All in green went my love riding -- e e cummings

Guest poem submitted by VG:

(Poem #1536) All in green went my love riding All in green went my love riding on a great horse of gold into the silver dawn. four lean hounds crouched low and smiling the merry deer ran before. Fleeter be they than dappled dreams the swift sweet deer the red rare deer. Four red roebuck at a white water the cruel bugle sang before. Horn at hip went my love riding riding the echo down into the silver dawn. four lean hounds crouched low and smiling the level meadows ran before. Softer be they than slippered sleep the lean lithe deer the fleet flown deer. Four fleet does at a gold valley the famished arrow sang before. Bow at belt went my love riding riding the mountain down into the silver dawn. four lean hounds crouched low and smiling the sheer peaks ran before. Paler be they than daunting death the sleek slim deer the tall tense deer. Four tall stags at a green mountain the lucky hunter sang before. All in green went my love riding on a great horse of gold into the silver dawn. four lean hounds crouched low and smiling my heart fell dead before. -- e e cummings

This poem begs to be recited, with its almost hypnotic rhythm and its
beautiful rippling phrases - 'dappled dreams' 'slippered sleep'. The scenes
evoked are dreamlike and misty, with the smiling hounds and the horse of
gold. I don't know how cummings does it, but whenever I read this poem I
give a deep sigh and go back to the beginning.

VG

The Donkey -- G K Chesterton

Guest poem submitted by VG:

(Poem #1530) The Donkey When fishes flew and forests walked And figs grew upon thorn, Some moment when the moon was blood Then surely I was born; With monstrous head and sickening cry And ears like errant wings, The devil's walking parody On all four-footed things. The tattered outlaw of the earth, Of ancient crooked will; Starve, scourge, deride me: I am dumb, I keep my secret still. Fools! For I also had my hour; One far fierce hour and sweet: There was a shout about my ears, And palms before my feet. -- G K Chesterton

At the age of eight, my eldest sister decided to teach me (aged six) and our
two other sisters (aged four and eight) this poem. Why she chose this poem I
don't know, nor do I remember how she went about teaching it. All I know is
that she was eminently successful, and even now we can recite the poem
perfectly. At six, I had no idea what the poem was about (though I recited
it with pride and passion, excited by the idea of flying fish and a moon of
blood), but because I learned it so early, the fierce beauty of the poem is
now enriched with nostalgia for me.

VG.

Villanelle for an Anniversary -- Seamus Heaney

Guest poem submitted by VG:

(Poem #1515) Villanelle for an Anniversary A spirit moved. John Harvard walked the yard, The atom lay unsplit, the west unwon, The books stood open and the gates unbarred. The maps dreamt on like moondust. Nothing stirred. The future was a verb in hibernation. A spirit moved, John Harvard walked the yard. Before the classic style, before the clapboard, All through the small hours of an origin, The books stood open and the gate unbarred. Night passage of a migratory bird. Wingflap. Gownflap. Like a homing pigeon A spirit moved, John Harvard walked the yard. Was that his soul (look) sped to its reward By grace or works? A shooting star? An omen? The books stood open and the gate unbarred. Begin again where frosts and tests were hard. Find yourself or founder. Here, imagine A spirit moves, John Harvard walks the yard, The books stand open and the gates unbarred. -- Seamus Heaney

I love villanelles, and this one is no exception. Apparently written to
commemorate Harvard University's 350th birthday, it has a very special
secretiveness about it, as though someone is whispering it quietly in one's
ear. I don't think the villanelle form is as well used as in some other
villanelles on your site (in particular 'Miranda' by W. H. Auden and 'Do Not
Go Gentle' by Dylan Thomas) but every time I read this poem, it makes me
want to go and carpe the diem. But it's not so much the central idea of the
poem as the little details that endear it to me. All alone in the night, no
one else awake, listening to the almost silence of a bird flying overhead...
why does it seem like heresy that Seamus Heaney read this poem aloud to a
large gathering of people at Harvard's 350th anniversary?

VG