February 23
Light rain is falling in Central Park
but not on Upper Fifth Avenue or Central Park West
where sun and sky are yellow and blue
Winds are gusting on Washington Square
through the arches and on to LaGuardia Place
but calm is the corner of 8th Street and Second Avenue
which reminds me of something John Ashbery said
about his poem "Crazy Weather" he said
he was in favor of all kinds of weather
just so long as it's genuine weather
which is always unusually bad, unusually
good, or unusually indifferent,
since there isn't really any norm for weather
When he was a boy his mother met a friend
who said, "Isn't this funny weather?"
It was one of his earliest memories
poem by David Lehman
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Related quotes
Wet
Not guilty, yer Honor . . . An' givin' me reasons,
I'd like for to plead this ‘ere change in the seasons,
Plus one flamin' goat with a terrible silly
Great grin on ‘is map wot ‘ud drive a man dilly
‘E lobs in me shop an' - "Is this enough rain for yeh?"
Honest yer Honor, I'd like to explain for yeh,
‘Twas n't ‘is tone, or ‘is talk of the weather
And ‘twas n't ‘is grin; but the whole lot together.
"This enough rain for yeh?" Stands there inquirin',
As if this ‘ere rain's the one thing I'm desirin'.
"Wet, ain't it?" ‘e grins, with ‘is mackintosh leakin'
All over me carpit . . . it's justice I'm seekin'
Plain justice, yer Honor. I wonder I'm sober.
You know ‘ow it poured thro' the whole of October,
Then floods in November - an' this ‘eathen image
Sez, "Rain enough for yeh?" That started the scrimmage.
"Wet, ain't it?" ‘e sez. Can a man claim I wrongs ‘im
Right there in me shop, when I ups an' I dongs ‘im?
For I done al me cash - as ‘e well must remember,
The coot - in this ‘ere ice-cream joint last September.
Yes, ice-cream, yer Honor. Cool drinks - then this weather
An' ‘im, an' ‘is talk, an' ‘is grin all together
Well - a man can stand so much. I ain't prone to fightin',
But, if a fine must be, well, make it a light ‘un.
poem by Clarence Michael James Stanislaus Dennis
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Good Weather
This good weather ruined me,
I resigned in such a weather
From my government job.
I got used to tobacco in such a weather,
I fell in love in such a weather;
I forgot to take home bread and salt
In such a weather;
My disease of writing poems
Recurred in such a weather;
This good weather ruined me.
poem by Orhan Veli Kanik
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Sonnet V: Nothing But No
Nothing but "No," and "Aye," and "Aye," and "No"?
How falls it out so strangely you reply?
I tell ye, Fair, I'll not be answer'd so,
With this affirming "No," denying "Aye."
I say, "I love," you slightly answer "Aye";
I say, "You love," you pule me out a "No";
I say, "I die," you echo me an "Aye";
"Save me," I cry, you sigh me out a "No";
Must woe and I have nought but "No" and "Aye"?
No I am I, if I no more can have;
Answer no more, with silence make reply,
And let me take myself what I do crave.
Let "No" and "Aye" with I and you be so;
Then answer "No," and "Aye," and "Aye" and "No."
poem by Michael Drayton
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The Weather's Wet!
The weather's wet, and skies are grey,
I wish I could just stay in bed,
But I must go to work today,
I'm safe beneath the warm duvet,
Not thinking ‘bout the day ahead,
The weather's wet, and skies are grey,
If only I could stay away,
I'd rather be at home instead,
But I must go to work today,
"Get up, get out, and earn your pay! "
A little voice screams in my head.
The weather's wet, and skies are grey,
A normal British summer's day,
With forecasts of more rain ahead,
But I must go to work today,
I wish there were another way,
In which to earn my daily bread,
The weather's wet, and skies are grey,
But I must go to work today.
poem by Graeme Williams
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Confused Atmosphere
Mother Nature may be confused, just like those, who have used,
This demeaning title to describe, the very God they have denied,
The Lord God, Who orders all, weather patterns, great and small,
He may never enter their minds, while stirring weather of all kinds.
Confused He isn't or will not be, for He is The Lord of all Eternity,
He is God of Order, up above; controlling weather men speak of,
And they truly don't understand, He controls the weather at hand,
Confusing only meteorologists, who dream Mother Nature exists.
They forecast the weather to come, not aware of where it is from,
Knowing not who is really behind, the weather they bring to mind,
Being shaken and very surprised, when it's not as they surmised,
But taking credit from their peers, for saying good weather nears.
Often times, you may even note, as weather is good some gloat,
About the returning of the sun, as if, it's something they've done,
Even though they may shy away, as bad weather comes our way,
Almost with a real reverence to, The Lord, to whom it is truly due.
For He is The Creator of this earth, Ruler over the whole universe,
He has, and always will control, all weather patterns, big or small,
With change meteorologists see, that fools the latest technology,
And it's those who have refused, God's Truth, who are confused.
Darkness and Rain
As i stand outside in the darkness and rain i try to keep the memories of us but they seem to fade away when you left no weathers been good all weathers been bad the best weather came when i was with you the best weather i ever had one kiss used to brighten my day 2 to keep the clouds away 3 kisses so i never felt blue but those kisses didnt matter as long as i had you darkness are now my days rain became part of the nights just take me away from all this darkness and bring me back to the light protect me and be my sun and be my shelter and save me from this bad weather.....forever some think im crazy some think im insane because i still wait for you outside in the darkness and rain
poem by Isaiah Ferguson
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You're right—
234
You're right—"the way is narrow"—
And "difficult the Gate"—
And "few there be"—Correct again—
That "enter in—thereat"—
'Tis Costly—So are purples!
'Tis just the price of Breath—
With but the "Discount" of the Grave—
Termed by the Brokers—"Death"!
And after that—there's Heaven—
The Good Man's—"Dividend"—
And Bad Men—"go to Jail"—
I guess—
poem by Emily Dickinson
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Winter (in answer to D. J. Opperman)
Through dark nights I am alone,
I am still missing you in this bleak season
while the storm wind blows strong in the rain,
I forget everything that love could do,
while I hear the storm moaning like a beast,
when the weather trembles wet against the windows,
then the naked trees do not have any leaves
and then suddenly everything around me gets silent,
over your life so completely wasted.
[Reference: "Voorwinter" "Pre-winter" by D. J. Opperman.]
poem by Gert Strydom
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The ABC
'Twas midnight in the schoolroom
And every desk was shut
When suddenly from the alphabet
Was heard a loud "Tut-Tut!"
Said A to B, "I don't like C;
His manners are a lack.
For all I ever see of C
Is a semi-circular back!"
"I disagree," said D to B,
"I've never found C so.
From where I stand he seems to be
An uncompleted O."
C was vexed, "I'm much perplexed,
You criticise my shape.
I'm made like that, to help spell Cat
And Cow and Cool and Cape."
"He's right" said E; said F, "Whoopee!"
Said G, "'Ip, 'Ip, 'ooray!"
"You're dropping me," roared H to G.
"Don't do it please I pray."
"Out of my way," LL said to K.
"I'll make poor I look ILL."
To stop this stunt J stood in front,
And presto! ILL was JILL.
"U know," said V, "that W
Is twice the age of me.
For as a Roman V is five
I'm half as young as he."
X and Y yawned sleepily,
"Look at the time!" they said.
"Let's all get off to beddy byes."
They did, then "Z-z-z."
poem by Spike Milligan
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What is—
215
What is—"Paradise"—
Who live there—
Are they "Farmers"—
Do they "hoe"—
Do they know that this is "Amherst"—
And that I—am coming—too—
Do they wear "new shoes"—in "Eden"—
Is it always pleasant—there—
Won't they scold us—when we're homesick—
Or tell God—how cross we are—
You are sure there's such a person
As "a Father"—in the sky—
So if I get lost—there—ever—
Or do what the Nurse calls "die"—
I shan't walk the "Jasper"—barefoot—
Ransomed folks—won't laugh at me—
Maybe—"Eden" a'n't so lonesome
As New England used to be!
poem by Emily Dickinson
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Colloquy
In the broken light, in owl weather,
Webs on the lawn where the leaves end,
I took the thin moon and the sky for cover
To pick the cat's brains and descend
A weedy hill. I found him groveling
Inside the summerhouse, a shadowed bulge,
Furred and somnolent.—"I bring,"
I said, "besides this dish of liver, and an edge
Of cheese, the customary torments,
And the usual wonder why we live
At all, and why the world thins out and perishes
As it has done for me, sieved
As I am toward silences. Where
Are we now? Do we know anything?"
—Now, on another night, his look endures.
"Give me the dish," he said.
I had his answer, wise as yours.
poem by Weldon Kees
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Which Has More Patience -- Man or Woman?
As my letter must be brief,
I'll at once state my belief,
And this it is -- that, since the world began,
And Adam first did say,
"'Twas Eve led me astray,"
A woman hath more patience than a man.
If a man's obliged to wait
For some one who's rather late,
No mortal ever got in such a stew,
And if something can't be found
That he's sure should be around,
The listening air sometimes grows fairly blue.
Just watch a man who tries
To soothe a baby's cries;
Or put a stove pipe up in weather cold,
Into what a state he'll get;
How he'll fuss and fume and fret
And stamp and bluster round and storm and scold!
Some point to Job with pride,
As an argument for their side!
Why, it was so rare a patient man to see,
That when one was really found,
His discoverers were bound
To preserve for him a place in history!
And while I admit it's true
That man has some patience too,
And that woman isn't always sweetly calm,
Still I think all must agree
On this central fact -- that she
For central all-round patience bears the palm.
poem by Lucy Maud Montgomery
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Another Acrostic ( In the style of Father William )
"Are you deaf, Father William!" the young man said,
"Did you hear what I told you just now?
"Excuse me for shouting! Don't waggle your head
"Like a blundering, sleepy old cow!
"A little maid dwelling in Wallington Town,
"Is my friend, so I beg to remark:
"Do you think she'd be pleased if a book were sent down
"Entitled 'The Hunt of the Snark?'"
"Pack it up in brown paper!" the old man cried,
"And seal it with olive-and-dove.
"I command you to do it!" he added with pride,
"Nor forget, my good fellow to send her beside
"Easter Greetings, and give her my love."
poem by Lewis Carroll
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A Day Of Sunshine
It was such a lovely sunshine-day,
The house and the yard couldn't hold me;
I roved to the woods, on my back I lay,
In cradle of fancy rolled me;
But there were ants, and gnats that bite,
The horse-fly was keen, the wasp showed fight.
"Dear me, don't you want to be out in this fine
weather?" --said mother, who sat on the steps and sang.
It was such a lovely sunshine-day,
The house and the yard couldn't hold me;
A meadow I found, on my back I lay,
And sang what my spirit told me;
Then snakes came crawling, a fathom long,
To bask in the sun,--I fled with my song.
"In such blessed weather we can go barefoot,"--said mother,
as she pulled off her stockings.
It was such a lovely sunshine-day,
The house and the yard couldn't hold me;
I loosened a boat, on my back I lay,
While blithely the current bowled me;
But hot grew the sun, and peeled my nose;
Enough was enough, and to land I chose.
"Now these are just the days to make hay in,"-- said mother,
as she stuck the rake in it.
It was such a lovely sunshine-day,
The house and the yard couldn't hold me;
I climbed up a tree, oh, what bliss to play,
As cooling the breeze consoled me;
But worms soon fell on my neck, by chance,
And jumping, I cried: "'T is the Devil's own dance!"
"Yes, if the cows aren't sleek and shiny to-day, they'll
never be so,"--said mother, gazing up the hillside.
It was such a lovely sunshine-day,
The house and the yard couldn't hold me;
I dashed to the waterfall's endless play,
There only could peace enfold me.
The shining sun saw me drown and die,--
If you made this ditty, 't was surely not I.
"Three more such sunshine-days, and everything will
be in,"--said mother, and went to make my bed.
poem by Bjørnstjerne Bjørnson
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Us Two
Wherever I am, there's always Pooh,
There's always Pooh and Me.
Whatever I do, he wants to do,
"Where are you going today?" says Pooh:
"Well, that's very odd 'cos I was too.
Let's go together," says Pooh, says he.
"Let's go together," says Pooh.
"What's twice eleven?" I said to Pooh.
("Twice what?" said Pooh to Me.)
"I think it ought to be twenty-two."
"Just what I think myself," said Pooh.
"It wasn't an easy sum to do,
But that's what it is," said Pooh, said he.
"That's what it is," said Pooh.
"Let's look for dragons," I said to Pooh.
"Yes, let's," said Pooh to Me.
We crossed the river and found a few-
"Yes, those are dragons all right," said Pooh.
"As soon as I saw their beaks I knew.
That's what they are," said Pooh, said he.
"That's what they are," said Pooh.
"Let's frighten the dragons," I said to Pooh.
"That's right," said Pooh to Me.
"I'm not afraid," I said to Pooh,
And I held his paw and I shouted "Shoo!
Silly old dragons!"- and off they flew.
"I wasn't afraid," said Pooh, said he,
"I'm never afraid with you."
So wherever I am, there's always Pooh,
There's always Pooh and Me.
"What would I do?" I said to Pooh,
"If it wasn't for you," and Pooh said: "True,
It isn't much fun for One, but Two,
Can stick together, says Pooh, says he. "That's how it is," says Pooh.
poem by Alan Alexander Milne
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The Vulture and the Husbandman
By Louisa CarolineN.B. -- A Vulture is a rapacious and obscene bird, whichdestroys its prey by plucking it limb from limb with its powerfulbeak and talons.A Husbandman is a man in a low position of life, who supportshimself by the use of the plough. -- (Johnson's Dictionary).
The rain was raining cheerfully,
As if it had been May;
The Senate-House appeared inside
Unusually gay;
And this was strange, because it was
A Viva-voce day.
The men were sitting sulkily,
Their paper work was done;
They wanted much to go away
To ride or row or run;
"It's very rude," they said, "to keep
Us here, and spoil our fun."
The papers they had finished lay
In piles of blue and white.
They answered every thing they could,
And wrote with all their might,
But, though they wrote it all by rote,
They did not write it right.
The Vulture and the Husbandman
Beside these piles did stand,
They wept like anything to see
The work they had in hand.
"If this were only finished up,"
Said they, "it would be grand!"
"If seven D's or seven C's
We give to all the crowd,
Do you suppose," the Vulture said,
"That we could get them ploughed?"
"I think so," said the Husbandman,
"But pray don't talk so loud."
"O undergraduates, come up,"
The Vulture did beseech,
"And let us see if you can learn
As well as we can teach;
We cannot do with more than two
To have a word with each."
Two Undergraduates came up,
And slowly took a seat,
They knit their brows, and bit their thumbs,
As if they found them sweet,
And this was odd, because you know
Thumbs are not good to eat.
"The time has come," the Vulture said,
"To talk of many things,
Of Accidence and Adjectives,
And names of Jewish kings,
How many notes a sackbut has,
And whether shawms have strings."
"Please, Sir," the Undergraduates said,
Turning a little blue,
"We did not know that was the sort
Of thing we had to do."
"We thank you much," the Vulture said,
"Send up another two."
Two more came up, and then two more,
And more, and more and more;
And some looked upwards at the roof,
Some down upon the floor,
But none were any wiser than
The pair that went before.
"I weep for you," the Vulture said,
"I deeply sympathise!"
With sobs and tears he gave them all
D's of the largest size,
While at the Husbandman he winked
One of his streaming eyes.
"I think," observed the Husbandman,
"We're getting on too quick.
Are we not putting down the D's
A little bit too thick?"
The Vulture said with much disgust
"Their answers make me sick."
"Now, Undergraduates," he cried,
Our fun is nearly done,
"Will anybody else come up?"
But answer came there none;
And this was scarcely odd, because
They'd ploughed them every one!
poem by Arthur Clement Hilton
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Memory of my Father
Every old man I see
Reminds me of my father
When he had fallen in love with death
One time when sheaves were gathered.
That man I saw in Gardner Street
Stumbled on the kerb was one,
He stared at me half-eyed,
I might have been his son.
And I remember the musician
Faltering over his fiddle
In Bayswater, London,
He too set me the riddle.
Every old man I see
In October-coloured weather
Seems to say to me:
"I was once your father."
poem by Patrick Kavanagh
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Fable
The mountain and the squirrel
Had a quarrel;
And the former called the latter "Little Prig."
Bun replied,
"You are doubtless very big;
But all sorts of things and weather
Must be taken in together
To make up a year
And a sphere.
And I think it's no disgrace
To occupy my place.
If I'm not so large as you,
You are not so small as I,
And not half so spry.
I'll not deny you make
A very pretty squirrel track;
Talents differ: all is well and wisely put;
If I cannot carry forests on my back,
Neither can you crack a nut."
poem by Ralph Waldo Emerson
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Sunshine is delicious, rain is refreshing, wind braces up, and snow is exhilarating; there is no such thing as bad weather, only different kinds of good weather.
quote by John Ruskin
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Sunshine is delicious, rain is refreshing, wind braces us up, snow is exhilarating; there is really no such thing as bad weather, only different kinds of good weather.
quote by John Ruskin
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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