POEM OF THE DAY : A Song of the Road

A Song of the Road

José Santos Chocano

translated by John Pierrepont Rice

The way was black,

The night was mad with lightning; I bestrode

My wild young colt, upon a mountain road.

And, crunching onward, like a monster’s jaws,

His ringing hoof-beats their glad rhythm kept,

Breaking the glassy surface of the pools,

Where hidden waters slept.

A million buzzing insects in the air

On droning wing made sullen discord there.

But suddenly, afar, beyond the wood,

Beyond the dark pall of my brooding thought,

I saw lights cluster like a swarm of wasps

Among the branches caught.

“The inn!” I cried, and on his living flesh

My broncho felt the lash and neighed with eagerness.

And all this time the cool and quiet wood

Uttered no sound, as though it understood.

Until there came to me, upon the night,

A voice so clear, so clear, so ringing sweet—

A voice as of a woman singing, and her song

Dropped like soft music winging, at my feet,

And seemed a sigh that, with my spirit blending,

Lengthened and lengthened out, and had no ending.

And through the empty silence of the night,

And through the quiet of the hills, I heard

That music, and the sounds of the night wind bore me,

Like spirit voices from an unseen world

Came drifting o’er me.

I curbed my horse, to catch what she might say:

“At night they come, and they are gone by day—”

And then another voice, with low refrain,

And untold tenderness, took up the strain:

“Oh love is but an inn upon life’s way”;

“At night they come, and they are gone by day—”

Their voices mingled in that wistful lay.

Then I dismounted and stretched out my length

Beside a pool, and while my mind was bent

Upon that mystery within the wood,

My eyes grew heavy, and my strength was spent.

And so I slept there, huddled in my cloak.

And now, when by untrodden paths I go,

Through the dim forest, no repose I know

At any inn at nightfall, but apart

I sleep beneath the stars, for through my heart

Echoes the burden of that wistful lay:

“At night they come, and they are gone by day,

And love is but an inn upon life’s way.”

This poem is in the public domain. Published in Poem-a-Day on September 19, 2021, by the Academy of American Poets.

POEM OF THE DAY : Pastoral by William Carlos Williams

Pastoral

by William Carlos Williams

When I was younger

it was plain to me

I must make something of myself.

Older now

I walk back streets

admiring the houses

of the very poor:

roof out of line with sides

the yards cluttered

with old chicken wire, ashes,

furniture gone wrong;

the fences and outhouses

built of barrel staves

and parts of boxes, all,

if I am fortunate,

smeared a bluish green

that properly weathered

pleases me best of all colors.

No one

will believe this

of vast import to the nation.

“Pastoral” by William Carlos Williams is in  Public Domain

POEM OF THE DAY : How soon hath Time, the subtle thief of youth by John Milton

How soon hath Time, the subtle thief of youth

by John Milton

How soon hath Time, the subtle thief of youth,

     Stol'n on his wing my three and twentieth year!

     My hasting days fly on with full career,

     But my late spring no bud or blossom shew'th.

Perhaps my semblance might deceive the truth,

     That I to manhood am arrived so near,

     And inward ripeness doth much less appear,

     That some more timely-happy spirits endu'th.

Yet be it less or more, or soon or slow,

     It shall be still in strictest measure even

     To that same lot, however mean or high,

Toward which Time leads me, and the will of Heaven;

     All is, if I have grace to use it so,

     As ever in my great Taskmaster's eye.

"How soon hath Time, the subtle thief of youth" by John Milton. Public domain.

POEM OF THE DAY : THE POET'S CALENDAR - LONGFELLOW

JANUARY

    Janus am I; oldest of potentates;
        Forward I look, and backward, and below
    I count, as god of avenues and gates,
        The years that through my portals come and go.
    I block the roads, and drift the fields with snow;
    I chase the wild-fowl from the frozen fen;
    My frosts congeal the rivers in their flow,
    My fires light up the hearths and hearts of men.


    FEBRUARY

    I am lustration, and the sea is mine.
        I wash the sands and headlands with my tide;
    My brow is crowned with branches of the pine;
        Before my chariot-wheels the fishes glide.
    By me all things unclean are purified,
        By me the souls of men washed white again;
    E'en the unlovely tombs of those who died
        Without a dirge, I cleanse from every stain.


    MARCH

    I Martius am!    Once first, and now the third!
        To lead the Year was my appointed place;
    A mortal dispossessed me by a word,
        And set there Janus with the double face.
    Hence I make war on all the human race;
        I shake the cities with my hurricanes;
    I flood the rivers and their banks efface,
        And drown the farms and hamlets with my rains.


    APRIL

    I open wide the portals of the Spring
        To welcome the procession of the flowers,
    With their gay banners, and the birds that sing
        Their song of songs from their aerial towers.
    I soften with my sunshine and my showers
        The heart of earth; with thoughts of love I glide
    Into the hearts of men; and with the Hours
        Upon the Bull with wreathed horns I ride.


    MAY

    Hark!    The sea-faring wild-fowl loud proclaim
        My coming, and the swarming of the bees.
    These are my heralds, and behold! my name
        Is written in blossoms on the hawthorn-trees.
    I tell the mariner when to sail the seas;
        I waft o'er all the land from far away
    The breath and bloom of the Hesperides,
        My birthplace.    I am Maia.    I am May.


    JUNE

    Mine is the Month of Roses; yes, and mine
        The Month of Marriages!    All pleasant sights
    And scents, the fragrance of the blossoming vine,
        The foliage of the valleys and the heights.
    Mine are the longest days, the loveliest nights;
        The mower's scythe makes music to my ear;
    I am the mother of all dear delights;
        I am the fairest daughter of the year.


    JULY

    My emblem is the Lion, and I breathe
        The breath of Libyan deserts o'er the land;
    My sickle as a sabre I unsheathe,
        And bent before me the pale harvests stand.
    The lakes and rivers shrink at my command,
        And there is thirst and fever in the air;
    The sky is changed to brass, the earth to sand;
        I am the Emperor whose name I bear.


    AUGUST

    The Emperor Octavian, called the August,
        I being his favorite, bestowed his name
    Upon me, and I hold it still in trust,
        In memory of him and of his fame.
    I am the Virgin, and my vestal flame
        Burns less intensely than the Lion's rage;
    Sheaves are my only garlands, and I claim
        The golden Harvests as my heritage.


    SEPTEMBER

    I bear the Scales, where hang in equipoise
        The night and day; and when unto my lips
    I put my trumpet, with its stress and noise
        Fly the white clouds like tattered sails of ships;
    The tree-tops lash the air with sounding whips;
        Southward the clamorous sea-fowl wing their flight;
    The hedges are all red with haws and hips,
        The Hunter's Moon reigns empress of the night.


    OCTOBER

    My ornaments are fruits; my garments leaves,
        Woven like cloth of gold, and crimson dyed;
    I do not boast the harvesting of sheaves,
        O'er orchards and o'er vineyards I preside.
    Though on the frigid Scorpion I ride,
        The dreamy air is full, and overflows
    With tender memories of the summer-tide,
        And mingled voices of the doves and crows.

    NOVEMBER

    The Centaur, Sagittarius, am I,
        Born of Ixion's and the cloud's embrace;
    With sounding hoofs across the earth I fly,
        A steed Thessalian with a human face.
    Sharp winds the arrows are with which I chase
        The leaves, half dead already with affright;
    I shroud myself in gloom; and to the race
        Of mortals bring nor comfort nor delight.


    DECEMBER

    Riding upon the Goat, with snow-white hair,
        I come, the last of all.    This crown of mine
    Is of the holly; in my hand I bear
        The thyrsus, tipped with fragrant cones of pine.
    I celebrate the birth of the Divine,
        And the return of the Saturnian reign;--
    My songs are carols sung at every shrine,
        Proclaiming "Peace on earth, good will to men."

POEM OF THE DAY : HEAT - W. M. MacKeracher

*HEAT*

    W. M. MacKeracher

        The fickle sun that had the earth caress'd

            And quickened all her amorous desire,

        And brought fresh roses to adorn her breast,

            Now spurned her in the madness of his ire;

        A haze of heat half hid the mountain's crest;

            The very river seemed of liquid fire;

        The air was flame, the town a stifling pale,

        And all the land was like a Hinnom's Vale.

        I thought of Hagar and what she endured,

            Faint in the desert, driv'n from Sara's sight;

        Of angry Jonah underneath his gourd,

            Grown in a night and withered in a night;

        Of the sun-stricken lad Elisha cured

            For the good, hospitable Shunammite;

        And of the fiery furnace made to glow

        For Shadrach, Meshach and Abednego.

        I called to mind Boccaccio's tale of her

            Left on a sun-scorched roof, and like to die;

        And I beheld the Ancient Mariner

            Becalmed beneath his hot and copper sky;

        And heard a long-forgotten traveller

            Speak from a page which made my childhood sigh,

        And tell of horrid climes by God accurst,

        And men and horses perishing of thirst.

        And to myself I said, Is this the land

            Where freezing cold claims sometimes half the year?

        Is this the region where the streams are spanned

            With floors of azure crystal, hard and clear,

        And all the snow-enveloped mountains stand

            Like hoary chiefs, majestic and austere?

        Was't here we saw so late King Winter stern?

        And will he shortly here again return?

POEM OF THE DAY

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POEM OF THE DAY

POEM OF THE DAY : A JELLY-FISH - MARIANNE MOORE

A JELLY-FISH

MARIANNE MOORE

Visible, invisible,

A fluctuating charm,

An amber-colored amethyst

Inhabits it; your arm

Approaches, and

It opens and

It closes;

You have meant

To catch it,

And it shrivels;

You abandon

Your intent—

It opens, and it

Closes and you

Reach for it—

The blue

Surrounding it

Grows cloudy, and

It floats away

From you.