I confess, I have a thing for Longfellow—which is politically incorrect, I know. Still, the man could tell a story, and he knew how to turn a phrase. I read his work out loud and let the music slide along.
Some of Henry's sonnet-thoughts on the loom of aging (in my case, the threat of turning 60):
MEZZO CAMMIN
—Henry Wadsworth Longfellow
Half of my life is gone, and I have let
The years slip from me and have not fulfilled
The aspiration of my youth, to build
Some tower of song with lofty parapet.
Not indolence, nor pleasure, nor the fret
Of restless passions that would not be stilled,
But sorrow, and a care that almost killed,
Kept me from what I may accomplish yet;
Though, halfway up the hill, I see the Past
Lying beneath me with its sounds and sights,—
A city in the twilight dim and vast,
With smoking roofs, soft bells, and gleaming lights,—
And hear above me on the autumnal blast
The cataract of Death far thundering from the heights.
_________________________
Remember the opening to HAUNTED HOUSES?
All houses wherein men have lived and died
Are haunted houses. Through the open doors
The harmless phantoms on their errands glide,
With feet that make no sound upon the floors...
_________________________
Listen to the music!
Then again, aging ain't all bad:
DEDICATION
—Henry Wadsworth Longfellow
Nothing that is shall perish utterly,
But perish only to revive again
In other forms, as clouds restore in rain
The exhalations of the land and sea.
Men build their houses from the masonry
Of ruined tombs; the passion and the pain
Of hearts, that long have ceased to beat, remain
To throb in hearts that are, or are to be.
So from old chronicles, where sleep in dust
Names that once filled the world with trumpet tones,
I build this verse; and flowers of song have thrust
Their roots among the loose disjointed stones,
Which to this end I fashion as I must.
Quickened are they that touch the Prophet's bones.
______________________
And of course EVANGELINE. The first sentence is the only line of poetry my mother knew, and she said it almost every time she saw a tree. In his time, Longfellow's work, in addition to making piles of money for him (rare for a poet!), was pinned up on farmhouse walls clear across the country.
from EVANGELINE
—Henry Wadsworth Longfellow
This is the forest primeval. The murmuring pines and the hemlocks,
Bearded with moss, and in garments green, indistinct in the twilight,
Stand like Druids of eld, with voices sad and prophetic,
Stand like harpers hoar, with beards that rest on their bosoms.
Loud from its rocky caverns, the deep-voiced neighboring ocean
Speaks, and in accents disconsolate answers the wail of the forest.
_______________________
"And in accents disconsolate answers the wail of the forest..." Oh, yeah.
Saturday and Sunday is the Sacramento Art and Wine Festival on the Capitol Mall (916-552-6808), from 10-7 today and 11-6 tomorrow. (The streets around 4th and 5th and Capitol will be tied up, by the way.)
Saturday "The Show" features a multitude of lively poets tonight at Wo'se Community Center, 2863 35th St., Sac. 916-445-7378.
And hey—it's Beach Party Day at the State Fair! Cowabunga!
I think I'll go write a poem about the wail of the forest...
—Medusa
Medusa encourages poets of all ilk and ages to send their poetry and announcements of Northern California poetry events to kathykieth@hotmail.com for posting on this daily Snake blog. Rights remain with the poets.