Thursday, April 21, 2011
Friday, April 15, 2011
Wednesday, April 13, 2011
Friday, April 8, 2011
Tuesday, April 5, 2011
Monday, April 4, 2011
And I'm happy as a hog in slop. Yeah, I grew up in the South, too.
Friday, April 1, 2011
Welcome to April and National Poetry Month. For some great ways to celebrate poetry this month browse this page at Poets.org. Explore thirty ways to celebrate. Carry a poem in your pocket. Send a poem to someone you love. Attend a poetry reading. There should be many venues available tis month. Try your hand at writing a poem, even if you have never written one before. Sign up for an e-mail poem a day. There are several websites who offer this service. My favorite is Your Daily Poem.
My contribution today on this first Poetry Friday of National Poetry Month is by Lucy Maud Montgomery. I loved ANNE OF GREEN GABLES. I didn't discover Montgomery's wonderful red-haired imp until I was an adult. When Public Television produced the series, I fell in love with Ann. My daughters and I watched it over and over. In fact when my oldest was getting ready to leave home, we went to a tea room with some friends one day. The music playing was from the movie. We looked at each other and both had tears running down our cheeks. Music and memories and Ann. Oops. Anne with an "e."
I know Ms. Montgomery has her own lovely voice, but when I read this poem, it's that Anne-girl I hear.
An April Night
by Lucy Maud Montgomery
The moon comes up o'er the deeps of the woods,
And the long, low dingles that hide in the hills,
Where the ancient beeches are moist with buds
Over the pools and the whimpering rills;
And with her the mists, like dryads that creep
From their oaks, or the spirits of pine-hid springs,
Who hold, while the eyes of the world are asleep,
With the wind on the hills their gay revellings.
Down on the marshlands with flicker and glow
Wanders Will-o'-the-Wisp through the night,
Seeking for witch-gold lost long ago
By the glimmer of goblin lantern-light.
The night is a sorceress, dusk-eyed and dear,
Akin to all eerie and elfin things,
Who weaves about us in meadow and mere
The spell of a hundred vanished Springs.