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[bk]

Well, you've read the notes, you've eaten your frothy bon mot, you've found your frothy bon mot delectably delectable, and now it is time for you to post until the frothy bon cows come home.

[bk]

And the word of the day is: BIFURCATE!

[Charles Pogue]

My favourite poem is THE HIGHWAYMAN by Alfred Noyes.  

"The wind was a torrent of darkness among the gusty trees,
The moon was a ghostly galleon tossed upon cloudy seas,
The road was a ribbon of moonlight over the purple moor,
And the highwayman came riding -
Riding- riding -
The highwayman came riding, up to the old inn-door."

...and on it goes...

[Tomovoz]

The love of field and coppice
Of green and shaded lanes
Of ordered woods and gardens
Is running your veins
Strong love of grey blue distance
Brown streams and soft dim skies
I know but can not share them
My love is otherwise

I love a sunburned country
A land of sweeping plains
Of rugged mountain ranges
Of droughts and flooding rains
I love her far horizons
I love her jeweled sea
Her beauty and her terror
The wide brown land for me

“My Country” – Dorothea McKeller

(I have not checked the accuracy and there are another 6 or 7 verses)
Most Australians of 50 and over would no doubt be able to quote a few verses of the poem).

[Hisaka]

DR JANE: Happy Anniversary to a great couple! And have a beautiful travel with your family!

[Hisaka]

I watched un film Callas Forever with Fanny Ardant and enjoyed it very much. Fanny Ardant is one of my favorite actresses and liked her acting and real Maria’s voice and Carmen opera in it. The story is not true to Maria Callas’ life, but the film is made with a great respect towerd her by Franco Zeffirelli.

[Hisaka]

Dear BK, Your Mitsubishi TV must be a defect.  My Sony projection TV perfectly works without changing any bulb for over five years.

[Hisaka]

I’m sorry DR JRand. Would like to give a rose bouquet to your beloved Holly...

[Danise]

Good Morning all!  Another wet one.  That makes three nights in a row we've had rain.  I'm getting tired of it.  And tired because of it.
Poor Bear makes the whole bed shake and I haven't had hardly any sleep because of it.

Sorry about the photos--they will be gone as soon as DR Jane and every one who's interested tells me they've had a chance to see them.  BTW, DR Jose, they are resized using that "For the Net" in my Adobe Photoshop so they are not as big a file as they could be.

DR Charles Pogue--that poem was set to music by Loreena McKennitt .

I like The Lady of Shalott .  She also set that poem to music.  Both are lovely.

Gotta run for the bus!

Be warm and safe and DRY!  

[elmore3003]

Well, I seem to be online for a bit this morning; let's see how long it lasts today.

Good morning, all!  This morning's my first sighting of the surgeon since the Big Day, so I hope all is going well.  

DRJRand54, I'm sorry about your loss yesterday.

DRSteveO, welcome to Mr Kimmel's partay site.  Stay a bit and tell us more about yourself.

TOD:  Yes, Dear Friend BK, I too love Mrs Parker's poetry, but I'm partial to 19th Century English romantics:
         "The Eve of St Agnes"
         "La Belle Dames Sans Merci"
         "My Last Duchess"
         "The Pied Piper of Hamelin"
         "Don Juan"
DRPogue, if memory serves, I have a lovely edition of "The Highwayman" with beautiful illustrations by a wonderful artist, Charles Mikolaycak, who died far too young.
       

[Michael]

A very happy anniversay to Jane and Kieth.
Also Happy Trails To You.

[Michael]

regarding the TOD.

I am actually a published poet. I wrote this when I was eight or nine years old. It was in a quartly journal called Viewpoints.

There is a game,
The hardest one.
No one knows how to play/

You don't roll doubles
or get two hundred for passing go.

The game is called "Peace".

[Dan (the Man)]

My favorite poet is EX-U.S. Poet Laureate, Billy Collins.  My favorite work of his is "Litany".

Litany

Billy Collins

        You are the bread and the knife,
        The crystal goblet and the wine...
        -Jacques Crickillon

You are the bread and the knife,
the crystal goblet and the wine.
You are the dew on the morning grass
and the burning wheel of the sun.
You are the white apron of the baker,
and the marsh birds suddenly in flight.

However, you are not the wind in the orchard,
the plums on the counter,
or the house of cards.
And you are certainly not the pine-scented air.
There is just no way that you are the pine-scented air.

It is possible that you are the fish under the bridge,
maybe even the pigeon on the general's head,
but you are not even close
to being the field of cornflowers at dusk.

And a quick look in the mirror will show
that you are neither the boots in the corner
nor the boat asleep in its boathouse.

It might interest you to know,
speaking of the plentiful imagery of the world,
that I am the sound of rain on the roof.

I also happen to be the shooting star,
the evening paper blowing down an alley
and the basket of chestnuts on the kitchen table.

I am also the moon in the trees
and the blind woman's tea cup.
But don't worry, I'm not the bread and the knife.
You are still the bread and the knife.
You will always be the bread and the knife,
not to mention the crystal goblet and--somehow--the wine.

[Dan (the Man)]

Flowers, candy, jewelry, gems,
A dozen roses with long stems.
'Cause I wish to say, "Come kiss me, Kate!"
What in the world should I BIFURCATE?

[vixmom]

My favourite poem is THE HIGHWAY by Alfred Noyes.  

"The wind was a torrent of darkness among the gusty trees,
The moon was a ghostly galleon tossed upon cloudy seas,
The road was a ribbon of moonlight over the purple moor,
And the highwayman came riding -
Riding- riding -
The highwayman came riding, up to the old inn-door."

...and on it goes...

Also one of my favorites

and my favorite stanza from it

"Look for me by moonlight;
                      Watch for me by moonlight;
    I'll come to thee by moonlight, though hell should bar the way! "


The entire poem can be found here http://www.potw.org/archive/potw85.html

I recommend it highly.

[vixmom]

I like poems that tell a story:



My Last Duchess (1842)  
Robert Browning

That's my last Duchess painted on the wall,

Looking as if she were alive. I call

That piece a wonder, now: Fra Pandolf's hands

Worked busily a day, and there she stands.

Will't please you sit and look at her? I said

"Fra Pandolf" by design, for never read

Strangers like you that pictured countenance,

The depth and passion of its earnest glance,

But to myself they turned (since none puts by

the curtain I have drawn for you, but I)

And seemed as they would ask me, if they durst,

How such a glance came there; so not the first

Are you to turn and ask thus. Sir, 'twas not

Her husband's presence only, called that spot

Of joy into the Duchess's cheek: perhaps

Fra Pandolf chanced to say "Her mantle laps

Over my lady's wrist too much," or "Paint must never hope to reproduce the faint

Half-flush that dies along her throat": Such stuff

Was courtesy, she thought, and cause enough

For calling up that spot of joy. She had

A heart--how shall I say?--too soon made glad,

Too easily impressed; she liked whate'er

She looked on, and her looks went everywhere.

Sir, 'twas all one! My favor at her breast,

The dropping of the daylight in the West

The bough of cherries some officious fool

Broke in the orchard for her, the white mule

She rode with round the terrace--all and each

Would draw from her alike the approving speech,

Or blush, at least. She thanked men--good! but thanked

Somehow--I know not how--as if she ranked

My gift of a nine-hundred-years-old name

With anybody's gift. Who'd stoop to blame

This sort of trifling? Even had you skill

In speech--(which I have not)--to make your will

Quite clear to such a one, and say, "Just this

Or that in you disgusts me; here you miss

Or there exceed the mark"--and if she let

Herself be lessoned so, nor plainly set

her wits to yours, forsooth, and made excuse

--E'en then would be some stooping; and I choose

Never to stoop. Oh sir, she smiled, no doubt,

Whene'er I passed her; but who passed without

Much the same smile? This grew; I gave commands;

Then all smiles stopped together. There she stands

As if alive. Will't please you rise? We'll meet

The company below, then. I repeat,

The Count your master's known munificence

Is ample warrant that no just pretense

Of mine for dowry will be disallowed;

Though his fair daughter's self, as I avowed

At starting, is my object. Nay, we'll go

Together down, sir. Notice Neptune, though,

Taming a sea horse, thought a rarity,

Which Claus of Innsbruck cast in bronze for me!

[vixmom]

My favorite poet is EX-U.S. Poet Laureate, Billy Collins.  My favorite work of his is "Litany".

Litany

Billy Collins

        You are the bread and the knife,
        The crystal goblet and the wine...
        -Jacques Crickillon

You are the bread and the knife,
the crystal goblet and the wine.
You are the dew on the morning grass
and the burning wheel of the sun.
You are the white apron of the baker,
and the marsh birds suddenly in flight.

However, you are not the wind in the orchard,
the plums on the counter,
or the house of cards.
And you are certainly not the pine-scented air.
There is just no way that you are the pine-scented air.

It is possible that you are the fish under the bridge,
maybe even the pigeon on the general's head,
but you are not even close
to being the field of cornflowers at dusk.

And a quick look in the mirror will show
that you are neither the boots in the corner
nor the boat asleep in its boathouse.

It might interest you to know,
speaking of the plentiful imagery of the world,
that I am the sound of rain on the roof.

I also happen to be the shooting star,
the evening paper blowing down an alley
and the basket of chestnuts on the kitchen table.

I am also the moon in the trees
and the blind woman's tea cup.
But don't worry, I'm not the bread and the knife.
You are still the bread and the knife.
You will always be the bread and the knife,
not to mention the crystal goblet and--somehow--the wine.

This is a new one to me.  I like it very much thank you for sharing it.

[vixmom]

John Greenleaf Whittier. 1807–1892
 
81. Barbara Frietchie
 
UP from the meadows rich with corn,  
Clear in the cool September morn,  
   
The clustered spires of Frederick stand  
Green-walled by the hills of Maryland.  
   
Round about them orchards sweep,          5
Apple and peach tree fruited deep,  
   
Fair as a garden of the Lord  
To the eyes of the famished rebel horde,  
   
On that pleasant morn of the early fall  
When Lee marched over the mountain wall,—   10
   
Over the mountains winding down,  
Horse and foot, into Frederick town.  
   
Forty flags with their silver stars,  
Forty flags with their crimson bars,  
   
Flapped in the morning wind: the sun   15
Of noon looked down, and saw not one.  
   
Up rose old Barbara Frietchie then,  
Bowed with her fourscore years and ten;  
   
Bravest of all in Frederick town,  
She took up the flag the men hauled down;   20
   
In her attic-window the staff she set,  
To show that one heart was loyal yet.  
   
Up the street came the rebel tread,  
Stonewall Jackson riding ahead.  
   
Under his slouched hat left and right   25
He glanced: the old flag met his sight.  
   
"Halt!"—the dust-brown ranks stood fast,  
"Fire!"—out blazed the rifle-blast.  
   
It shivered the window, pane and sash;  
It rent the banner with seam and gash.   30
   
Quick, as it fell, from the broken staff  
Dame Barbara snatched the silken scarf;  
   
She leaned far out on the window-sill,  
And shook it forth with a royal will.  
   
"Shoot, if you must, this old gray head,   35
But spare your country's flag," she said.  
   
A shade of sadness, a blush of shame,  
Over the face of the leader came;  
   
The nobler nature within him stirred  
To life at that woman's deed and word:   40
   
"Who touches a hair of yon gray head  
Dies like a dog! March on!" he said.  
   
All day long through Frederick street  
Sounded the tread of marching feet:  
   
All day long that free flag tost   45
Over the heads of the rebel host.  
   
Ever its torn folds rose and fell  
On the loyal winds that loved it well;  
   
And through the hill-gaps sunset light  
Shone over it with a warm good-night.   50
   
Barbara Frietchie's work is o'er,  
And the Rebel rides on his raids no more.  
   
Honor to her! and let a tear  
Fall, for her sake, on Stonewall's bier.  
   
Over Barbara Frietchie's grave,   55
Flag of Freedom and Union, wave!  
   
Peace and order and beauty draw  
Round thy symbol of light and law;  
   
And ever the stars above look down  
On thy stars below in Frederick town!   60
 

[JoseSPiano]

Good Morning!

Ah, FROTHY BON MOTS!  Could I get mine malted?



Whatever...

[Matt H.]

I'm sure Charles Pogue will catch the mis-title of his poem - it's "The Highwayman," I believe. I taught it for many years when I had seventh graders and always loved it for teaching metaphors, alliteration, and other literary devices.

[vixmom]

Of course a spooky story to go with all my tragic ones

The Raven


Once upon a midnight dreary, while I pondered, weak and weary,
Over many a quaint and curious volume of forgotten lore,
While I nodded, nearly napping, suddenly there came a tapping,
As of some one gently rapping, rapping at my chamber door.
"'Tis some visitor," I muttered, "tapping at my chamber door-
Only this, and nothing more


http://www.classic-romantic-love-poems.com/poems-poe.htm

[Matt H.]

I'm sure many of you here from MY generation had to memorize a lot of poetry when you were going through school, and you, like me, probably had to stand before the class and recite.

For recitation, I always loved "Oh Captain, My Captain" by Walt Whitman. We had to do that one in eighth grade.

[Matt H.]

But the one I still remember to this day (maybe with a few misplaced words) is by Emily Dickinson:



If I could stop one heart from breaking,
I shall not live in vain.

If I could ease one life the aching
Or cure one pain,

Or help a fainting robin
Unto its nest again,

I shall not live in vain.

[Matt H.]

Sorry about the bulb problem, bk. The high intensity bulbs on these microdisplay TVs are not known for LONG life anyway, especially with as much as we both use our TVs, but three months! Yep, definitely defective.

BTW, bk, does your Mitsubishi alert you when the lamp life is almost up? Supposedly, my JVC does this so that a new bulb can be ordered before the old one blows out.

[JoseSPiano]

As for poems...

Since I'm still waking up, I shall have to think about today's topic whilst I am out and about today.  In the meantime, I greatly admire much of the poetry that inspired many of the composers of the early 20th Century - Verlaine, Rimbaud, etc.  All those Parnassians, Symbolists, etc.  *My Song Literature teacher in college spent a great deal of time analyzing the poetry and poets that the composers set to music - great class! Great Teacher!

I also like Rilke.

And... Hmm....  I really am drawing a blank right now...

In any case...

When I was in high school, my English class would have field trips of source to the Hirschorn Museum here in DC.  They used to have a lovely series of evenings where a living poet would read poetry of the poet or poets they admired, the ones that inspired them.  Additionally, there was always a musical component to each evening.  Sometimes it would be a individual musician other times a group.  All types of genres, and all types of presentations.  Everything from art songs to instrumental pieces inspired by the poets.  After each program, there was a very informal question and answer session, and they would also open up the Hirschorn for after-hours "browsing".  Always a great evening, great "homework".  Sometimes there was as an art exhibition in conjunction with the poetry event - well, vice versa - and the way one's eyes viewed the art after "hearing" it was always fascinating and wondrous.

[Ginny]

I'm sure many of you here from MY generation had to memorize a lot of poetry when you were going through school, and you, like me, probably had to stand before the class and recite.

Yes, DR MattH, here's the one I memorized and recited in 5th or 6th grade:

The Children's Hour by Henry Wadsworth Longfellow

Between the dark and the daylight,
When the night is beginning to lower,
Comes a pause in the day's occupations,
That is known as the Children's Hour.

I hear in the chamber above me
The patter of little feet,
The sound of a door that is opened,
And voices soft and sweet.

From my study I see in the lamplight,
Descending the broad hall stair,
Grave Alice, and laughing Allegra,
And Edith with golden hair.

A whisper, and then a silence:
Yet I know by their merry eyes
They are plotting and planning together
To take me by surprise.

A sudden rush from the stairway,
A sudden raid from the hall!
By three doors left unguarded
They enter my castle wall!

They climb up into my turret
O'er the arms and back of my chair;
If I try to escape, they surround me;
They seem to be everywhere.

They almost devour me with kisses,
Their arms about me entwine,
Till I think of the Bishop of Bingen
In his Mouse-Tower on the Rhine!

Do you think, o blue-eyed banditti,
Because you have scaled the wall,
Such an old mustache as I am
Is not a match for you all!

I have you fast in my fortress,
And will not let you depart,
But put you down into the dungeon
In the round-tower of my heart.

And there will I keep you forever,
Yes, forever and a day,
Till the walls shall crumble to ruin,
And moulder in dust away!

[vixmom]

I would be most remiss not to mention the famous  Long Island poet, Walt Whitman, who has been grante the highest honor that Long  Island can bestow.

We have named a shopping mall after him (directly across the street from his bitrhplace!), I'm sure, wherever he is, he's SO proud.....



O CAPTAIN! MY CAPTAIN!
by Walt Whitman

I.

O captain! my captain! our fearful trip is done;
The ship has weathered every rack, the prize we sought is won;
The port is near, the bells I hear, the people all exulting,
While follow eyes the stead keel, the vessel grim and daring.

But O heart! heart! heart!
O the bleeding drops of red!
Where on the deck my captain lies,
Fallen cold and dead.

II.

O captain! my captain! rise up and hear the bells;
Rise up! for you the flag is flung, for you the bugle trills:
For you bouquets and ribboned wreaths, for you the shores a-crowding:
For you they call, the swaying mass, their eager faces turning.

O captain! dear father!
This arm beneath your head;
It is some dream that on the deck
You've fallen cold and dead.

III.

My captain does not answer, his lips are pale and still;
My father does not feel my arm, he has no pulse nor will.
The ship is anchored safe and sound, its voyage closed and done:
From fearful trip the victor ship comes in with object won!

Exult, O abores! and ring, O bells!
But I, with silent tread,
Walk the spot my captain lies
Fallen cold and dead.

 

[JoseSPiano]

DR Danise - Those "Save for Net/Web" features really are neat.  It almost makes me want to study just how they do that...  Well... Maybe not... But it's still neato!

[Stuart]

My favorite poem is "The Road Not Taken," by Robert Frost.

[JoseSPiano]

Well, I need to be at the theatre by Noon.  I'm sitting in the understudy run-through this afternoon.  And if I am to get there by Noon, that means I must be on the Metro by 11:15, which means I must start getting ready soon.  -I also have to take care of a few phone calls and e-mails before heading out too.  So...

I'll bring my laptop with me, but I'm not sure if I'll have internet access while I'm downtown.  And I'm also not sure if I'll be playing the show tonight.  If not, then I'll be back by 6:00.  If so, it'll be midnight.  In any case...