Spring (in answer to Gerard Manley Hopkins)
Spring has an own beauty
where grasses and weeds appear with brush
and stem, growing in full lush
and the sky, the air has serenity
and insects, birds and animals are full of activity,
the wind quivers in every bush, bulrush and rush
in the veldt and at the marsh and even the little thrush
sings to its heart’s content with a magic quality
the whole of nature rejoices its joy
as if everything has a new beginning
without any threat or ploy
almost like Eden before the sinning
innocent as the heart of every small girl and boy
where the light of God is brightly shining.
[Reference: Spring by Gerard Manley Hopkins. Note that the rhyme scheme of some Petrach or Italian sonnets was abba/abba/cd/cd/cd and not just abba/abba/cde/cde. Although Hopkins’s verse is viewed as a modern sonnet it meets all the requirements
of a Italian / patrach sonnet.]
poem by Gert Strydom
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Related quotes
An earthly miracle
Sometimes, an earthly miracle
needs human mediation;
it’s what creates our saints;
and what our saints create.
This story’s told of Abba Alonius,
known always to speak the truth:
One day a man, provoked beyond restraint
by ceaseless taunts and treachery,
murdered a man, within the Abba’s sight;
fled to the Abba’s cell, begging him,
‘Forgive me, Abba, in the sight of God,
before they hang me in the sight of men…’
Abba Alonius said,
that was not in his power..
The police came, asked that holy man,
‘Did this man murder in your sight? ’
The Abba said, all he could say
was that the man sought blessing in his cell..
the murderer looked astonished at that holy man,
who had for his sake, broken holy vow of truth;
and for one man’s soul.. That soul
cried out to God, to redeem the holy Abba’s lie…
and in the instant, knew itself redeemed.
After the trial with no witness to the deed,
he sought the Abba, to know the holy truth:
And Abba said: ‘Better for me to express a lie,
and so, deliver your soul over to God unbound;
for God knows all.. Do what you can,
and leave the rest to God..’
poem by Michael Shepherd
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Spring
Nothing is so beautiful as spring --
When weeds, in wheels, shoot long and lovely and lush;
Thrush's eggs look little low heavens, and thrush
Through the echoing timber does so rinse and wring
The ear, it strikes like lightnings to hear him sing;
The glassy peartree leaves and blooms, they brush
The descending blue; that blue is all in a rush
With richness; the racing lambs too have fair their fling.
What is all this juice and all this joy?
A strain of the earth's sweet being in the beginning
In Eden garden. -- Have, get, before it cloy,
Before it cloud, Christ, lord, and sour with sinning,
Innocent mind and Mayday in girl and boy,
Most, O maid's child, thy choice and worthy the winning.
poem by Gerard Manley Hopkins
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Abba, Daddy, Father
Abba, did you smile as you
saw the perfect world you’d just created?
And did you weep when Adam fell
and Eve tumbled after?
Abba, do I have the right to call you,
Abba, Daddy, Father?
Daddy, did you jump for joy as
you saw your son, born to human parents?
And did you write the Angels words
as Glory shone all around?
Daddy, did the shepherds have the right to call you,
Abba, Daddy, Father?
Father, did you laugh out loud as
Mary and Joseph searched for their son, and
Found him in the Temple, with you?
Did you allow the telling off that he got?
Father, did you give Mary and Joseph the right to call you,
Abba, Daddy, Father?
Abba, did your heart break asunder as
the Angels thundered to go and rescue
Your Son from the cross? Did you cry raindrops
when you had to turn your back, because of sin?
Abba, did you deny the Christ the right to call you,
Abba, Daddy, Father?
Daddy, did the Angels turn and ask
You, why? How did you reply when the words
choked you? Were you waiting to destroy
the world that crucified your Son?
Daddy, did you think about taking away our right to call you,
Abba, Daddy, Father?
Father, did you yell at Satan, when
he thought he had won? Did you let
him believe it, and then showed him Your Son
by your side? Did Satan fly in rage?
Father, how did you feel, when Satan fell from grace, no longer to call you,
Abba, Daddy, Father?
Abba, was it your loud shout that woke the
world on that Easter morn? Was it you who
moved the stone? Did you close the eyes of
the guards, as Glory shone around?
Abba, did you allow Mary the right to call you,
Abba, Daddy, Father?
Daddy, did you smile when you saw
the perfect Son, alive, alive, ALIVE?
And did the Angels party, and are they
partying still? Will it be long before you
come again? And does the earth rest?
Do we have the right to call you, Abba, Daddy, Father?
Father, do you always remember your gifts
and promises to us, yet forget the sins?
Can I feel your arms around me? Am I
blessed by your Son? And, Father, do I
still have the right to call on you? Do I
still have the right to call you Abba, Daddy, Father?
Abba, Daddy, Father, do you rejoice in those
names? Do you look at your children
and remember their names, one by one?
And can I stretch out my hand and get
one to one attention? Abba, Daddy, Father,
that is what I call you, by right, My Abba, My Daddy, My Father.
poem by Steve Gregory
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Nothing is so beautiful as spring - when weeds, in wheels, shoot long and lovely and lush; Thrush's eggs look little low heavens, and thrush through the echoing timber does so rinse and wring the ear, it strikes like lightning to hear him sing.
quote by Gerard Manley Hopkins
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Don't Tell THe World! (Sonnet)
This Sonnet is in the popular Petrarchan Form
I behold thy love as beautiful thing,
In my wrecked heart, a pleasure garden,
Thy revered love, a blooming Eden.
A daisy tuft seasoned by bright spring,
Surging in moments that defeats waiting,
I behold thy words as a jeweled crown,
On my worn pages of despicable frown.
And thy memory feeds my mind dying,
Daring couple disclose, but don’t you tell,
About memoirs many encased and kept,
Say not thy chronicle, sweet as daisy smell,
Buried, not unseen to thy eyes except
Reveal not, the guarded stash of our love,
Lest a rational world desires to know! ! !
IA NOTE: For those who find the format unfitting to a sonnet!
(Sonnet
only 14 lines long— and has a firmly fixed form. The sonnet works best for expressing strong emotion or intense feeling, firm purpose, or great seriousness. This form works best if you want to focus attention on a single thing—a particular idea, situation, emotion, problem, observation, etc. —the sonnet gets to its point quickly and efficiently, with beauty and charm of form or expression.
The Shakespearean (or English) sonnet and the Petrarchan (or Italian) sonnet are the two most prevalent versions of this form today.
A Shakespearean sonnet or English sonnet is written in one stanza composed of three rhymed quatrains (each making one point in a three-step argument) , followed by a rhyming couplet that summarizes the argument
A Petrarchan sonnet or Italian sonnet is composed of an octet followed by a sestet with a variable rhyme scheme. The octet presents the poem’s theme or problem, while the sestet offers a change or a resolution. In its traditional form, this sonnet never ends in a couplet.
Robert Frost was popular at Petrarchan form of sonnets.
sonnet’s formal requirements (14 lines of iambic pentameter with a specific rhyme scheme) , method (a strong focus on one subject) , and goals (persuasion, surprise, balance) ,
Ref: www.poetry.com/techniques/form of poetic expressions.
Thank You
poem by Seema Aarella
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Dust to Dust We Go
DUST TO DUST WE GO
Dawn saw fame borne away to flame no more
Undone our time, light's boon, for dust bests fun -
Sun's one hour rhyme, - night's soon sure, rust rests run.
Torn core, aims shorn, waylays true name so poor.
Thorn store shames born day's plays, few claim crow - chore
Once spun power mimes fight, loon scores crust, jest done.
Dunce - shun tower chimes' rite, noon whores' lust, gest stun.
Unpure frame, worn, frays, pays - too tame, shows flaw.
Scorn pour, lame mourn, praise phase new, game grows bore,
Turns tunnel dower, limelight’s floor just crest dun.
Won shone flower rimes, trite croon caw bust, Quest? none!
End: forlorn blame gaze stays acclaim, slows roar.
Glory for soul, some say life sends gold key,
Or we poor, sole, dumb pray strife ends, goal flee.
28 April 2009 Acrostic Sonnet DUST TO DUST WE GO
robi03_1887_robi03_0000 AQS_CDZ
NOTES:
Rhyme ABBA ABBA ABBA CC
most syllables in A lines rhyme with corresponding syllables in other A lines
most syllables in B lines rhyme with corresponding syllables in other B lines
final couplet all syllables rhyme
poem by Jonathan Robin
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This Tree By The Side Of 'Abba Hilkiah' Road
THIS TREE BY THE SIDE OF THE ABBA HILKIAH ROAD
This tree by the side of the Abba Hilkiah road
Will be here
When I no longer am,
One day too though
It will not be.
Each and every living thing
One day will be not.
“We are such stuff as dreams are made on”
And at the end of our day
And at the end of our night
We are not.
God then
Only God
And who knows about God?
But God then
And only God.
poem by Shalom Freedman
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I will not loose my grip
(after Gerard Manley Hopkins)
No, I will not flee,
while I struggle as a mortal man,
using all the power that I can,
while I am struggling to be free,
to be free, from sin, from my own iniquity
and yet its your familiar / unfamiliar face that I scan
while I am trying to comprehend why our fighting did began,
why someone Godly, divine chose me as an adversary?
The dust covers both of us,
while the sun is already rising
and my foot feels full of pain and odd,
but I will not loose my grip even if I must
and I am first begging for your blessing,
for your compassion, Oh my God, my God.
[Reference: “Carrion Comfort” by Gerard Manley Hopkins.]
poem by Gert Strydom
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Sonnet- Sonnet Needs Rhymes
Can you a Sonnet write without its rhyme?
Now people want the modern verse that's free;
As ideas get stuck and cramped with time,
A Sonnet's like leafless branches of tree!
A Sonnet's great for men who rhyme too well;
Its beauty lives in metre, rhythm, rhyme;
Yet, it can never run into 'pel-mel';
The sonneteer can write in any clime.
Why abhor rhymes and not a Sonnet write?
Each genre has its rules to comply with;
Why sleep all day and stay awake all night?
Rhyme-play is done by Kindergarden kith!
Why ridicule something you can't do well,
Much things are done by practice, Sonnets tell.
poem by John Celes
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Today... 'Abba
'Abba, Father', Jesus said, 'Take this cup from me'
whilst praying in the garden of Gethsemane.
'I know that all things are possible for You
and that there is nothing that You cannot do.'
'Yet not what I will but what You will, ' He said
as in deep anguish great drops of blood He bled.
Then He went on to complete salvations plan
agreed by the Godhead before time began.
'Abba, Father, ' like Jesus we too can cry
as we pour out our soul to the Lord on high.
For the sons and daughters of our God are we
and never more in slavery shall we be.
The Spirit of Christ is dwelling in our heart
and causes all the fear and dread to depart.
For our Lord Jesus drained the bitter cup dry
when He bowed His head upon the cross to die.
Abba Father, the Spirit has testified
that I am the child for whom He has died.
An heir of God and co-heir with Jesus Christ
sharing in His suffering and sacrifice.
No more an orphan for the Father I know
I'm in His family where life's riches flow.
Led by the Spirit I gaze into His face
as God's love floods into my soul by His grace.
We are sons and daughters of the living God
and we walk the same pathway that Jesus trod.
All saved by His grace and purchased with His blood
and trusting in the promises of our God.
(see also the additional information in the Poet's notes box)
Far Too Many Aspens Are Now Felled (Cavatina)
(after William Cowper and Gerard Manley Hopkins)
Far too many aspens are now felled,
gone is the shade
while the wind blows and its searching in vain
the colonnade
where it once played its own happy song;
it is man made
the destruction that came, the great havoc
that down many rows of great trees did knock.
[References: “The Poplar-Field” by William Cowper and “Binsey Poplars” by Gerard Manley Hopkins.]
poem by Gert Strydom
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A Fragment
When she is forward, querulous, or wild,
Thou knowest, Abba, how in each offence
I stint not patience lest I wrong the child,
Mistaking for revolt defect of sense—
For wilfulness mere sprightliness of mind;
Thou knowest how often, seeing, I am blind.
• • • • • • • •
And how, when twice, for something grievous done,
I could but smite, and though I lightly smote,
I felt my heart rise strangling in my throat;
And when she wept I kissed the poor red hands.
All these things, Father, a father understands;
And am I not Thy son?
• • • • • • • •
Thou’st seen how closely, Abba, when at rest
My child’s head nestles to my breast;
And how my arm her little form enfolds,
Lest in the darkness she should feel alone;
And how she holds
My hands, my hands, my two hands in her own!
• • • • • • • •
A little easeful sighing
And restful turning round,
And I, too, on Thy love relying,
Shall slumber sound.
poem by Guy Wetmore Carryl from The Garden of Years and Other Poems (1893)
Submitted by Veronica Serbanoiu
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Lest Arab governments be tempted out of sheer routine to rush into impulsive rejection, let me suggest that tragedy is not what men suffer but what they miss.
You can't achieve anything without getting in someone's way.
It is our experience that political leaders do not always mean the opposite of what they say.
I wanted a name that would put us first in the phone directory, or second if you count ABBA.
quote by Martin Fry
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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You're not really supposed to like ABBA in Sweden. It's nerdy.
quote by Izabella Scorupco
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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ABBA: The Movie; I got a lot of grief for working on that.
quote by Lasse Hallstrom
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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