The House Was Quiet And The World Was Calm
I Think Continually Of Those Who Were Great
One Perfect Rose
By the time you swear you’re his,
Shivering and sighing,
And he vows his passion is
Infinite, undying –
Lady, make a note of this:
One of you is lying.
Mr. Otto Pfeiff shared his love of poetry with enthusiasm, laughter, and unadulterated adoration. His smile was infectious. He was a slender man, full of energy and eagerness. He taught from The Norton Anthology of Poetry, Third Edition. Over 1400 pages of rhyme and reason. Amazon actually lists the entire contents.
This assignment may have been the final for the class.
- Mauve one inch 3-ring binder, check.
- Black construction paper
- Mauve linen resume paper
- Watercolors (cheap)
- Watercolor paper (cheapest)
I don’t remember why I chose these particular poems. Some I remember with affection. Some may have made an impression when Mr. Pfeiff read them. Many are about love or romance. At the time, I was alone in the big city, Denver. Starting school where I knew no one. My boyfriend had just joined the Marines and was out of state. So yes, I was likely lonely and pining.
I do remember having to type several of these over, there was no “mauve” wite-out. Haha. And I remember being frustrated with the watercolor paper. It was really awful. This may have been the first time I painted in watercolor. Certainly looks it. Haha.
This post is more for myself. A record to look back on. I think you will enjoy it. Last year, I had the goal of scanning documents and photos. Digital records, in case of fire. In March I started organizing those files. Cleaning the scans if needed, naming, and sorting. I thought this might be worth a share.
I wanted to do a fancy animated slideshow with fading transitions and possibly even music. HA! Laughing at myself. After more than a week, this is where I am at. It’s been too long since I made a video, and Photoshop has apparently changed things around. After finally getting everything just right, I could not figure out how to save it correctly. Haha! And none of the Youtube videos bothered with that little detail.
Somehow I ended up with over 2400 separate documents!!! Yikes! Haha! I will try again at some point. After my brain has recovered. It was so easy before. Sigh.
There are links to each of the poems. If you are so inclined. If it is raining, or the electricity has gone out. Haha. I know even with being stuck at home, there is a never-ending to-do list. If you are a lover of words, and writing, poems, and poets, Chandra Lynn has been sharing wonderful works. She is a wonderful friend and an excellent educator.
Happy National Poetry Month!
Happy, Healthy, Blessed weekend!
There Was A Lady Sweet And Kind
I Being Born A Woman And Distressed
When You Are Old
I have been here before,
But when or how I cannot tell:
I know the grass beyond the door,
The sweet keen smell,
The sighing sound, the lights around the shore.
You have been mine before,—
How long ago I may not know:
But just when at that swallow’s soar
Your neck turn’d so,
Some veil did fall,—I knew it all of yore.
Has this been thus before?
And shall not thus time’s eddying flight
Still with our lives our love restore
In death’s despite,
And day and night yield one delight once more?
Dante Gabriel Rossetti
She Walks In Beauty
To His Coy Mistress
We Wear The Mask
Talking In Bed
The Road Not Taken
We Wear The Mask
We wear the mask that grins and lies,
It hides our cheeks and shades our eyes,—
This debt we pay to human guile;
With torn and bleeding hearts we smile,
And mouth with myriad subtleties.
Why should the world be over-wise,
In counting all our tears and sighs?
Nay, let them only see us, while
We wear the mask.
We smile, but, O great Christ, our cries
To thee from tortured souls arise.
We sing, but oh the clay is vile
Beneath our feet, and long the mile;
But let the world dream otherwise,
We wear the mask!
Paul Laurence Dunbar
Since Feeling Is First
When We Two Parted
Boy At The Window
Boy At The Window
Seeing the snowman standing all alone
In dusk and cold is more than he can bear.
The small boy weeps to hear the wind prepare
A night of gnashings and enormous moan.
His tearful sight can hardly reach to where
The pale-faced figure with bitumen eyes
Returns him such a God-forsaken stare
As outcast Adam gave to paradise.
The man of snow is, nonetheless, content,
Having no wish to go inside and die.
Still, he is moved to see the youngster cry.
Though frozen water is his element,
He melts enough to drop from one soft eye
A trickle of the purest rain, a tear
For the child at the bright pane surrounded by
Such warmth, such light, such love, and so much fear.
Genuine poetry can communicate before it is understood.
T. S. Eliot
Painting is silent poetry, and poetry is painting that speaks. Plutarch
In all my work, in the movies I write, the lyrics,
the poetry, the prose, the essays,
I am saying that we may encounter many defeats –
maybe it’s imperative that we encounter the defeats –
but we are much stronger than we appear to be
and maybe much better than we allow ourselves to be. Human beings are more alike than unalike.