Every once in awhile we have a thread about some of our favorite poems, and we haven't done that in awhile. Too bad Bob will be leaving for 2 weeks because he usually likes to chime in. I hope some of you will.

Shu found this poem, which mentions the thrill of covers in July. Our July has been cool, dry, not humid and just glorious - and we've had the thrill of using our covers.

The Ultimate Joy
~ Unknown

I have felt the thrill of passion in the poet's mystic book
And I've lingered in delight to catch the rhythm of the brook;
I've felt the ecstasy that comes when prima donnas reach
For upper C and hold it in a long, melodious screech.
And yet the charm of all these blissful memories fades away
As I think upon the fortune that befell the other day,
As I bring to recollection, with a joyous, wistful sigh,
That I woke and felt the need of extra covers in July.

Ah, yes, I too have been blessed with the need for a coverlet in July!

Here is a bit of one of [my total fave] Keats' treatises-- on sleeping in summer! which starts with a quote from Chaucer:
John Keats (1795–1821)

31. Sleep and Poetry

“As I lay in my bed slepe full unmete
“Was unto me, but why that I ne might
“Rest I ne wist, for there n’as erthly wight
“[As I suppose] had more of hertis ese
“Than I, for I n’ad sicknesse nor disese.”
CHAUCER.

WHAT is more gentle than a wind in summer?
What is more soothing than the pretty hummer
That stays one moment in an open flower,
And buzzes cheerily from bower to bower?
What is more tranquil than a musk-rose blowing
In a green island, far from all men’s knowing?
More healthful than the leafiness of dales?
More secret than a nest of nightingales?
More serene than Cordelia’s countenance?
More full of visions than a high romance?
What, but thee Sleep? Soft closer of our eyes!
Low murmurer of tender lullabies!
Light hoverer around our happy pillows!
Wreather of poppy buds, and weeping willows!
Silent entangler of a beauty’s tresses!
Most happy listener! when the morning blesses
Thee for enlivening all the cheerful eyes
That glance so brightly at the new sun-rise.

Nice, Bethree! I know arnie likes Chaucer, but I find him, like Robert Burns, so hard to understand.

I must sound off here! My own predilection is for verse that is whimsical and quirky as opposed to meaningful food for the soul. So, I love the following offering from Hughes Mearns' "Antigonish" that begins:

Yesterday upon the stair
I met a man who wasn’t there
He wasn’t there again today
I wish, I wish he’d go away


So, inevitably, I love "Jabberwocky" from Lewis Carrol, and "The Owl and the Pussycat" from Ogden Nash. This latter poem concludes with what, to me, is a simple piece of imagery that imbues the wedding of the title characters with a lovely fey radiance:

"And hand in hand, on the edge of the sand,
They danced by the light of the moon,
The moon,
The moon,
They danced by the light of the moon."

But I am not all pure childish simplicity. I love the diction of the magic "The Rime of the Ancient Mariner", and I shall offer up another favorite, "The Listeners" by Walter de la Mare. Notice how the poem conveys the eerie sense that some fey body or thing is listening:

‘Is there anybody there?’ said the Traveller,
Knocking on the moonlit door;
And his horse in the silence champed the grasses
Of the forest’s ferny floor:
And a bird flew up out of the turret,
Above the Traveller’s head:
And he smote upon the door again a second time;
‘Is there anybody there?’ he said.
But no one descended to the Traveller;
No head from the leaf-fringed sill
Leaned over and looked into his grey eyes,
Where he stood perplexed and still.
But only a host of phantom listeners
That dwelt in the lone house then
Stood listening in the quiet of the moonlight
To that voice from the world of men:
Stood thronging the faint moonbeams on the dark stair,
That goes down to the empty hall,
Hearkening in an air stirred and shaken
By the lonely Traveller’s call.
And he felt in his heart their strangeness,
Their stillness answering his cry,
While his horse moved, cropping the dark turf,
’Neath the starred and leafy sky;
For he suddenly smote on the door, even
Louder, and lifted his head:—
‘Tell them I came, and no one answered,
That I kept my word,’ he said.
Never the least stir made the listeners,
Though every word he spake
Fell echoing through the shadowiness of the still house
From the one man left awake:
Ay, they heard his foot upon the stirrup,
And the sound of iron on stone,
And how the silence surged softly backward,
When the plunging hoofs were gone.

Nice, WeeWilly! Now wander on down to our Limerick game. You'd be great! We write limericks about places (cities, states, provinces, etc.) The winner of a game (we post a poll and everyone votes for their favorite limerick) then starts the next game with a new place. It's fun!

There are some great limericks there. But these writers are way beyond my simple limits!

Oh, go ahead and give them a chance. I've found logophiles and linguaphiles are often great limerick writers because they are so clever with words.