?
Hath he not ‘wakened, with pleasant pain,
The Muse that slept in thy teeming brain?
Hath he not – ah! Dost thou forget
All the amount of the mighty debt?

Hush, hush! – The little I owe to Time
I’ll pay him, some day, with a moody rhyme, -
Full of phantasmas, dark and drear,
As the shadows thrown down by the old Old year,-
Dim as the echoes that lately fell
From the deep Night’s funereal bell,
Sounding hollow o’er hill and vale,
Like the close of a mournful tale!

.... In the meantime, - speak, trump and drum!
The Year is gone! The Year is come!
The fresh New Year, the bright New Year,
That telleth of hope and joy, my dear!
Let us model our spirit to chance and change,
Let us lesson our spirit to hope, and range
Through pleasures to come, - through years unknown;
But never forget the time that’s flown!

Hey There Delilah

I love this song. So sad, so beautiful, so hopeful...



PLAIN WHITE T'S LYRICS

"Hey There Delilah"

Hey there Delilah
What's it like in New York City?
I'm a thousand miles away
But girl tonight you look so pretty
Yes you do
Times Square can't shine as bright as you
I swear it's true

Hey there Delilah
Don't you worry about the distance
I'm right there if you get lonely
Give this song another listen
Close your eyes
Listen to my voice it's my disguise
I'm by your side

Oh it's what you do to me
Oh it's what you do to me
Oh it's what you do to me
Oh it's what you do to me
What you do to me

Hey there Delilah
I know times are getting hard
But just believe me girl
Someday I'll pay the bills with this guitar
We'll have it good
We'll have the life we knew we would
My word is good

Hey there Delilah
I've got so much left to say
If every simple song I wrote to you
Would take your breath away
I'd write it all
Even more in love with me you'd fall
We'd have it all

Oh it's what you do to me
Oh it's what you do to me
Oh it's what you do to me
Oh it's what you do to me

A thousand miles seems pretty far
But they've got planes and trains and cars
I'd walk to you if I had no other way
Our friends would all make fun of us
and we'll just laugh along because we know
That none of them have felt this way
Delilah I can promise you
That by the time we get through
The world will never ever be the same
And you're to blame

Hey there Delilah
You be good and don't you miss me
Two more years and you'll be done with school
And I'll be making history like I do
You'll know it's all because of you
We can do whatever we want to
Hey there Delilah here's to you
This one's for you

Oh it's what you do to me
Oh it's what you do to me
Oh it's what you do to me
Oh it's what you do to me
What you do to me.

Summer Solstice

Oh, summer breaks my heart with longing…



And this is by a Victorian poet:

Summer Days

By Wathen Marks Wilks Call (1817–90)


In summer, when the days were long,
We walk’d, two friends, in field and wood;
Our heart was light, our step was strong,
And life lay round us, fair as good,
In summer, when the days were long.

We stray’d from morn till evening came,
We gather’d flowers, and wove us crowns;
We walk’d mid poppies red as flame,
Or sat upon the yellow downs,
And always wish’d our life the same.

In summer, when the days were long,
We leap’d the hedgerow, cross’d the brook;
And still her voice flow’d forth in song,
Or else she read some graceful book,
In summer, when the days were long.

And then we sat beneath the trees,
With shadows lessening in the noon;
And in the sunlight and the breeze
We revell’d, many a glorious June,
While larks were singing o’er the leas.

In summer, when the days were long,
We pluck’d wild strawberries, ripe and red,
Or feasted, with no grace but song,
On golden nectar, snow-white bread,
In summer, when the days were long.

We lov’d, and yet we knew it not,
For loving seem’d like breathing then;
We found a heaven in every spot;
Saw angels, too, in all good men,
And dream’d of gods in grove and grot.

In summer, when the days are long,
Alone I wander, muse alone;
I see her not, but that old song
Under the fragrant wind is blown,
In summer, when the days are long.

Alone I wander in the wood,
But one fair spirit hears my sighs;
And half I see the crimson hood,
The radiant hair, the calm glad eyes,
That charm’d me in life’s summer mood.

In summer, when the days are long,
I love her as I lov’d of old;
My heart is light, my step is strong,
For love brings back those hours of gold,
In summer, when the days are long.