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!

It is for me a day of rest, of planting tomatoes, of weeding the flower beds, of relaxing in the warmth of the yellow sun.

But before all that, I may go to Danvers Town Hall to observe Memorial Day, walk along part of the parade route, record the band for a video. I am the editor of the paper. But, since I also have a cold, and since Community Editor Myrna Fearer will also be there, I may not go.

Still, there is something very folksy and old-fashioned about the Danvers Memorial Day Parade. It brings to mind the parades of my youth, when I marched with the Brownies or, after I’d quit, ran alongside my friends who belonged to some other troop. It was a fun time, not at all sombre. I didn’t listen to the speeches. Unfortunately, now I do.

They’re not eloquent. After all, there aren’t very many Abraham Lincolns in the world who can hit the absolute perfect pitch of sadness, regret, and respect for the sacrifices made by those who serve and by  those whose sons, fathers, brothers — and today, daughters, mothers, sisters — are maimed or killed.

I am in general a pacifist. So, sometimes it is difficult for me to listen to these annual, hometown speeches, since they tend to include a little glorification of war along with honor for those who serve. War is not glorious. It is the greatest failure of human beings, no matter how heroic its participants are individually and collectively. It is an abomination.

Wilfred Owen, an English soldier and poet, died a few days before the end of World War I. He was 25, I think. He is one of the greatest anti-war poets ever. Just think, had he lived, what he might have achieved!

ANTHEM FOR DOOMED YOUTH

What passing-bells for these who die as cattle?

Only the monstrous anger of the guns.

Only the stuttering rifles’ rapid rattle

Can patter out their hasty orisons.

No mockeries now for them; no prayers nor bells;

Nor any voice of mourning save the choirs, –

The shrill, demented choirs of wailing shells;

And bugles calling for them from sad shires.

What candles may be held to speed them all?

Not in the hands of boys but in their eyes

Shall shine the holy glimmers of goodbyes.

The pallor of girls’ brows shall be their pall;

Their flowers the tenderness of patient minds,

And each slow dusk a drawing-down of blinds.

Spring can really hang you up the most. Those words were in a song on a record by Jackie and Roy ( I think that was the name of the very talented duo) that my parents used to play. It was a love song, of course. Spring and love do seem to go together. It was also a bit of a melancholy love song, which also seem to go together all too often.

Which is all an introduction to an apology for being lax about the blog! Spring hung me up with this and that… none of which had to do with sad love songs, just a general malaise when my work was done, or a bit of gardening when the sun shone, and other excuses.

So, I am going to share a great and silly poem (although probably quite pithy, too) by Edward Lear.

For your reading pleasure, then …

The Owl and the Pussycat

I

The Owl and the Pussy-cat went to sea

In a beautiful pea green boat,

They took some honey, and plenty of money,

Wrapped up in a five pound note.

The Owl looked up to the stars above,

And sang to a small guitar,

‘O lovely Pussy! O Pussy my love,

What a beautiful Pussy you are,

You are,

You are!

What a beautiful Pussy you are!’

II

Pussy said to the Owl, ‘You elegant fowl!

How charmingly sweet you sing!

O let us be married! too long we have tarried:

But what shall we do for a ring?’

They sailed away, for a year and a day,

To the land where the Bong-tree grows

And there in a wood a Piggy-wig stood

With a ring at the end of his nose,

His nose,

His nose,

With a ring at the end of his nose.

III

‘Dear pig, are you willing to sell for one shilling

Your ring?’ Said the Piggy, ‘I will.’

So they took it away, and were married next day

By the Turkey who lives on the hill.

They dined on mince, and slices of quince,

Which they ate with a runcible spoon;

And hand in hand, on the edge of the sand,

They danced by the light of the moon,

The moon,

The moon,

They danced by the light of the moon.