  Poetry
This week: Helen Hunt Jackson Edited by: Stormy Lady  
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| This is poetry from the minds and the hearts of poets on Writing.Com. The poems I am going to be exposing throughout this newsletter are ones that I have found to be, very visual, mood setting and uniquely done. Stormy Lady |
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October's Bright Blue Weather
by Helen Hunt Jackson
O suns and skies and clouds of June,
And flowers of June together,
Ye cannot rival for one hour
October's bright blue weather;
When loud the bumblebee makes haste,
Belated, thriftless vagrant,
And goldenrod is dying fast,
And lanes with grapes are fragrant;
When gentians roll their fingers tight
To save them for the morning,
And chestnuts fall from satin burrs
Without a sound of warning;
When on the ground red apples lie
In piles like jewels shining,
And redder still on old stone walls
Are leaves of woodbine twining;
When all the lovely wayside things
Their white-winged seeds are sowing,
And in the fields still green and fair,
Late aftermaths are growing;
When springs run low, and on the brooks,
In idle golden freighting,
Bright leaves sink noiseless in the hush
Of woods, for winter waiting;
When comrades seek sweet country haunts,
By twos and twos together,
And count like misers, hour by hour,
October's bright blue weather.
O sun and skies and flowers of June,
Count all your boasts together,
Love loveth best of all the year
October's bright blue weather.
Nathan Welby Fiske and Deborah Waterman Vinal welcomed daughter Helen Maria Fiske into their family on October 18, 1830. Helen and her family lived in Amherst, Massachusetts. Helen had two brothers that died after birth and one sister, Anne. Her father was a minister and a professor at Amherst College. Helen's mother, Deborah died 1844 of tuberculosis. Three years after her mothers death her father fell ill and died in 1847. Before his death he made arrangements for Helen to live with her aunt and for her education to be taken care of. As a child Helen formed a friendship with Emily Dickenson that lasted throughout her life.
At the age of 21 Helen Fiske married, United States Army Captain Edward Bissell Hunt. The couple had two boys Murray and Rennie. Murray died in 1854. Her husband Edward was killed in a military accident in 1863. Shortly after his death she lost her other son, Rennie. It was after these tragic times she really began to write. Her anonymous work "Verses" was published in 1870 followed by "Mercy Philbrick's Choice" in 1876. Her writing took off, but her health was starting to fail. She moved to Colorado Springs, Colorado. There she met William Jackson. They married in 1875.
In 1879, Helen took a trip back east to Boston to hear a lecture given by Ponca Chief Standing Bear. Ponca told of the treatment of American Indians in Nebraska. This infuriated Helen and she became an activist. Helen began researching everything she could about it and once well informed she started to write. "A Century of Dishonor," was published in 1881. Helen sent this book to every member in congress with a message on it. "Look upon your hands: they are stained with the blood of your relations." The book made no difference to congress. Angry but not discouraged Helen continued to fight with her words; she wrote a fifty-six page report demanding more lands for reservations and for schools for the Indians. Her next novel "Ramona" published in November 1884 and was met with great success.
For the last ten years of her life Helen was determined to have her writing be the voice of the American Indians and had planned to write a children's book. She worked up until the day she died trying to change things. She was in San Francisco, California examining the conditions of the California Indians, for the government when she passed away. Helen Hunt Jackson died August 12, 1885.
The Poet's Forge
by Helen Hunt Jackson
He lies on his back, the idling smith,
A lazy, dreaming fellow is he;
The sky is blue, or the sky is gray,
He lies on his back the livelong day,
Not a tool in sight, say what they may,
A curious sort of smith is he.
The powers of the air are in league with him;
The country around believes it well;
The wondering folk draw spying near;
Never sight nor sound do they see or hear;
No wonder they feel a little fear;
When is it his work is done so well?
Never sight nor sound to see or hear;
The powers of the air are in league with him;
High over his head his metals swing,
Fine gold and silver to shame the king;
We might distinguish their glittering,
If once we could get in league with him.
High over his head his metals swing;
He hammers them idly year by year,
Hammers and chuckles a low refrain:
"A bench and a book are a ball and a chain,
The adze is a better tool than the plane;
What's the odds between now and next year?"
Hammers and chuckles his low refrain,
A lazy, dreaming fellow is he:
When sudden, some day, his bells peal out,
And men, at the sound, for gladness shout;
He laughs and asks what it's all about;
Oh, a curious sort of smith is he.
My Strawberry
By Helen Hunt Jackson
O marvel, fruit of fruits, I pause
To reckon thee. I ask what cause
Set free so much of red from heats
At core of earth, and mixed such sweets
With sour and spice: what was that strength
Which out of darkness, length by length,
Spun all thy shining thread of vine,
Netting the fields in bond as thine.
I see thy tendrils drink by sips
From grass and clover's smiling lips;
I hear thy roots dig down for wells,
Tapping the meadow's hidden cells.
Whole generations of green things,
Descended from long lines of springs,
I see make room for thee to bide
A quiet comrade by their side;
I see the creeping peoples go
Mysterious journeys to and fro,
Treading to right and left of thee,
Doing thee homage wonderingly.
I see the wild bees as they fare,
Thy cups of honey drink, but spare.
I mark thee bathe and bathe again
In sweet unclaendared spring rain.
I watch how all May has of sun
Makes haste to have thy ripeness done,
While all her nights let dews escape
To set and cool thy perfect shape.
Ah, fruit of fruits, no more I pause
To dream and seek thy hidden laws!
I stretch my hand and dare to taste,
In instant of delicious waste
On single feast, all things that went
To make the empire thou hast spent.
Thank you all!
Stormy Lady
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The winner of "Stormy's poetry newsletter & contest" [ASR] is:
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#1899664 by Not Available. |
The Ravenous Wolf
Come close while I whisper this story,
Although you might think it's too gory,
About a young man,
Let's call him Dan,
And a wolf that was, of course, predatory.
One winter Dan entered the wood,
If only to prove that he could.
A whimsical thought,
Since his parents had taught,
That one day he would come to no good.
Dan trod through the white wonderland,
With no one to lend him a hand.
He whistled a song,
As he strolled along,
The foul weather he'd learned to withstand.
A wolf was out hunting nearby,
And it got to wondering why,
The man was so bold,
To walk through the cold,
And of wild beasts was not terrified.
Encouraged by hunger and hope,
Alongside the man it did lope.
Its drool became ice,
But the thought was so nice,
With one man it thought it could cope.
It hid in the shade of a willow,
Rested head on the snow like a pillow.
A beast in its prime,
It bided its time,
Tonight it would feast on man marrow.
But all this was just how Dan planned,
Spinning he raised up one hand.
Within was a gun,
Hunting was fun,
And that wolf's fur was really quite grand.
Honorable mention:
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Poetry: November 20, 2012 Issue [#5376]
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