Archive for the ‘ Poetry ’ Category


Today is the anniversary of the birth of American poet William Cullen Bryant.

Born in a log cabin near Cummington, Mass in 1794, he was the second son of a family in which both parents could trace their ancestry back to the Mayflower.

Bryant’s poetry is tender, some would say graceful…but shouldn’t poetry be graceful?

He had a love of the woods, its silence, and as a youth and adult spent much time there seeing inspiration.

I don’t do much about poetry or poets on the blog, but as winter and its wonderful holidays approach and November gets off to a roaring start, I thought a sampling of his poetry might be nice.

Here is November.

Yet one smile more, departing, distant sun!

One mellow smile through the soft vapory air,

Ere, o’er the frozen earth, the loud winds run,

Or snows are sifted o’er the meadows bare.

One smile on the brown hills and naked trees,

And the dark rocks whose summer wreaths are cast,

And the blue gentian flower, that, in the breeze,

Nods lonely, of her beauteous race the last.

Yet a few sunny days, in which the bee

Shall murmur by the hedge that skirts the way,

The cricket chirp upon the russet lea,

And man delight to linger in thy ray.

Yet one rich smile, and we will try to bear

The piercing winter frost, and winds, and darkened air.


Happy Friday, happy November.

A Noiseless Patient Spider

Today is Walt Whitman’s birthday, he was born in 1819.

Whitman was a poetry man, I am not.

I know, I’m a Philistine in that area.

But, the man had talent, so I’ll honor him anyway!

Most of his poems are longer than my blog posts, this one is not!


A noiseless, patient spider,

I mark’d, where, on a little promontory, it stood, isolated;

Mark’d how, to explore the vacant, vast surrounding,

It launch’d forth filament, filament, filament, out of itself;

Ever unreeling them – ever tirelessly speeding them.

And you, O my Soul, where you stand,

Surrounded, surrounded, in measureless oceans of space,

Carelessly musing, venturing, throwing, – seeking the spheres, to connect them;

Till the bridge you will need, be form’d – till the ductile anchor hold;

Till the gossamer thread you fling, catch somewhere, O my Soul.


The Fog

The fog comes
on little cat feet.
It sits looking
over harbor and city
on silent haunches
and then moves on.
Carl Sandburg January 6, 1878 – July 22, 1967
What more is there to say?

The Hunting Of The Snark.

Today is Lewis Carroll’s birthday.


He was born Charles Lutwidge Dodgson in 1832.

Most remember him for Alice’s Adventures in Wonderland and Through the Looking Glass.

I like to remember him for the poem The Hunting of the Snark.

I love snark.

It’s way too long to post, but you can find it by clicking here.

It really has nothing to do with my kind of snark, but I relate to it just the same.

The plot follows a crew of ten trying to hunt the Snark, an animal which may turn out to be a highly dangerous Boojum. The only one of the crew to find the Snark quickly vanishes, leading the narrator to explain that it was a Boojum after all.

I hunt for snark on a daily basis, sometimes I find it, sometimes, well not so much.

But we all know snark can be highly dangerous.

The poem is in reality, nonsensical, simply fun.