I've been laid out with a cold this week, so my days have devolved into making aggressively productive schedules that I'm too dazed and absent-minded to follow through on. Instead I end up sneezing a lot and meowing back at my cat as he wanders around the house and chirrups or yowls at me from different rooms. (I have no idea why he does this. Occasionally he wants food or attention, but just as often he's gotten "lost" after sticking his head under the shower curtain.) But I owe you poetry, and so I Googled "poetry about colds" yesterday and found a few gems. Most notably a poem from Robert Louis Stevenson, author of Treasure Island and The Strange Case of Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde, that led to my learning that he has an entire collection of adorable (if occasionally exasperatingly Victorian) children's poems, A Child's Garden of Verses.
I haven't talked much about why I insist on sharing a poem or three a week on this blog. Part of it is, admittedly, an excuse for me to reread old favorites and do at least a small amount of regular research (even a five minute internet search on the common cold) to find potential new ones. But I also hope that I'm enabling a five to ten minute break in your week for you to read something silly or clever or profound. And if you like what you read, be it an author or a style or a subject, you can look further. (Or ask me to, which is always an option.) Poetry is interesting to me in the way it concisely captures moments of human experience, so that you can read twenty words written centuries ago by someone half a world away and feel a sense of connection. But what I connect won't always be what you will, so if anything here spikes your interest, I highly recommend seeking out more.
Thus far I've mostly focused on 19th century English poetry, both out of my own familiarity and because it's the most readily available should you want to read more than what I've shared. But I intend to figure out how I want to deal with translations in the near future, and I'm going to start gathering some links to free poetry resources of various types to share. It doesn't much do to encourage you to read more and not give you more directions to look in than search engines. But for now, my cat is blessedly quiet and my tea needs topping off, so enjoy some reflections of childhood imagination.
I haven't talked much about why I insist on sharing a poem or three a week on this blog. Part of it is, admittedly, an excuse for me to reread old favorites and do at least a small amount of regular research (even a five minute internet search on the common cold) to find potential new ones. But I also hope that I'm enabling a five to ten minute break in your week for you to read something silly or clever or profound. And if you like what you read, be it an author or a style or a subject, you can look further. (Or ask me to, which is always an option.) Poetry is interesting to me in the way it concisely captures moments of human experience, so that you can read twenty words written centuries ago by someone half a world away and feel a sense of connection. But what I connect won't always be what you will, so if anything here spikes your interest, I highly recommend seeking out more.
Thus far I've mostly focused on 19th century English poetry, both out of my own familiarity and because it's the most readily available should you want to read more than what I've shared. But I intend to figure out how I want to deal with translations in the near future, and I'm going to start gathering some links to free poetry resources of various types to share. It doesn't much do to encourage you to read more and not give you more directions to look in than search engines. But for now, my cat is blessedly quiet and my tea needs topping off, so enjoy some reflections of childhood imagination.
The Land of Counterpane
When I was sick and lay a-bed,
I had two pillows at my head,
And all my toys beside me lay,
To keep me happy all the day.
And sometimes for an hour or so
I watched my leaden soldiers go,
With different uniforms and drills,
Among the bed-clothes, through the hills;
And sometimes sent my ships in fleets
All up and down among the sheets;
Or brought my trees and houses out,
And planted cities all about.
I was the giant great and still
That sits upon the pillow-hill,
And sees before him, dale and plain,
The pleasant land of counterpane.
When I was sick and lay a-bed,
I had two pillows at my head,
And all my toys beside me lay,
To keep me happy all the day.
And sometimes for an hour or so
I watched my leaden soldiers go,
With different uniforms and drills,
Among the bed-clothes, through the hills;
And sometimes sent my ships in fleets
All up and down among the sheets;
Or brought my trees and houses out,
And planted cities all about.
I was the giant great and still
That sits upon the pillow-hill,
And sees before him, dale and plain,
The pleasant land of counterpane.
My Shadow
I have a little shadow that goes in and out with me,
And what can be the use of him is more than I can see.
He is very, very like me from the heels up to the head;
And I see him jump before me, when I jump into my bed.
The funniest thing about him is the way he likes to grow--
Not at all like proper children, which is always very slow;
For he sometimes shoots up taller like an india-rubber ball,
And he sometimes goes so little that there's none of him at all.
He hasn't got a notion of how children ought to play,
And can only make a fool of me in every sort of way.
He stays so close behind me, he's a coward you can see;
I'd think shame to stick to nursie as that shadow sticks to me!
One morning, very early, before the sun was up,
I rose and found the shining dew on every buttercup;
But my lazy little shadow, like an arrant sleepy-head,
Had stayed at home behind me and was fast asleep in bed.
I have a little shadow that goes in and out with me,
And what can be the use of him is more than I can see.
He is very, very like me from the heels up to the head;
And I see him jump before me, when I jump into my bed.
The funniest thing about him is the way he likes to grow--
Not at all like proper children, which is always very slow;
For he sometimes shoots up taller like an india-rubber ball,
And he sometimes goes so little that there's none of him at all.
He hasn't got a notion of how children ought to play,
And can only make a fool of me in every sort of way.
He stays so close behind me, he's a coward you can see;
I'd think shame to stick to nursie as that shadow sticks to me!
One morning, very early, before the sun was up,
I rose and found the shining dew on every buttercup;
But my lazy little shadow, like an arrant sleepy-head,
Had stayed at home behind me and was fast asleep in bed.
Armies in the Fire
The lamps now glitter down the street;
Faintly sound the falling feet;
And the blue even slowly falls
About the garden trees and walls.
Now in the falling of the gloom
The red fire paints the empty room:
And warmly on the roof it looks,
And flickers on the back of books.
Armies march by tower and spire
Of cities blazing, in the fire;--
Till as I gaze with staring eyes,
The armies fall, the lustre dies.
Then once again the glow returns;
Again the phantom city burns;
And down the red-hot valley, lo!
The phantom armies marching go!
Blinking embers, tell me true
Where are those armies marching to,
And what the burning city is
That crumbles in your furnaces!
The lamps now glitter down the street;
Faintly sound the falling feet;
And the blue even slowly falls
About the garden trees and walls.
Now in the falling of the gloom
The red fire paints the empty room:
And warmly on the roof it looks,
And flickers on the back of books.
Armies march by tower and spire
Of cities blazing, in the fire;--
Till as I gaze with staring eyes,
The armies fall, the lustre dies.
Then once again the glow returns;
Again the phantom city burns;
And down the red-hot valley, lo!
The phantom armies marching go!
Blinking embers, tell me true
Where are those armies marching to,
And what the burning city is
That crumbles in your furnaces!
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