A Poem for Every Day of the Year

o by the by by E.E. Cummings

E.E. Cummings was an unconventional American poet, who based his verse on the sound of words rather than attempting to tell a story or make a point. Perhaps not to everyone’s taste, Cummings’ poetry was certainly innovative.

E. E. Cummings. Source: Britannica

o by the by

o by the by

has anybody seen

little you-i

who stood on a green

hill and threw

his wish at blue

with a swoop and a dart

out flew his wish

(it dived like a fish

but it climbed like a dream)

throbbing like a heart

singing like a flame

blue took it my

far beyond far

and high beyond high

bluer took it your

but bluest took it our

away beyond where

what a wonderful thing

is the end of a string

(murmurs little you-i

as the hill becomes nil)

and will somebody tell

me why people let go

Into my Heart an Air that Kills by A. E. Housman

The ‘blue remembered hills’ of Housman’s poems are oft-quoted, but this is less a nature verse, and more one of the inaccessibility of the past. What’s done is done appears to be Housman’s message, no matter how much we may yearn to go back.

Hills Far Away by Anthony Mwangi (2016). Source: Pixels.com

Into my Heart an Air that Kills

Into my heart an air that kills

From yon far country blows:

What are those blue remembered hills,

What spires, what farms are those?

That is the land of lost content,

I see it shining plain,

The happy highways where I went

And cannot come again.

Robinson Crusoe’s Wise Sayings by Ian McMillan

Robinson Crusoe by Daniel Defoe was published on this day in 1719. It is generally believed to be the first English novel. Many readers thought it was an autobiography and that Crusoe’s adventures were real. McMillan’s poem gently mocks Crusoe’s extraordinary experiences by imagining the character constructing wise sayings on the back of them.

Robinson Crusoe by Walter Paget. Source: Wikipedia

Robinson Crusoe’s Wise Sayings

You can never have too many turtle eggs.

I’m the most interesting person in this room.

A beard is as long as I want it to be.

The swimmer on his own doesn’t need trunks.

A tree is a good clock.

If you talk long enough to a rock you’ll fall asleep.

I know it’s Christmas because I cry.

Waving at ships is useless.

Footprints make me happy, unless they’re my own.

Incident of the French Camp by Robert Browning

The Battle of Ratisbon took place on this day in 1809, between the French forces of the Emperor Napoleon, and those of imperial Austria; the French won. In this poem Browning imagines an exchange between the Emperor and a dauntless young French soldier bearing a message from the front. Three of the six stanzas follow below.

The Battle of Ratisbon by Charles Thevenin. Source: Route You website

Incident of the French Camp

You know, we French storm’d Ratisbon:

A mile or so away,

On a little mound, Napoleon

Stood on our storming-day;

With neck out-thrust, you fancy how,

Legs wide, arms lock’d behind,

As if to balance the prone brow

Oppressive with its mind.

…

Then off there flung in smiling joy,

And held himself erect

By just his horse’s mane, a boy:

You hardly could suspect -

(So tight he kept his lips compressed,

Scarce any blood came through)

You look’d twice ere you saw his breast

Was all but shot in two.

…

The chief’s eye flashed; but presently

Softened itself, as sheathes

A film the mother-eagle’s eye

When her bruised eaglet breathes.

‘You’re wounded!’ ‘Nay,’ the soldier’s pride

Touch’d to the quick, he said:

‘I’m kill’d, Sire!’ And his chief beside

Smiling the boy fell dead.

from Richard II by William Shakespeare

Today is St George’s Day, the patron saint of England. It is also the traditional date for Shakespeare’s birthday. In the passage below from Richard II, the playwright extols England, in terms many still find stirring today.

Image by Maruisz Matuszewski. Sources: Pixabay and Poetry in Surrey Libraries website

from Richard II

This royal throne of kings, this sceptered isle,

This earth of majesty, this seat of Mars,

This other Eden, demi-paradise,

This fortress built by Nature for herself

Against infection and the hand of war;

This happy breed of men, this little world;

This precious stone set in a silver sea,

Which serves it in the office of a wall,

Or as a moat defensive to a house,

Against the envy of less happier lands;

This blessed plot, this earth, this realm, this England.

The Woodspurge by Dante Gabriel Rossetti

Rossetti was a poet as well as an artist. Here, grief stricken, nothing touches him but the sight of the spring blooming British wildflower, the woodspurge.

Source: Nature Spot website

The Woodspurge

The wind flapped loose, the wind was still,

Shaken out dead from tree and hill:

I had walked on at the wind’s will, -

I sat now, for the wind was still.

Between my knees my forehead was, -

My lips, drawn in, said not Alas!

My hair was over in the grass,

My naked ears heard the day pass.

My eyes, wide open, had the run

Of some ten weeds to fix upon;

Among those few, out of the sun,

The woodspurge flowered, three cups in one.

From perfect grief there need not be

Wisdom or even memory:

One thing then learnt remains to me, -

The woodspurge has a cup of three.

from The Old Vicarage, Grantchester by Rupert Brooke

Brooke wrote this poem while recovering from a nervous breakdown in Berlin. It is a happy poem, filled with nostalgia for his time as a student at Cambridge University, and the picturesque nearby village of Grantchester where he spent much of his free time.

Grantchester, Cambridgeshire. Source: Cambridge News

from The Old Vicarage, Grantchester

Ah God! to see the branches stir

Across the moon at Grantchester!

To smell the thrilling-sweet and rotten

Unforgettable, unforgotten

River-smell, and hear the breeze

Sobbing in the little trees.

Say, do the elm-clumps greatly stand

Still guardians of that holy land?

The chestnuts shade, in reverend dream,

The yet unacademic stream?

Is dawn a secret shy and cold

Anadyomene, silver-gold?

And sunset still a golden sea

From Haslingfield to Madingley?

And after, ere the night is born,

Do hares come out about the corn?

Oh, is the water sweet and cool,

Gentle and brown, above the pool?

And laughs the immortal river still

Under the mill, under the mill?

Say, is there Beauty yet to find?

And Certainty? and Quiet kind?

Deep meadows yet, for to forget

The lies, the truths, and pain?…oh! yet

Stands the Church clock at ten to three?

And is there honey still for tea?

I Had a Dove by John Keats

This sad tale of a captive dove that died, much to the distress of its human owner, is made all the more poignant by the fact that Keats himself died at the age of 25.

The Captive Dove. Source: Poem Analysis

I Had a Dove

I had a dove, and the sweet dove died;

And I have thought it died of grieving:

O, what could it grieve for? Its feet were tied,

With a silken thread of my own hand’s weaving;

Sweet little red feet, why should you die?

Why should you leave me, sweet bird, why?

You liv’d alone on the forest tree,

Why, pretty thing! could you not live with me?

I kiss’d you oft and gave you white peas;

Why not live sweetly, as in the green trees?

Concord Hymn by Ralph Waldo Emerson

The Battle of Lexington and Concord, the opening battle of the American War of Independence, took place on this day in 1775. An inconclusive clash between a Massachusetts Patriot militia and a squad of Redcoats, the fight nonetheless marked the irrevocable descent into war between the American colonies and the British Crown. The war would last eight years and end with the secession of the colonies from the British Empire and, ultimately, the formation of the United States of America.

The Battle of Lexington by William Barnes Wollen (1910). Source: Wikipedia

Concord Hymn

By the rude bridge that arched the flood,

Their flag to April’s breeze unfurled,

Here once the embattled farmers stood

And fired the shot heard round the world.

The foe long since in silence slept;

Alike the conqueror silent sleeps;

And Time the ruined bridge has swept

Down the dark stream which seaward creeps.

On this green bank, by this soft stream,

We set today a votive stone;

That memory may their dead redeem,

When, like our sires, our sons are gone.

Spirit, that made those heroes dare

To die, and leave their children free,

Bid Time and Nature gently spare

The shaft we raise to them and thee.

Waste Land Limericks by Wendy Cope

Eliot may be one of the titans of English literature but his opaque and pretentious verse is easily lampooned. Wendy Cope amusingly pokes fun at The Waste Land’s classical references and depressing urban imagery in a series of entertaining “limericks”, four of which follow below.

Source: Boston Area and Small Press Scene website

Waste Land Limericks

I

In April one seldom feels cheerful;

Dry stones, sun and dust make me fearful;

Clairvoyantes distress me,

Commuters depress me -

Met Stetson and gave him an earful.

II

She sat on an almighty fine chair

Sparks flew as she tidied her hair;

She asks many questions

I make few suggestions -

Bad as Albert and Lil - what a pair!

III

The Thames runs, bones rattle, rats creep;

Tiresias fancies a peep -

A typist laid,

A record is played -

Wei la la. After that it gets deep.

V

No water. Dry rocks and dry throats,

Then thunder, a shower of quotes

From the Sanskrit and Dante.

Da. Damyata. Shantih.

I hope you’ll make sense of the notes.

from The Waste Land by T.S. Eliot

Eliot is one of the most important poets in the English language. Impressionistic, intellectual and sometimes wilfully obscure, his poetry is suffused with mythic themes and melancholia. His most epic work is The Waste Land, a tale of decline and wonder, rooted in pagan myth but speaking to an unhappy twentieth century present. One small excerpt of this extraordinary work follows below.

Autumn 1877 by Carl Fredrik Hill. Source: Read Castle website

from The Waste Land

I. The Burial of the Dead

April is the cruellest month, breeding

Lilacs out of the dead land, mixing

Memory and desire, stirring

Dull roots with spring rain.

Winter kept us warm, covering

Earth in forgetful snow, feeding

A little life with dried tubers.

Summer surprised us, coming over the Starnbergersee

With a shower of rain; we stopped in the colonnade,

And went on in sunlight, into the Hofgarten,

And drank coffee, and talked for an hour.

Bin gar keine Russin, stamm’ aus Litauen, echt deutsch.

And when we were children, staying at the arch-duke’s,

My cousin’s, he took me out in a sled

And I was frightened. He said, Marie,

Marie, hold on tight. And down we went.

In the mountains, there you feel free.

I read, much of the night, and go south in the winter.

Will Ye No Come Back Again? by Carolina Oliphaunt, Lady Nairne

On this day in 1746, the Jacobite Rebellion, led by Prince Charles Edward Stuart (“Bonnie Prince Charlie”) was finally defeated by the Hanoverian forces of King George II at the Battle of Culloden. The prince fled for France, deserting his largely Highland Scots army, never to return. Oliphaunt summons up the feelings of sorrow and loss the defeat of the Jacobite cause left in many of Charles’ followers.

Source: Historic UK

Will Ye No Come Back Again?

Will ye no come back again?

Will ye no come back again?

Better lo’ed ye cannae be,

Will ye no come back again?

Bonnie Charlie’s now awa,

Safely owre the friendly main;

Mony a heart will break in twa,

Should he ne’er come back again.

Ye trusted in your Hieland men,

They trusted you, dear Charlie;

They kent you hiding in the Glen,

Your cleadin’ was but barely.

…

We watched thee in the gloaming hour,

We watched thee in the morning grey;

Tho’ thirty thousand pounds they’d gie,

Oh there is nane that wad betray.

…

Will ye no come back again?

Will ye no come back again?

Better lo’ed ye cannae be,

Will ye no come back again?

Ode on the Loss of the Titanic by Geoffrey Hill

On this day in 1912, RMS Titanic sank in the icy waters of the North Atlantic on its maiden voyage from Southampton to New York. The sinking’s death toll was catastrophic: over 1500 people died of drowning or exposure, nearly three quarters of the passengers and crew.

Untergang der Titanic by Willy Slower (1912). Source: Wikipedia

Ode on the Loss of the Titanic

Thriving against facades the ignorant sea

Souses our public baths, statues, waste ground:

Archaic earth-shaker, fresh enemy

(‘The tables of exchange being overturned’);

Drowns Babel in upheaval and display;

Unswerving, as were the admired multitudes

Silenced from time to time under its sway.

By all means let us appease the terse gods.

The Woods and Banks by W.H. Davies

The return of cuckoos to the U.K. supposedly takes place today, St Tiburtius’ Day, or Cuckoo Day. Davies’ poem celebrates the migrants’ return.

Source: The Guardian

The Woods and Banks

The woods and banks of England now,

Late coppered with dead leaves and old,

Have made the early violets grow,

And bulge with knots of primrose gold.

Hear how the blackbird flutes away,

Whose music scorns to sleep at night:

Hear how the cuckoo shouts all day

For echoes - to the world’s delight:

Hullo, you imp of wonder, you -

Where are you now, cuckoo? Cuckoo?

The Song of Wandering Aengus by W.B. Yeats

Yeats often mined Irish mythology for his poetry and in this poem he features Aengus, the Irish pagan god of youth and love, although in the final stanza he describes and old and obsessed figure, wandering the land, searching for a lost vision of female loveliness.

Aengus Celtic God of Love by Upwork. Source: Reddit

The Song of Wandering Aengus

I went to the hazel wood,

Because a fire was in my head,

And cut and peeled a hazel wand,

And hooked a berry to a thread;

And when white moths were on the wing,

And moth-like stars were flickering out,

I dropped the berry in a stream

And caught a little silver trout.

When I had laid it on the floor

I went to blow the fire aflame,

But something rustled on the floor,

And someone called me by my name;

It had become a glimmering girl

With apple blossom in her hair

Who called me by my name and ran

And faded through the brightening air.

Though I am old with wandering

Through hollow lands and hilly lands,

I will find out where she has gone,

And kiss her lips and take her hands;

And walk among long dappled grass,

And pluck time and times are done,

The silver apples of the moon,

The golden apples of the sun.

Dear Yuri by Brian Moses

On this day in 1961, the Russian cosmonaut Yuri Gagarin became the first human to travel in space and to orbit the earth. His groundbreaking flight led directly to the “space race” between the United States and the Soviet Union, essentially an adjunct of the Cold War.

Yuri Gagarin in Helsinki in 1961. Source: Wikipedia

Dear Yuri

Dear Yuri, I remember you,

the man with the funny name

who the Russians sent into space,

were you desperate for fame?

There surely must have been safer ways

to get into the history books,

perhaps you couldn’t rock like Elvis

or you hadn’t got James Dean’s looks.

Perhaps you couldn’t fight like Ali

or make a political speech

so they packed you into a spaceship

and sent you out of Earth’s reach.

And Yuri, what was it like

to be way out there in space,

the first to break free of Earth’s gravity

and look down on the human race?

Dear Yuri, I wanted to say

that I remember your flight,

I remember your name, Gagarin,

and the newsreel pictures that night.

And you must have pep talked the others

when they took off into the blue.

I’ve forgotten their names, but Yuri,

I’ll always remember you.