“Children were no longer made to learn poetry by heart. And so the deep rhythms of the language, its inner music, was lost to them, because they had never had it embedded in their minds.”~Love Over Scotland by Alexander McCall Smith

A project for April, Poetry Month: Make a Memory Poem Book.

Poems for your memory poem book:
All Things Bright and Beautiful by Cecil Frances Alexander.

Pied Beauty by Gerard Manley Hopkins.

Daffodils by William Wordsworth.

The Children’s Hour by Henry Wadsworth Longfellow.

Animal Crackers by Christopher Morley.

Time for Rabbits by Aileen Fisher.

Sea Fever by John Masefield.

A Prayer in Spring by Robert Frost.

Use any poem with vivid images that are easy for a child to draw and remember.

“A wounded poet bleeds poetry.”~Richard Jesse Watson

And an insane poet bleeds crazy poetry? This poem was my very favorite poem in all the world, until I read this post several years ago at the blog of English professor Amanda Witt. Now it’s still one of my favorite poems, with a little bit of crazy mixed into my appreciation for the poet and his poem. I like the sound and the content, and if that makes me a little off-the-wall, I’m content to own the adjective.

It was many and many a year ago,
In a kingdom by the sea,
That a maiden there lived whom you may know
By the name of ANNABEL LEE;–
And this maiden she lived with no other thought
Than to love and be loved by me.

I was a child and she was a child,
In this kingdom by the sea,
But we loved with a love that was more than love,
I and my Annabel Lee–
With a love that the winged seraphs of heaven
Coveted her and me.

And this was the reason that, long ago,
In this kingdom by the sea,
A wind blew out of a cloud by night
Chilling my Annabel Lee;
So that her high-born kinsman came
And bore her away from me,
To shut her up in a sepulchre
In this kingdom by the sea.

The angels, not half so happy in Heaven,
Went envying her and me–
Yes! that was the reason (as all men know,
In this kingdom by the sea)
That the wind came out of a cloud by night,
Chilling and killing my Annabel Lee.

But our love it was stronger by far than the love
Of those who were older than we–
Of many far wiser than we-
And neither the angels in heaven above,
Nor the demons down under the sea,
Can ever dissever my soul from the soul
Of the beautiful Annabel Lee:

For the moon never beams, without bringing me dreams
Of the beautiful Annabel Lee;
And the stars never rise, but I see the bright eyes
Of the beautiful Annabel Lee;
And so, all the night-tide, I lie down by the side
Of my darling, my darling, my life and my bride,
In the sepulchre there by the sea–
In her tomb by the sounding sea.

Kelly Fineman has a more positive and down-to-earth interpretation of Poe’s famous love poem.

Edie Hemingway’s middle grade novel Road to Tater Hill features the poem Annabel Lee as a sort of touchstone for the novel’s protagonist, whose name is also Annabel.

Justin at A Bit of Randomness agrees with Ms. Witt that Annabel Lee “gets a little creepy” when the narrator lies down next to a corpse! Adrienne also says that Poe Becomes a Lot More Disturbing After You’ve Lost a Spouse.

More Poe stuff at Semicolon.

“Poetry is the rhythmical creation of beauty in words. “~Edgar Allan Poe

Poe’s The Raven is Brown Bear Daughter’s favorite poem. She had most of it memorized at one time when she was about thirteen years old. It’s one of my favorites, too; Poe had such an ability to manipulate and massage words into memorable messages.

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.”

You can go to this website, called Knowing Poe, to hear John Astin reciting Poe’s most famous poem, The Raven.

And the Raven, never flitting, still is sitting, still is sitting
On the pallid bust of Pallas just above my chamber door;
And his eyes have all the seeming of a demon’s that is dreaming,
And the lamp-light o’er him streaming throws his shadow on the floor;
And my soul from out that shadow that lies floating on the floor
Shall be lifted — nevermore!

“I am thinking of Achilles’ grief, he said. That famous, terrible grief. Let me tell you boys something. Such grief can only be told in form. Maybe it only really exists in form. Form is everything, without it you’ve got nothing but a stub-toed cry, sincere maybe, for what its worth, but with no depth or carry. No echo. You may have a grievance, but you do not have grief, and grievances are for petitions, not poetry.”Old School by Tobias Wolff

This poem by Tennyson features an aged Ulysses (Odysseus), who is still too restless and adventurous to stay put in Ithaca.

Read the entire poem. I’m getting older myself, and I can sympathize with this version of Odysseus, who wants “life piled on life.”

“Poetry is an angel with a gun in its hand.”~Jose Garcia Villa

This narrative poem by Browning is well worth your time and energy if you missed it during your school years. I don’t much like short stories, but narrative poems . . . I guess I prefer my stories, if they’re to be short, to be long poems.

My Last Duchess is a dramatic monologue delivered by an Italian duke who is commenting to a visitor on a painting of his deceased duchess. The duke’s attitude of “she smiled too easily, so she’s better off dead” is chillingly heartless.

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’ 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 favour 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 an 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 pretence
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

The poem may be specifically about Duke Alfonso II d’Este, the fifth Duke of Ferrara (1533–1598) who, at the age of 25, married Lucrezia di Cosimo de’ Medici, 14-year-old daughter of Cosimo I de’ Medici. Alfonso d’Este and Lucrezia Borgia are minor characters in one of my favorite historical novels, Prince of Foxes by Samuel Shellabarger. If you want more insight into the times and mores of sixteenth century Italy, Prince of Foxes is an excellent read. The novel tells the story of Andrea Orsini, a social climber who is determined to become a gentleman, to do whatever it takes to overcome his humble origins, including service to Cesare Borgia, the Machiavellian politician who plans to unite Italy, by force if necessary. Orsini’s fate becomes entangled with that of his servant and erstwhile assassin, Mario Belli, and also with the fortunes of a beautiful young woman, Camilla Varano, and her elderly husband, the Duke Varano of Citta del Monte. Throughout the novel, Orsini is torn between the demands of his ambition and his sense of morality and honor.

The painting of the woman is Leonardo da Vinci’s Ginevra de’Benci.

“Do you say you can’t endure poetry? What! not while you have the grand, heroic songs of Homer, the deep grandeur of Dante, the sublime majesty of Milton, the subtle, sympathetic humanity of Shakespeare, together with the sweet singing of America’s Longfellow, Whittier and Bryant?” ~Occupations for Women, 1897

UNDER a spreading chestnut-tree
The village smithy stands;
The smith, a mighty man is he,
With large and sinewy hands;
And the muscles of his brawny arms
Are strong as iron bands.

His hair is crisp, and black, and long,
His face is like the tan;
His brow is wet with honest sweat,
He earns whate’er he can,
And looks the whole world in the face,
For he owes not any man.

Week in, week out, from morn till night,
You can hear his bellows blow;
You can hear him swing his heavy sledge,
With measured beat and slow,
Like a sexton ringing the village bell,
When the evening sun is low.

And children coming home from school
Look in at the open door;
They love to see the flaming forge,
And hear the bellows roar,
And catch the burning sparks that fly
Like chaff from a threshing-floor.

He goes on Sunday to the church,
And sits among his boys;
He hears the parson pray and preach,
He hears his daughter’s voice,
Singing in the village choir,
And it makes his heart rejoice.

It sounds to him like her mother’s voice,
Singing in Paradise!
He needs must think of her once more,
How in the grave she lies;
And with his hard, rough hand he wipes
A tear out of his eyes.

Toiling,—rejoicing,—sorrowing,
Onward through life he goes;
Each morning sees some task begin,
Each evening sees it close;
Something attempted, something done,
Has earned a night’s repose.

Thanks, thanks to thee, my worthy friend,
For the lesson thou hast taught!
Thus at the flaming forge of life
Our fortunes must be wrought;
Thus on its sounding anvil shaped
Each burning deed and thought.

“The poetry of earth is never dead.”~John Keats

Bright star, would I were stedfast as thou art–
Not in lone splendour hung aloft the night
And watching, with eternal lids apart,
Like nature’s patient, sleepless Eremite,
The moving waters at their priestlike task
Of pure ablution round earth’s human shores,
Or gazing on the new soft-fallen mask
Of snow upon the mountains and the moors–
No–yet still stedfast, still unchangeable,
Pillow’d upon my fair love’s ripening breast,
To feel for ever its soft fall and swell,
Awake for ever in a sweet unrest,
Still, still to hear her tender-taken breath,
And so live ever–or else swoon to death.

A 2009 movie called Bright Star tells of the tragic love between John Keats and his neighbor, Fanny Brawne, throughout the years in which Keats wrote several of his most celebrated poems, including this sonnet. This sonnet may or may not have been written specifically for Fanny, but it is similar to these words from a letter Keats wrote to Fanny Brawne: “I will imagine you Venus tonight and pray, pray, pray to your star like a Heathen. Your’s ever, fair Star.”

“Poetry is the art of creating imaginary gardens with real toads.”~Marianne Moore

Of course, I am reminded of Anne of Green Gables whenever I read or hear mention of this poem.

On either side the river lie
Long fields of barley and of rye,
That clothe the wold and meet the sky;
And thro’ the field the road runs by
To many-tower’d Camelot;

And up and down the people go,
Gazing where the lilies blow
Round an island there below,
The island of Shalott.

Willows whiten, aspens quiver,
Little breezes dusk and shiver
Thro’ the wave that runs for ever
By the island in the river
Flowing down to Camelot.
Four gray walls, and four gray towers,
Overlook a space of flowers,
And the silent isle imbowers
The Lady of Shalott.

By the margin, willow-veil’d
Slide the heavy barges trail’d
By slow horses; and unhail’d
The shallop flitteth silken-sail’d
Skimming down to Camelot:
But who hath seen her wave her hand?
Or at the casement seen her stand?
Or is she known in all the land,
The Lady of Shalott?

Only reapers, reaping early
In among the bearded barley,
Hear a song that echoes cheerly
From the river winding clearly,
Down to tower’d Camelot:
And by the moon the reaper weary,
Piling sheaves in uplands airy,
Listening, whispers “‘Tis the fairy
Lady of Shalott”.

There she weaves by night and day
A magic web with colours gay.
She has heard a whisper say,
A curse is on her if she stay
To look down to Camelot.
She knows not what the ‘curse’ may be,
And so she weaveth steadily,
And little other care hath she,
The Lady of Shalott.

And moving thro’ a mirror clear
That hangs before her all the year,
Shadows of the world appear.
There she sees the highway near
Winding down to Camelot:
There the river eddy whirls,
And there the surly village-churls,
And the red cloaks of market girls,
Pass onward from Shalott.

Sometimes a troop of damsels glad,
An abbot on an ambling pad,
Sometimes a curly shepherd-lad,
Or long-hair’d page in crimson clad,
Goes by to tower’d Camelot;

And sometimes thro’ the mirror blue
The knights come riding two and two:
She hath no loyal knight and true,
The Lady of Shalott.

But in her web she still delights
To weave the mirror’s magic sights,
For often thro’ the silent nights
A funeral, with plumes and lights,
And music, went to Camelot:
Or when the moon was overhead,
Came two young lovers lately wed;
“I am half-sick of shadows,” said
The Lady of Shalott.

Read parts 3 and 4 of THe Lady of Shalott.