The Rain is Full of Ghosts Tonight

I recently moved back to a college town I lived in last school year. It's good to be back, really good to be back, but this place is a ghost town of memories. This poem doesn't really have much to do with my move, but the lines "...the rain / Is full of ghosts tonight, that tap and sigh / Upon the glass and listen for reply" keep running through my mind. So tonight, I give you a little Millay. I tend to turn to her when I am, as Wordsworth would describe, "in vacant or in pensive mood."

Edna St. Vincent Millay 

What lips my lips have kissed, and where, and why,
I have forgotten, and what arms have lain
Under my head till morning; but the rain
Is full of ghosts tonight, that tap and sigh
Upon the glass and listen for reply;
And in my heart there stirs a quiet pain
For unremembered lads that not again
Will turn to me at midnight with a cry.
Thus in the winter stands a lonely tree,
Nor knows what birds have vanished one by one,
Yet know its boughs more silent than before:
I cannot say what loves have come and gone;
I only know that summer sang in me
A little while, that in me sings no more.

Adventures with Poem in Your Pocket

Christmas miracles do occur!

Or maybe Santa reads my blog...

Either way, I am now the delighted owner of Poem in Your Pocket, an awesome collection of poems to tear and share.

I began my tearing and sharing of poetry by leaving this poem:

 

Grown-Up

Edna St. Vincent Millay

Was it for this I uttered prayers,

And sobbed and cursed and kicked the stairs,

That now, domestic as a plate,

I should retire at half-past eight?

On this shelf, in an undisclosed location.

I left a note on the back of the poem with an email address, requesting the favorite poem of whomever should find it. And hopefully, I will someday hear back.

This poetry tearing and sharing is quite thrilling.

Something in me...

Millay tonight, because I'm in the mood. This is a particular favorite of mine--primarily the first two stanzas. I have often felt that urge to get out, to go, anywhere, just go. I always return. Unlike Millay, I have no romantic notions of a lonely death. I never desire not to return home. I only need an hour or so alone. My preferred method of transportation is the car, as it is the fastest way to escape the city. But this fall I am without a car. The roads are calling to me and I am itching to drive, to explore, and to go. For now, I retreat on foot to the groves and gardens nearby, grateful for trees, river, and the solitude.

Photo by: Valerie Owens

Departure

by Edna St. Vincent Millay

It's little I care what path I take,

And where it leads it's little I care;

But out of this house, lest my heart break,

I must go, and off somewhere.

It's little I know what's in my heart,

What's in my mind it's little I know,

But there's that in me must up and start,

And it's little I care where my feet go.

I wish I could walk for a day and a night,

And find me at dawn in a desolate place

With never the rut of a road in sight,

Nor the roof of a house, nor the eyes of a face.

I wish I could walk till my blood should spout,

And drop me, never to stir again,

On a shore that is wide, for the tide is out,

And the weedy rocks are bare to the rain.

But dump or dock, where the path I take

Brings up, it's little enough I care;

And it's little I'd mind the fuss they'll make,

Huddled dead in a ditch somewhere.

"Is something the matter, dear," she said,

"That you sit at your work so silently?"

"No, mother, no, 'twas a knot in my thread.

There goes the kettle, I'll make the tea."

In Some Quite Casual Way...

Beautiful video of Edna St. Vincent Millay's "If I Should Learn, In Some Quite Casual Way." I love the mood the music gives the whole piece. Audio and visuals give poetry a whole new depth, as this video so elegantly illustrates. I love finding works like this. The words do move a little fast. You may have to watch in a few times to catch it all. I hope LimeyTwist doesn't mind me posting this. Thanks!

Any suggestions of poetic audio or visuals worth checking out?

And What Am I?

Last week I visited a fabulous bookstore in Carlsbad, California called Farenheit 451 (I believe it is purposely spelled without an "h" before "n"). There I found a 1959 copy of Edna St. Vincent Millay's Collected Lyrics. Loved the collection. I read her work while watching the sunset over the Pacific. Beautiful sunset. Beautiful poetry. I couldn't have been happier.

Photo by: Lisa Owens

I posted Millay's "Recuerdo" a couple months ago, but other than that I have been largely unfamilar with her work. There is so much Millay I would love to post. But for today I give you "The Philosopher."

The Philosopher
Edna St. Vincent Millay

And what are you that, wanting you,
I should be kept awake
As many nights as there are days
With weeping for your sake?

And what are you that, missing you,
As many days as crawl
I should be listening to the wind
And looking at the wall?

I know a man that's a braver man
And twenty men as kind,
And what are you, that you should be
The one man in my mind?

Yet women's ways are witless ways,
As any sage will tell,—
And what am I, that I should love
So wisely and so well?

Very Tired, Very Merry

Spring has finally arrived! I simply cannot get enough of the sunshine. I had forgotten how passionately blue the sky could be. The blossoms on the trees and newly planted flowers delight me incessantly. I am in love with spring. I am thinking of poems previously posted, Gerard Manley Hopkins, "Pied Beauty" and e.e. cummings' "little you-i" and "i thank you God for most this amazing;" poems that speak to me of beauty and spring.

So why then am I not posting poetry about spring? Because I'm finicky and want to post this one. I enjoy the feel of the poem, that melancholy beauty that prevails through life.

Recuerdo
Edna St. Vincent Millay

WE were very tired, we were very merry—
We had gone back and forth all night on the ferry.
It was bare and bright, and smelled like a stable—
But we looked into a fire, we leaned across a table,
We lay on a hill-top underneath the moon;
And the whistles kept blowing, and the dawn came soon.

We were very tired, we were very merry—
We had gone back and forth all night on the ferry;
And you ate an apple, and I ate a pear,
From a dozen of each we had bought somewhere;
And the sky went wan, and the wind came cold,
And the sun rose dripping, a bucketful of gold.

We were very tired, we were very merry,
We had gone back and forth all night on the ferry.
We hailed "Good morrow, mother!" to a shawl-covered head,
And bought a morning paper, which neither of us read;
And she wept, "God bless you!" for the apples and pears,
And we gave her all our money but our subway fares.

Nothing explicitly states the two as lovers, but it can be felt. I enjoy the tangibility of their relationship. I would like a lover such as that. I am waiting for a man who likes long drives, blue skies, sunsets, and star gazing. I am waiting for the man who likes to rest his head upon my lap, while I idly read poetry, sitting against a tree with the grass beneath and the blue sky above me. But, I'd be happy with the guy who is able to smile about my love for poetry without understanding, just as I will smile about his love for basketball, or whatever it might be.

And that has nothing to do with anything. Apologies for the scattered nature of recent posts.