This week: Willa Cather 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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The Hawthorn Tree
by Willa Cather
Across the shimmering meadows--
Ah, when he came to me!
In the spring-time,
In the night-time,
In the starlight,
Beneath the hawthorn tree.
Up from the misty marsh-land--
Ah, when he climbed to me!
To my white bower,
To my sweet rest,
To my warm breast,
Beneath the hawthorn tree.
Ask of me what the birds sang,
High in the hawthorn tree;
What the breeze tells,
What the rose smells,
What the stars shine--
Not what he said to me!
Arcadian Winter
by Willa Cather
Woe is me to tell it thee,
Winter winds in Arcady!
Scattered is thy flock and fled
From the glades where once it fed,
And the snow lies drifted white
In the bower of our delight,
Where the beech threw gracious shade
On the cheek of boy and maid:
And the bitter blasts make roar
Through the fleshless sycamore.
White enchantment holds the spring,
Where thou once wert wont to sing,
And the cold hath cut to death
Reeds melodious of thy breath.
He, the rival of thy lyre,
Nightingale with note of fire,
Sings no more; but far away,
From the windy hill-side gray,
Calls the broken note forlorn
Of an aged shepherd's horn.
Still about the fire they tell
How it long ago befell
That a shepherd maid and lad
Met and trembled and were glad;
When the swift spring waters ran,
And the wind to boy or man
Brought the aching of his sires--
Song and love and all desires.
Ere the starry dogwoods fell
They were lovers, so they tell.
Woe is me to tell it thee,
Winter winds in Arcady!
Broken pipes and vows forgot,
Scattered flocks returning not,
Frozen brook and drifted hill,
Ashen sun and song-birds still;
Songs of summer and desire
Crooned about the winter fire;
Shepherd lads with silver hair,
Shepherd maids no longer fair.
On December 7, 1873, Charles Cather and his wife Mary welcome daughter Wilella Cather into their family. Cather’s father came from a family of farmers. His grandparents owned land and gave several acres to farm in Back Creek, Virginia. Cather’s mother was a former school teacher. The couple had six more children after Willa. At the age of nine her family moved to Catherton, Nebraska in to once again try farming land. Her father was unsuccessful at it and the family moved to Red Cloud, Nebraska. Cather graduated from Red Cloud High school.
In September 1890, Cather moved to Lincoln to continue her education at the University of Nebraska. She had always wanted to be a physician but while in her first year of studies she wrote a paper her English professor submitted for publication. After seeing her name in print Cather’s aspirations changed to writing. She became an editor of the college paper. she began writing columns for the Nebraska State Journal. Cather graduated in 1895 and became a journalist. In 1901 she took a break from being a journal and turned to teaching at a local school. During this time she started writing short stories and books. She published April Twilights in 1903, a book of verse, and The Troll Garden in 1905, a collection of short stories.
Upon the publication of The Troll Garden she left teaching and started working at a magazine as a publisher. She worked there until she was thirty-eight. When she took the advice of a friend and left her job to devote her time to
writing. She published her first novel in 1912 “Alexander's Bridge” followed by O Pioneers! one year later. She published The Song of the Lark in 1915 and published My Ántonia in 1918.
Willa Cather continued writing throughout her life. In the 1930’s she had to deal with the deaths of her mother, her brothers and her close friend Isabelle McClung. Her tremendous emotional stress showed in her writings during this time. When world war II she turned her focus to world events. This and the pain in her hand stopped her for writing. On April 24, 1947, Wilella (Willa) Cather died of a cerebral hemorrhage in her New York residence
Poppies On Ludlow Castle
by Willa Cather
Through halls of vanished pleasure,
And hold of vanished power,
And crypt of faith forgotten,
A came to Ludlow tower.
A-top of arch and stairway,
Of crypt and donjan cell,
Of council hall, and chamber,
Of wall, and ditch, and well,
High over grated turrets
Where clinging ivies run,
A thousand scarlet poppies
Enticed the rising sun,
Upon the topmost turret,
With death and damp below,--
Three hundred years of spoilage,--
The crimson poppies grow.
This hall it was that bred him,
These hills that knew him brave,
The gentlest English singer
That fills an English grave.
How have they heart to blossom
So cruel and gay and red,
When beauty so hath perished
And valour so hath sped?
When knights so fair are rotten,
And captains true asleep,
And singing lips are dust-stopped
Six English earth-feet deep?
When ages old remind me
How much hath gone for naught,
What wretched ghost remaineth
Of all that flesh hath wrought;
Of love and song and warring,
Of adventure and play,
Of art and comely building,
Of faith and form and fray--
I'll mind the flowers of pleasure,
Of short-lived youth and sleep,
That drunk the sunny weather
A-top of Ludlow keep.
The Hawthorn Tree
by Willa Cather
Across the shimmering meadows--
Ah, when he came to me!
In the spring-time,
In the night-time,
In the starlight,
Beneath the hawthorn tree.
Up from the misty marsh-land--
Ah, when he climbed to me!
To my white bower,
To my sweet rest,
To my warm breast,
Beneath the hawthorn tree.
Ask of me what the birds sang,
High in the hawthorn tree;
What the breeze tells,
What the rose smells,
What the stars shine--
Not what he said to me!
Thank you all!
Stormy Lady
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The winner of "Stormy's poetry newsletter & contest" [ASR] is:
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My mind went off on a path of its own
Climbing, wandering, searching for ventures
I could not tell where it was going
Nor could I tell where it had been.
The path was heading toward a mountain
Adventures were sure to be found
But my mind decided it was a secret
And the whole adventure turned me around.
At the top of the mountain I saw a cave
Searching my mind to as why I was here
But nothing seem to reveal itself
For the mind, plays tricks, and I felt fear.
My mind went off on a path of its own
Seeking adventure, so it seemed to me
Climbing out of its cave of its normal routine
It was telling me there is more to life than I see.
Honorable mention:
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These are the rules:
1) You must use the words I give in a poem or prose with no limits on length.
2) The words can be in any order and anywhere throughout the poem and can be any form of the word.
3) All entries must be posted in your portfolio and you must post the link in this forum, "Stormy's poetry newsletter & contest" [ASR] by June 15, 2019.
4) The winner will get 3000 gift points and the poem will be displayed in this section of the newsletter the next time it is my turn to post (June 19, 2019)
The words are:
wine, petals, reaper, disguise, dance, marble, damp, fade
 Good luck to all
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#2191251 by Not Available. |
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Poetry: May 22, 2019 Issue [#9559]
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