MADHU MALTI

The Sun Rising : John Donne : : Morning Poems : :

Sun Rising
BY JOHN DONNE
Busy old fool, unruly sun,
Why dost thou thus,
Through windows, and through curtains call on us?
Must to thy motions lovers’ seasons run?
Saucy pedantic wretch, go chide
Late school boys and sour prentices,
Go tell court huntsmen that the king will ride,
Call country ants to harvest offices,
Love, all alike, no season knows nor clime,
Nor hours, days, months, which are the rags of time.

Thy beams, so reverend and strong
Why shouldst thou think?
I could eclipse and cloud them with a wink,
But that I would not lose her sight so long;
If her eyes have not blinded thine,
Look, and tomorrow late, tell me,
Whether both th’ Indias of spice and mine
Be where thou leftst them, or lie here with me.
Ask for those kings whom thou saw’st yesterday,
And thou shalt hear, All here in one bed lay.

She’s all states, and all princes, I,
Nothing else is.
Princes do but play us; compared to this,
All honor’s mimic, all wealth alchemy.
Thou, sun, art half as happy as we,
In that the world’s contracted thus.
Thine age asks ease, and since thy duties be
To warm the world, that’s done in warming us.
Shine here to us, and thou art everywhere;
This bed thy center is, these walls, thy sphere.

” The Sun Rising”known as “The Sunne Rising”,A 30 lines poem with 3 stanzas published in 1633[ A Morning Poem By John Donne is About Sun personified and About Happy and Joyful union between the beloved. : : : :

Stanza one begins with the speaker in bed with his lover, complaining about sun’s beaming rays. Donne uses expressions such as, “Busy old fool” (line 1) and “Saucy Pedantic Wretch” [perfectionist] (line 5) to describe his annoyance with it. The speaker of the poem questions the sun’s motives and yearns for the sun to go away so that he and his lover can stay in bed.

Donne is tapping into human emotion in personifying the sun, and he is exhibiting how beings behave when they are in love with one another. The speaker in the poem believes that, for him and his lover, time is the enemy. He asks, “Must to thy motions lovers’ seasons run?” (line 4) or, in other words, ‘why must lovers be controlled by the sun?’. The speaker then tells the sun to bother someone else, “go chide late schoolboys and sour prentices, Go tell court huntsmen that the king will ride…” (lines 5-7), and that love knows no season, climate, hour, day, nor month.

In Stanza two, the speaker is saying how the sun believes its beams are strong but he could “eclipse” and “cloud them in a wink” (line 13). Although he can shield his eyes from the sun, he does not want to do that because it means he would be also shielding his eyes from his lover. He says, “But that I would not lose her sight so long” (line 14). The speaker proceeds to reprimand the sun and tells it to set, come back the next day, and tell him “whether both th’ Indias of spice and mine be where thou lefst them, or lie here with me” (lines 16-18). He wants the sun to tell him if all the kings, queens, riches and gold of the world are still out there or lying in bed next to him. Towards the end of the stanza the speaker confirms, “Ask for those kings whom thou saw’st yesterday, and thou shalt hear, All here in one bed lay” (lines 19-20), that his lover is above all kings and beside him in bed are all the riches and gold that he could ever want.

Within the last stanza the speaker attempts to settle his anger in praising his lover. His lover is his world and when they are in bed together they are in their own microcosm of bliss. Stating that nothing else is half as important as his lover, the speaker insists “Thine age asks ease, and since thy duties be to warm the world, that’s done in warming us. Shine here to us, and thou art everywhere; this bed thy center is, these walls thy sphere” (lines 27-30). Which translates to his worrying about the sun’s age and implying that all a sun is good for is warming up the world and its lovers, once it does that then its job is done. His lover is his whole world, and since the sun is shining on the bed composed of these two, then it is also shining on the entire world.

Donne must have been well aware of the Copernican Heliocentric theory when he wrote “The Sun Rising. Perhaps it is even reflected in that little unexpected epithet, “unruly” – suggesting the sun itself had challenged the Roman Catholic Church’s inquisition, the inquisition trial and condemnation of Galileo Galilei as a suspected heretic, and the incompatibility of science and religion. The time period and its context, thirty years prior to Donne’s birth, acted as a source of inspiration for John Donne’s writing of “The Sun Rising,” and perhaps is a critique of the Roman inquisition and counter-reformation movement. The developments in science such as the Heliocentric theory and its relation to Donne’s awareness of this is in his writing of the poem. : : : :

The Above Discussion is , Wikipedia’s Article.

Full many a glorious morning have I seen : Sonnet 33 : William Shakespeare : : Morning Poems : :

Full many a glorious morning have I seen 1
Flatter the mountain tops with sovereign eye, 2
Kissing with golden face the meadows green, 3
Gilding pale streams with heavenly alchemy; 4
Anon permit the basest clouds to ride 5
With ugly rack on his celestial face, 6
And from the forlorn world his visage hide, 7
Stealing unseen to west with this disgrace: 8
Even so my sun one early morn did shine, 9
With all triumphant splendour on my brow; 10
But out, alack, he was but one hour mine, 11
The region cloud hath mask’d him from me now. 12
Yet him for this my love no whit disdaineth; 13
Suns of the world may stain when heaven’s sun staineth. 14

“Full many a glorious morning have I seen” : Sonnet 33 : By William Shakespeare is About Sun arriving as a “glorious morning”where “sun” means ‘Fair Youth’ cheerfully obliged of giving respect with flattering colour to young man’s beauty. “Kissing with golden face”, and “Gliding pale streams with heavenly alchemy;” As in ( lines 3 & 4 ) supports with rewards of wealth and nobility that relates to mysterious way of bringing two individuals together. They are sons of the world and not the “suns ☀️🌞 of the world”( line 14 ) ; shinning ( line 9 : “my sun one early morn did shine,” ) with “sovereign eye”( line 2 ) : : which represents royal line , the monarchial status , power and authority with crowned head, a characteristics of befitting or worthy of a Noble Man. : : The ‘Fair Youth’ and his other well-heeled ‘buddy’ / close friend, are not heavenly as the Bard makes a humorous play on words ( sun & son ) : : : :

“Sonnet 33 ” A morning Poem By William Shakespeare Information Appreciation and poem Analysis Presented by V Jayaraj Pune India July 1 , 2023 : : : :

A Medieval Morning Prayer ; Anonymous : : Morning Poems : :

A Medieval Morning Prayer : : Anonymous : :
Jesu Lord, blyssed thou be,
For all this nyght thou hast me kepe
From the fend and his poste,
Whether I wake or that I slepe.

In grete deses and dedly synne,
Many one this nyght fallyn has,
That I my selve schuld have fallyn in,
Hadyst thou not kepyd me with thi grace.

Lord, gyffe me grace to thi worschype,
This dey to spend in thi plesanse;
And kepe me fro wyked felyschipe,
And from the fendys comberance.

Jesu, my tunge thou reule all so,
That I not speke bot it be nede,
Hertly to pray fore frend and fo,
And herme no man in word ne dede.

Cryste, gyffe me grace, off mete and drynke
This dey to take mesurably,
In dedly synne that I not synke
Thorow outrage of foule glotony.

Jesu my lord, Jesu my love,
And all that I ame bond unto,
Thi blyssing send fro hevyn above,
And gyffe them grace wele to do.

My gode angell that arte to me send
From God to be my governour,
From all evyll sprytys thou me defend,
And in my desesys to be my socoure.

** A Mediaeval Morning Prayer : : Anonymous : A Simplified Version : : 15 Th Century Poem : Jesu Lord, blessed thou be,
For all this night thou hast me kept
From the fiend and his poste, [power]
Whether I waked or slept.

In great disease and deadly sin,
Many a one this night fallen has,
That I myself should have fallen in,
Hadst thou not kept me with thy grace.

Lord, give me grace to thy worship,
This day to spend in thy plesanse; [in a way pleasing to you]
And keep me from wicked fellowship,
And from the fiend’s encomberance.

Jesu, my tongue rule thou also,
That I speak not but there be need,
Heartily to pray for friend and foe,
And harm no man in word or deed.

Christ, give me grace, of meat and drink
This day to take measurably,
In deadly sin that I not sink
Through outrage of foul gluttony.

Jesu my lord, Jesu my love,
To all that I am bound unto
Thy blessing send from heaven above,
And give them grace well to do.

My good angel that art to me sent
From God to be my governor,
From all evil spirits thou me defend,
And in my disease to be my succour.

Mediaeval Morning Prayer : : Anonymous : A 15 Th Century Poem of Morning Prayer taken from Oxford, Bodleian Library, Ashmole 61. A detailed study of the popular literature of fifteenth-century England which reflects A middle-class family in the Midlands. This poem is a personal devotion of a layman and focuses on Thanksgiving, Resolution and postulation request / Orison to a deity for the day ahead in an inelegant yet plain downright way. The “good angel” is a ‘guardian angel’ who is having personal affection for his / her loved ones. 💕 😘 : : : : :

Pending for some more thoughts 💬💭 afterwards. Visit this post again later on to enjoy the appreciation of the poem V Jayaraj Pune India June 30, 2023 : : : : : : : :

December : By Various Poets : : December Poems : : Months Poems : :

* The Poet’s Calender : December : : By Henry Wadsworth Longfellow

Riding upon the Goat, with snow-white hair,
I come, the last of all.
This crown of mine
Is of the holly; in my hand I bear
The thyrsus, tipped with fragrant cones of pine.

I celebrate the birth of the Divine,
And the return of the Saturnian reign;–
My songs are carols sung at every shrine,
Proclaiming “Peace on earth, good will to men.

** Haunted House
by Thomas Hood
Oh, very gloomy is the house of woe,
Where tears are falling while the bell is knelling,
With all the dark solemnities that show
That Death is in the dwelling!

Oh, very, very dreary is the room
Where Love, domestic Love, no longer nestles,
But smitten by the common stroke of doom,
The corpse lies on the trestles!

But house of woe, and hearse, and sable pall,
The narrow home of the departed mortal,
Ne’er looked so gloomy as that Ghostly Hall,
With its deserted portal!

The centipede along the threshold crept,
The cobweb hung across in mazy tangle,
And in its winding sheet the maggot slept
At every nook and angle.

The keyhole lodged the earwig and her brood,
The emmets of the steps has old possession,
And marched in search of their diurnal food
In undisturbed procession.

As undisturbed as the prehensile cell
Of moth or maggot, or the spider’s tissue,
For never foot upon that threshold fell,
To enter or to issue.

O’er all there hung the shadow of a fear,
A sense of mystery the spirit daunted,
And said, as plain as whisper in the ear,
The place is haunted.

Howbeit, the door I pushed—or so I dreamed–
Which slowly, slowly gaped, the hinges creaking
With such a rusty eloquence, it seemed
That Time himself was speaking.

But Time was dumb within that mansion old,
Or left his tale to the heraldic banners
That hung from the corroded walls, and told
Of former men and manners.

Those tattered flags, that with the opened door,
Seemed the old wave of battle to
to remember,
While fallen fragments danced upon the floor
Like dead leaves in December.

The startled bats flew out, bird after bird,
The screech-owl overhead began to flutter,
And seemed to mock the cry that she had heard
Some dying victim utter!

A shriek that echoed from the joisted roof,
And up the stair, and further still and further,
Till in some ringing chamber far aloof
In ceased its tale of murther!

Meanwhile the rusty armor rattled round,
The banner shuddered, and the ragged streamer;
All things the horrid tenor of the sound
Acknowledged with a tremor.

The antlers where the helmet hung, and belt,
Stirred as the tempest stirs the forest branches,
Or as the stag had trembled when he felt
The bloodhound at his haunches.

The window jingled in its crumbled frame,
And through its many gaps of of destitution
Dolorous moans and hollow sighings came,
Like those of dissolution.

The wood-louse dropped, and rolled into a ball,
Touched by some impulse occult or mechanic;
And nameless beetles ran along the wall
In universal panic.

The subtle spider, that, from overhead,
Hung like a spy on human guilt and error,
Suddenly turned, and up its slender thread
Ran with a nimble terror.

The very stains and fractures on the wall,
Assuming features solemn and terrific,
Hinted some tragedy of that old hall,
Locked up in hieroglyphic.

Some tale that might, perchance, have solved the doubt,
Wherefore, among those flags so dull and livid,
The banner of the bloody hand shone out
So ominously vivid.

Some key to that inscrutable appeal
Which made the very frame of Nature quiver,
And every thrilling nerve and fiber feel
So ague-like a shiver.

For over all there hung a cloud of fear,
A sense of mystery the spirit daunted,
And said, as plain as whisper in the ear,
The place is haunted!

Prophetic hints that filled the soul with dread,
But through one gloomy entrance pointing mostly,
The while some secret inspiration said,
“That chamber is the ghostly!”

Across the door no gossamer festoon
Swung pendulous, –no web, no dusty fringes,
No silky chrysalis or white cocoon,
About its nooks and hinges.

The spider shunned the interdicted room,
The moth, the beetle, and the fly were banished,
And when the sunbeam fell athwart the gloom,
The very midge had vanished.

One lonely ray that glanced upon a bed,
As if with awful aim direct and certain,
To show the Bloody Hand, in burning red,
Embroidered on the curtain.

— Thomas Hood

*** The Mountain
by Robert Frost
The mountain held the town as in a shadow
I saw so much before I slept there once:
I noticed that I missed stars in the west,
Where its black body cut into the sky.

Near me it seemed: I felt it like a wall
Behind which I was sheltered from a wind.

And yet between the town and it I found,
When I walked forth at dawn to see new things,
Were fields, a river, and beyond, more fields.

The river at the time was fallen away,
And made a widespread brawl on cobble-stones;
But the signs showed what it had done in spring;
Good grass-land gullied out, and in the grass
Ridges of sand, and driftwood stripped of bark.

I crossed the river and swung round the mountain.

And there I met a man who so slow
With white-faced oxen in a heavy cart,
It seemed no hand to stop him altogether.

“What town is this?” I asked.

“This? Lunenburg.
”
Then I was wrong: the town of my sojourn,
Beyond the bridge, was not that of the mountain,
But only felt at night its shadowy presence.

“Where is your village? Very far from here?”
“There is no village–only scattered farms.

We were but sixty voters last election.

We can’t in nature grow to many more:
That thing takes all the room!” He moved his goad.

The mountain stood there to be pointed at.

Pasture ran up the side a little way,
And then there was a wall of trees with trunks:
After that only tops of trees, and cliffs
Imperfectly concealed among the leaves.

A dry ravine emerged from under boughs
Into the pasture.

“That looks like a path.

Is that the way to reach the top from here?–
Not for this morning, but some other time:
I must be getting back to breakfast now.
”
“I don’t advise your trying from this side.

There is no proper path, but those that have
Been up, I understand, have climbed from Ladd’s.

That’s five miles back.
You can’t mistake the place:
They logged it there last winter some way up.

I’d take you, but I’m bound the other way.
”
“You’ve never climbed it?”
“I’ve been on the sides
Deer-hunting and trout-fishing.
There’s a brook
That starts up on it somewhere–I’ve heard say
Right on the top, tip-top–a curious thing.

But what would interest you about the brook,
It’s always cold in summer, warm in winter.

One of the great sights going is to see
It steam in winter like an ox’s breath,
Until the bushes all along its banks
Are inch-deep with the frosty spines and bristles–
You know the kind.
Then let the sun shine on it!”
“There ought to be a view around the world
From such a mountain–if it isn’t wooded
Clear to the top.
” I saw through leafy screens
Great granite terraces in sun and shadow,
Shelves one could rest a knee on getting up–
With depths behind him sheer a hundred feet;
Or turn and sit on and look out and down,
With little ferns in crevices at his elbow.

“As to that I can’t say.
But there’s the spring,
Right on the summit, almost like a fountain.

That ought to be worth seeing.
”
“If it’s there.

You never saw it?”
“I guess there’s no doubt
About its being there.
I never saw it.

It may not be right on the very top:
It wouldn’t have to be a long way down
To have some head of water from above,
And a good distance down might not be noticed
By anyone who’d come a long way up.

One time I asked a fellow climbing it
To look and tell me later how it was.
”
“What did he say?”
“He said there was a lake
Somewhere in Ireland on a mountain top.
”
“But a lake’s different.
What about the spring?”
“He never got up high enough to see.

That’s why I don’t advise your trying this side.

He tried this side.
I’ve always meant to go
And look myself, but you know how it is:
It doesn’t seem so much to climb a mountain
You’ve worked around the foot of all your life.

What would I do? Go in my overalls,
With a big stick, the same as when the cows
Haven’t come down to the bars at milking time?
Or with a shotgun for a stray black bear?
‘Twouldn’t seem real to climb for climbing it.
”
“I shouldn’t climb it if I didn’t want to–
Not for the sake of climbing.
What’s its name?”
“We call it Hor: I don’t know if that’s right.
”
“Can one walk around it? Would it be too far?”
“You can drive round and keep in Lunenburg,
But it’s as much as ever you can do,
The boundary lines keep in so close to it.

Hor is the township, and the township’s Hor–
And a few houses sprinkled round the foot,
Like boulders broken off the upper cliff,
Rolled out a little farther than the the rest.
”
“Warm in December, cold in June, you say?”
“I don’t suppose the water’s changed at all.

You and I know enough to know it’s warm
Compared with cold, and cold compared with warm.

But all the fun’s in how you say a thing.
”
“You’ve lived here all your life?”
“Ever since Hor
Was no bigger than a—-” What, I did not hear.

He drew the oxen toward him with light touches
Of his slim goad on nose and offside flank,
Gave them their marching orders and was moving.
— Robert Frost

**** Pending.. .

Giant Night : Anne Waldman : : December Poems : : Months Poems : :

Giant Night
BY ANNE WALDMAN
Awake in a giant night
is where I am
There is a river where my soul,
hungry as a horse drinks beside me

An hour of immense possibility flies by
and I do nothing but sit in the present
which keeps changing moment to moment

How can I tell you my mind is a blanket?

It is an amazing story you won’t believe
and a beautiful land
where something is always doing in the barns
especially in autumn
Sliding down the hayrick!

By March the sun is lingering and the land turns wet

Brooks grow loud
The eddies fill with green scum
Crocuses lift their heads to say hello

Soon it is good to be planting
By then the woods are overflowing
with dogwood, redbud, hickory, red and white oaks,
hazelnut bushes, violets, jacks-in-the-pulpit,
skunk cabbages, pawpaws and May apples
whose names thrill you because you can name them!

There are quail and rabbits too—but I go on too long

Like the animal, I must stop by the water’s edge
to have a drink and think things over

*

That was good. The drink I mean
I feel refreshed and ready for anything
Though I’m not in Vermont or Kentucky unfortunately
but in New York City, the toughest place in the world

And it’s December

Here someone is always weeping, including me
though I tend to cry in monster waves then turn into a fish
wallowing in my own salty
Puddle! Look out
If you aren’t wearing boots you’ll be sorry
and soggy too

*

This season’s cruelty hurts me
and others, I’m sure, who’d rather be elsewhere but can’t
because of their jobs, families, friends, money
It’s rough anyway you look at it

But what can you do?

It’s worse elsewhere, I’m sure

Take Vietnam

No thanks

I think about Vietnam a lot, however
and wonder if I’ll ever “see” it
The way I’ve seen Europe, I mean

Those pretty Dutch girls!
They all ride bicycles

In Venice you travel by boat or foot

The metro and the underground register like the names
in connection with them:

Hugo, Stephen, Stuart, Larry, Lee, Harry, David, Maxine

What does it all mean?
I never ask that, being shy

In this apartment in which I dwell these thoughts pass by

I hope you won’t mind the mess when you do too

*

You just walk in up a flight and you’re in paradise

A cup of coffee, an easy chair, a loving person waiting for you
who’s washing the dishes, reading a book

Outside someone’s worrying about love and not sitting down either

He’s probably freezing his ass off right now!
And other vital parts which would feel great in the country,
taking a walk, a hike, shoveling snow

Though you can do that right here

*

The hub of the universe is where I am in a night whose promise
grows with me, unlike the snow melting in the gutter

Whatever I do, it is beside me

I look out the window, there is night
I sit in this lighted room knowing this night
Night! Night! I wish you’d go so I could go
to the post office, the bank, the supermarket

Why aren’t they open at night? I wonder
Then realize I’m not the only person who’s
considered in the grand scope of daily living

There are those fast asleep who want to be and would be horrified
if the post office, the bank, and the supermarket
were only open at night
for you can’t be all there all the time
I myself am only here part of the time
which is enough
For there are other places to run to

Uptown, for example, where energy rushes you
like some hideous but intriguing chemical
you can’t ignore
and you want to absorb the wisdom these buildings have

How do they feel so high up like that?

Pretty good, they seem to say in their absolute way
But it’s the people inside who turn us on

By then you are gone off in a cab
and you are not alone

I am beside you

The streets are familiar from just traveling through
We rarely stop and when we do there’s a reason

Which is too bad
We miss a lot for this same reason

*

They’re probably feeding the chickens about this time
The smell of chicken feed overwhelms me
The rooster crows on a 7th Street fire escape
Breakfast is ready
There is a forest by the river near the barn
where things are happening,
a whole new world on the edge of dawn

*

My little world goes on St. Mark’s Place

To be not tired, but elated, I sing this song

I think of The Beatles and The Beach Boys
and the songs they sing

It is a different thing to be behind the sound
then leave it forever
and it goes on without them, needing only you and me

Here I am, though you are asleep

The morning of December 3rd dawns on me
in the shape of a poem called “Giant Night”

It must end before it is too late

All over the world children will celebrate Christmas
And families will gather together to give and take this season

Other religions and customs will prevail in their own separate ways
having nothing to do with Christmas

Soldiers will cease fire

Some won’t know the difference but might be able to sense it
in the air

The smell of holly, pine, eggnog
The friendly faces of Santa and his elves

All these will add up to something and be gone forever

Just like what is here one minute and not the next.
— Anne Waldman, “Giant Night” from Helping the Dreamer: Selected Poems, 1966-1988. Coffee House Press, Minneapolis, http://www.coffeehousepress.com.
Source: Helping the Dreamer: Selected Poems 1966-1988 (Coffee House Press, 1989) : From poetryfoundation.org : For Educational Purposes only.

“Giant Night”, A December Poem By Anne Waldman is About memories of rural New England spring and about the Poet Speaker’s here and now , of New York in December. It’s the 1960s, the city is soggy and cold. The war in Vietnam is there in the background as people, including the Speaker try to carve out a life in the company of necessary strangers and the constraints of “jobs, families, friends, money” in “the toughest place in the world”. Despite these difficulties, the poem ends with the one glimpse of Christmas we’re hopeful one. : : ::

Notes for each of the lines Pending visit this post again later on to enjoy the appreciation of the poem V Jayaraj Pune India June 28 , 2023 : : : :

Raven : Edgar Allan Poe : : December Poems : : Months Poems : :

The Raven : : BY EDGAR ALLAN POE
Once upon a midnight dreary, while I pondered, weak and weary,
Over many a quaint and curious volume of forgotten lore—
While I nodded, nearly napping, suddenly there came a tapping,
As of some one gently rapping, rapping at my chamber door.
“’Tis some visitor,” I muttered, “tapping at my chamber door—
Only this and nothing more.”

Ah, distinctly I remember it was in the bleak December;
And each separate dying ember wrought its ghost upon the floor.
Eagerly I wished the morrow;—vainly I had sought to borrow
From my books surcease of sorrow—sorrow for the lost Lenore—
For the rare and radiant maiden whom the angels name Lenore—
Nameless here for evermore.

And the silken, sad, uncertain rustling of each purple curtain
Thrilled me—filled me with fantastic terrors never felt before;
So that now, to still the beating of my heart, I stood repeating
“’Tis some visitor entreating entrance at my chamber door—
Some late visitor entreating entrance at my chamber door;—
This it is and nothing more.”

Presently my soul grew stronger; hesitating then no longer,
“Sir,” said I, “or Madam, truly your forgiveness I implore;
But the fact is I was napping, and so gently you came rapping,
And so faintly you came tapping, tapping at my chamber door,
That I scarce was sure I heard you”—here I opened wide the door;—
Darkness there and nothing more.

Deep into that darkness peering, long I stood there wondering, fearing,
Doubting, dreaming dreams no mortal ever dared to dream before;
But the silence was unbroken, and the stillness gave no token,
And the only word there spoken was the whispered word, “Lenore?”
This I whispered, and an echo murmured back the word, “Lenore!”—
Merely this and nothing more.

Back into the chamber turning, all my soul within me burning,
Soon again I heard a tapping somewhat louder than before.
“Surely,” said I, “surely that is something at my window lattice;
Let me see, then, what thereat is, and this mystery explore—
Let my heart be still a moment and this mystery explore;—
’Tis the wind and nothing more!”

Open here I flung the shutter, when, with many a flirt and flutter,
In there stepped a stately Raven of the saintly days of yore;
Not the least obeisance made he; not a minute stopped or stayed he;
But, with mien of lord or lady, perched above my chamber door—
Perched upon a bust of Pallas just above my chamber door—
Perched, and sat, and nothing more.

Then this ebony bird beguiling my sad fancy into smiling,
By the grave and stern decorum of the countenance it wore,
“Though thy crest be shorn and shaven, thou,” I said, “art sure no craven,
Ghastly grim and ancient Raven wandering from the Nightly shore—
Tell me what thy lordly name is on the Night’s Plutonian shore!”
Quoth the Raven “Nevermore.”

Much I marvelled this ungainly fowl to hear discourse so plainly,
Though its answer little meaning—little relevancy bore;
For we cannot help agreeing that no living human being
Ever yet was blessed with seeing bird above his chamber door—
Bird or beast upon the sculptured bust above his chamber door,
With such name as “Nevermore.”

But the Raven, sitting lonely on the placid bust, spoke only
That one word, as if his soul in that one word he did outpour.
Nothing farther then he uttered—not a feather then he fluttered—
Till I scarcely more than muttered “Other friends have flown before—
On the morrow he will leave me, as my Hopes have flown before.”
Then the bird said “Nevermore.”

Startled at the stillness broken by reply so aptly spoken,
“Doubtless,” said I, “what it utters is its only stock and store
Caught from some unhappy master whom unmerciful Disaster
Followed fast and followed faster till his songs one burden bore—
Till the dirges of his Hope that melancholy burden bore
Of ‘Never—nevermore’.”

But the Raven still beguiling all my fancy into smiling,
Straight I wheeled a cushioned seat in front of bird, and bust and door;
Then, upon the velvet sinking, I betook myself to linking
Fancy unto fancy, thinking what this ominous bird of yore—
What this grim, ungainly, ghastly, gaunt, and ominous bird of yore
Meant in croaking “Nevermore.”

This I sat engaged in guessing, but no syllable expressing
To the fowl whose fiery eyes now burned into my bosom’s core;
This and more I sat divining, with my head at ease reclining
On the cushion’s velvet lining that the lamp-light gloated o’er,
But whose velvet-violet lining with the lamp-light gloating o’er,
She shall press, ah, nevermore!

Then, methought, the air grew denser, perfumed from an unseen censer
Swung by Seraphim whose foot-falls tinkled on the tufted floor.
“Wretch,” I cried, “thy God hath lent thee—by these angels he hath sent thee
Respite—respite and nepenthe from thy memories of Lenore;
Quaff, oh quaff this kind nepenthe and forget this lost Lenore!”
Quoth the Raven “Nevermore.”

“Prophet!” said I, “thing of evil!—prophet still, if bird or devil!—
Whether Tempter sent, or whether tempest tossed thee here ashore,
Desolate yet all undaunted, on this desert land enchanted—
On this home by Horror haunted—tell me truly, I implore—
Is there—is there balm in Gilead?—tell me—tell me, I implore!”
Quoth the Raven “Nevermore.”

“Prophet!” said I, “thing of evil!—prophet still, if bird or devil!
By that Heaven that bends above us—by that God we both adore—
Tell this soul with sorrow laden if, within the distant Aidenn,
It shall clasp a sainted maiden whom the angels name Lenore—
Clasp a rare and radiant maiden whom the angels name Lenore.”
Quoth the Raven “Nevermore.”

“Be that word our sign of parting, bird or fiend!” I shrieked, upstarting—
“Get thee back into the tempest and the Night’s Plutonian shore!
Leave no black plume as a token of that lie thy soul hath spoken!
Leave my loneliness unbroken!—quit the bust above my door!
Take thy beak from out my heart, and take thy form from off my door!”
Quoth the Raven “Nevermore.”

And the Raven, never flitting, still is sitting, still is sitting
On the pallid bust of Pallas just above my chamber door;
And his eyes have all the seeming of a demon’s that is dreaming,
And the lamp-light o’er him streaming throws his shadow on the floor;
And my soul from out that shadow that lies floating on the floor
Shall be lifted—nevermore!
— Edgar Allan Poe : First published by Wiley and Putnam, 1845, in The Raven and Other Poems by Edgar Allan Poe.

“The Raven”, A December Poem By Edgar Allan Poe is About The Poet Speaker longing for December to bring the release of death , yet failing to recognise it when it arrives. The association between December & Death is quite a standard figurative language. We find it in December Poem By Spencer , as also continuing in Samuel Taylor Coleridge’s Fragment 3: Come, come thou bleak December wind and Edgar Allan Poe’s The Raven. It’s alright to be with this icy Northerner ‘s vogue found for so many decades as general acceptance and use in all styles of Poetic Circles 🔴⭕🔴⭕ : : : :

Notes for each of the Stanzas Pending visit this post again later on to enjoy the appreciation of the poem V Jayaraj Pune India June 27 , 2023 : : : :

A Beautiful December Day : Francis Duggan : ( 1 ) : : In This Beautiful And Sunny Land : Francis Duggan : ( 2 ) : : December Poems : : Months Poems : :

A Beautiful December Day : : By Francis Duggan : : : :

The magpies are warbling on the sunlit trees
Their music is carrying in the evening breeze
That blow from the sea through the park by the bay
It is such a beautiful December day
Of the beauty around me a poet would write
A poem for lovers of Nature for to read and recite
White butterflies flitting around the wildflowers
That have come to bloom in life giving Summer showers
Of singing Nature’s praises i never could tire
Her beauty all around me i can only admire
A willy wagtail is singing his familiar one note song
Once seen and once heard a pied flycatcher one can never again get wrong
Not too warm or cool just a pleasant day
And the first of Christmas just four sleeps away.

— Francis Duggan

“A Beautiful December Day”By Francis Duggan is About “a pleasant day , Not too warm or cool ” , and an “admirable beauty all around”, which a Poet would write , “A poem for lovers of Nature.”

In This Beautiful And Sunny Land
By Francis Duggan

In this beautiful and sunny Land of the far south
No shortage of material for to write rhymes about
Though low the water dams and bone dry every drain
This evening we did have a few showers of rain
The brown and bare countryside looking so dry
That we do need much more rain this is the main reason why
It has been a warm dry Summer this year
And the long range weather forecast is sunny and clear
A week from the first of the calendar Fall
Though thus far not any sign of Autumn weather at all
And though it has made a few welcome showers of rain today
It does seem more warm weather is on the way
The first of March the start of the calendar Autumn is near
It has been a warm and dry Summer this year.

Notes for each of the lines of the above poems Pending visit this post again later on to enjoy the appreciation of the poem V Jayaraj Pune India June 26 , 2023 : : : :

December William B Tappan : : December Poems : : Months Poems : :

December
By William B. Tappan

Farewell, December! cheerless as thou art,
Arrayed in gloom, thou hast for me no smile;
Thou canst not whisper pleasure to this heart,
Thy aspect cannot life’s sad ills beguile.
O’er thee, the sombre child of Winter, stern,
Nature is weeping in funereal gloom;
Cheerless the trophies that adorn thy urn;
Cold are the rites that consecrate thy tomb.
Farewell, December! and with thee, the year,―
Another year, that ends its course with thee;
Another year that’s severed from my span,
Lost in the embrace of dark Eternity.
What hopes and fears, what schemes of future bliss
Have sparkled on the past with fairy gleam!
Futile those schemes, and false each hope, for this
Brief life is but the shadow of a dream.
Farewell, December!—Ere in frowns, again
Thou reign’st, the empress of the howling storm,
Perhaps this bosom, free from secret pain.
May rest in quiet;—this unconscious form
May pillow kindly on its lowly bed,
And know of grief no more.—Will’t not be sweet,
When gently called by an approving God,
On yonder peaceful shore to rest the weary feet?

“December”,By William B Tappan is About Farewell to December without smile falling short in its “art arrayed in gloom.” : As the Poet Speaker says, ‘ Thou canst not whisper pleasure to this heart,
Thy aspect cannot life’s sad ills beguile.
O’er thee, the sombre child of Winter, stern,
Nature is weeping in funereal gloom;
Cheerless the trophies that adorn thy urn;
Cold are the rites that consecrate thy tomb.
Farewell, December! and with thee, the year,―” : : : :

Notes for each of the lines Pending visit this post again later on to enjoy the appreciation of the poem V Jayaraj Pune India June 25, 2023 : : : :

December : Matthew Zapruder : : December Poems : : Months Poems : :

**Matthew Zepruder : Photo by B.A. Van Sise : : Matthew Zepruder**
Poet and editor Matthew Zapruder ( b. 1967 ) was born in Washington, DC. He earned a BA in Russian literature at Amherst College, an MA in Slavic languages and literature at the University of California, Berkeley, and an MFA in poetry at the University of Massachusetts, Amherst.

Zapruder’s poems employ nuanced, conversational syntax to engage themes of grief, perception, and logic. As Dana Jennings noted in the New York Times, Zapruder has a “razor eye for the remnants and revenants of modern culture.” Discussing his own development as a writer in the Los Angeles Times, Zapruder addressed the role of rhyme in his work: “[T]he rhyme is what I would call ‘conceptual,’ that is, not made of sounds, but of ideas that accomplish what the sounds do in formal poetry: to connect elements that one wouldn’t have expected, and to make the reader or listener, even if just for a moment, feel the complexity and disorder of life, and at the same time what Wallace Stevens called the ‘obscurity of an order, a whole.’”

Zapruder is the author of several collections of poetry, including Father’s Day (2019), Sun Bear (2014), Come On All You Ghosts (2010), The Pajamaist (2006), and American Linden (2002). He collaborated with painter Chris Uphues on For You in Full Bloom (2009) and cotranslated, with historian Radu Ioanid, Romanian poet Eugen Jebeleanu’s last collection, Secret Weapon: Selected Late Poems (2008).

With Brian Henry, Zapruder cofounded Verse Press, which later became Wave Books. As an editor for Wave Books, Zapruder coedited, with Joshua Beckman, the political poetry anthology State of the Union: 50 Political Poems (2008). His own poems have been included in the anthologies Best American Poetry (2013, 2009), Third Rail: The Poetry of Rock and Roll (2007), and Legitimate Dangers: American Poets of the New Century (2006), as well as Poets on Teaching: A Sourcebook (2010). He is also the author of Why Poetry (2017), a book of prose about reading poetry for a general audience.

Zapruder’s poetry has been adapted by some of America’s most exciting young composers. In Fall, 2012, his poetry was adapted and performed at Carnegie Hall by Composer Gabriel Kahane and Brooklyn Rider. In February, 2014, composer Missy Mazzoli, along with Victoire and Glenn Kotche, performed Vespers for a New Dark Age, a piece commissioned by Carnegie Hall for the 2014 Ecstatic Music Festival, and released as a recording on New Amsterdam records in spring, 2015.

Zapruder’s honors include a Guggenheim Fellowship, a Lannan Foundation Residency Fellowship, the William Carlos Williams Award from the Poetry Society of America, and the May Sarton Prize from the American Academy of Arts and Sciences. He has taught at New York University, the New School, the University of California Riverside – Palm Desert Low Residency MFA Program, the University of Massachusetts, Amherst’s Juniper Summer Writing Institute, and at the University of California at Berkeley as the Holloway Fellow.He has also worked as an editor, annually editing the Poetry Column for the New York Times Magazine.

He lives in Oakland, where he is an associate professor in the Saint Mary’s College of California MFA Program in Creative Writing, as well as editor at large for Wave Books. He is also a guitarist in the rock band The Figments. From poetryfoundation.org

December
BY MATTHEW ZAPRUDER
At first we all
went down to the lake
to hold hands,
all the multicolored
signs said
with love
we will resist,
over my head
I lifted my son
so he could see
what people
look like
when they hear
the song Imagine,
a few weeks later
again people stood
at the water,
this time at night
holding flashlights
to say to fire
you came
without permission
and took our young
gentle soldiers
for art
so we will show
even with our old
technology
we can see
each other
without you,
others booed
the mayor which was
my friend said
understandable,
I don’t know
what is anymore,
everyone understands
in a different
contradictory way
the so far purely
abstract
catastrophe
so many millions
of choices
brought us,
not too far
from the water
I sat on the couch
below the sound
of blades
drinking amber
numbing fluid
my thoughts
chopping the air
feeling not
what is the word
to be a father
equipped,
mine never told me
where to hide
a brick of gold,
for a long time
I have known
no voices
will come at last
to tell us how
to stop pretending
we don’t know
if it is not
safe for some
it is not
for anyone.
Matthew Zapruder, “December” from Father’s Day (2019 ) Copper Canyon Press, Source : coppercanyonpress.org. : From poetryfoundation.org : For Educational Purposes only.

Notes for each of the lines Pending visit this post again later on to enjoy the appreciation of the poem V Jayaraj Pune India June 24 , 2023 : : : :

A December Day : Judge J. A. Kerr : : December Poems : : Months Poems : :

A December Day : : Judge J. A. Kerr : : : :

Low-drifting clouds o’erspread the sky;
The day is dull, the landscape drear;
On earth’s fair bosom snowflakes lie,
While trees, their snow-clad branches rear.

From lowering clouds the winter rain,
Cheerless, descends no longer, now;
To patter loud on roof and pane,
But falls the dancing flakes of snow.

The birds give forth no notes of cheer,
For they have flown. The woods are still;
The fields are shorn, and brown, and sear;
Ice-bound are river, brook and rill.

All nature seems grown gray with rime,
And long for rest—to die, to sleep;
Like man, woos sweet rest, courts decline,
And feels the death-chill oer her creep.

Her race seems short, and almost run:
Her knell is tolled by pattering hail.
In clouds of crape is clad the sun;
The wind gives forth a moaning wall.

The earth seems wrapped in her last sleep—
All nature robed in shrouds of snow.
The lowering clouds in pity weep,
That she, like man, is thus laid low.

Stanzas 1, 2 & 3 : : “A December Day”,By Judge J A Kerr is About a “dull day”of December finding “drear landscape”, an affectionate cover on fair looking earth with “dancing snow-flakes” ❄️🌨️, aimlessly floating “clouds overspreading the sky”that cause “cheerless” – “winter Rain” stopped to take the form of snow , the still woods – without chirping of birds, shorn fields appearing dried (” sear”) and brown, “ice – bound river” giving away in “brook” and “rivulet”

Notes for Stanzas 4 , 5 & 6 Pending visit this post again later on to enjoy the appreciation of the poem V Jayaraj Pune India June 23, 2023 : : : :