It feels more like October than August these past few days, which is actually kind of nice. A hint of hurricane is in the air, although the weatherman calls it a nor’easter, a term I loathe. Why can’t they just say northeaster? I don’t remember anyone talking without the “th” in the word until the last few years. Is it really the way people in Maine say it? Or is it midwesterners trying to go native?

Sorry. That’s just a pet peeve.

In any case, the ocean was sublime yesterday. I had walked there when the rain eased into a drizzle. I always feel so lucky  when I take time out to go to the sea, and I start digging into my memory for the words to John Masefield’s wonderful poem, “I must go down to the sea again.” Actually, that’s a bit of a misquote, I discovered. I knew it by heart when required to in grade school, and I always think if I just dig down deep enough it will all come back. It doesn’t. So, I went to Google and found it.

Sea Fever

By John Masefield

I must down to the seas again, to the lonely sea and the sky,

And all I ask is a tall ship and a star to steer her by,

And the wheel’s kick and the wind’s song and the white sail’s shaking,

And a gray mist on the sea’s face, and a gray dawn breaking.

…

I must down to the seas again, for the call of the running tide

Is a wild call and a clear call that may not be denied;

And all I ask is a windy day with the white clouds flying,

And the flung spray and the blown spume, and the sea-gulls crying.

…

I must down to the seas again, to the vagrant gypsy life,

To the gull’s way and the whale’s way, where the wind’s like a whetted knife;

And all I ask is a merry yarn from a laughing fellow-rover,

And quiet sleep and a sweet dream when the long trick’s over.

……………………………………………………………………….

Wonderful, isn’t it?

But, my theme this month was supposed to be summer, so here’s another summer poem, too.

Back Yard

by Carl Sandburg (1916)

Shine on, O moon of summer.

Shine to the leaves of grass, catalpa and oak,

All silver under your rain to-night.

…

An Italian boy is sending songs to you to-night from an accordion.

A Polish boy is out with his best girl; they marry next month;

to-night they are throwing you kisses.

…

An old man next door is dreaming over a sheen that sits in a

cherry tree in his back yard.

…

The clocks say I must go—I stay here sitting on the back porch drinking

white thoughts you rain down.

…

Shine on, O moon,

Shake out more and more silver changes.

—————————————–

So, although I love the rain, here’s hoping the moon light will soon be all that rains, as Sandburg says, through the tent of night.

Instead of boring you with my own silly little thoughts about the glorious summer, I’ve decided to post poems by famous poets. Here’s one by Amy Lowell, for your reading pleasure. Stay tuned. I’ll have a different poem tomorrow. (Well, I really shouldn’t make promises, particularly in the lazy, hazy, crazy days of summer… why, I think that could make a very nice song lyric. Oops,I’m dating myself.)

Summer

by Amy Lowell

Some men there are who find in nature all

Their inspiration, hers the sympathy

Which spurs them on to any great endeavor,

To them the fields and woods are closest friends,

And they hold dear communion with the hills;

The voice of waters soothes them with its fall,

And the great winds bring healing in their sound.

To them a city is a prison house

Where pent up human forces labour and strive,

Where beauty dwells not, driven forth by man;

But where in winter they must live until

Summer gives back the spaces of the hills.

To me it is not so. I love the earth

And all the gifts of her so lavish hand:

Sunshine and flowers, rivers and rushing winds,

Thick branches swaying in a winter storm,

And moonlight playing in a boat’s wide wake;

But more than these, and much, ah, how much more,

I love the very human heart of man.

Above me spreads the hot, blue mid-day sky,

Far down the hillside lies the sleeping lake

Lazily reflecting back the sun,

And scarcely ruffled by the little breeze

Which wanders idly through the nodding ferns.

The blue crest of the distant mountain, tops

The green crest of the hill on which I sit;

And it is summer, glorious, deep-toned summer,

The very crown of nature’s changing year

When all her surging life is at its full.

To me alone it is a time of pause,

A void and silent space between two worlds,

When inspiration lags, and feeling sleeps,

Gathering strength for efforts yet to come.

For life alone is creator of life,

And closest contact with the human world

Is like a lantern shining in the night

To light me to a knowledge of myself.

I love the vivid life of winter months

In constant intercourse with human minds,

When every new experience is gain

And on all sides we feel the great world’s heart;

The pulse and throb of life which makes us men!