Rachel Starr Thomson » poetry

March

Rachel — Mon, 26 Mar 2007 20:48:00 +0000

We like March, his shoes are purple,
He is new and high;
Makes he mud for dog and peddler,
Makes he forest dry;
Knows the adder’s tongue his coming,
And begets her spot.
Stands the sun so close and mighty
That our minds are hot.
News is he of all the others;
Bold it were to die
With the blue-birds buccaneering
On his British sky.

I bought a book I didn’t know I’d enjoy. I’m so glad I did. Everyone should read Emily Dickinson.

where were YOU for Robbie Burns’ Day?

Rachel — Mon, 29 Jan 2007 03:31:00 +0000

I was at the Kildare House, a local pub, with Alexis, Becky, and Leah. We had British food and tea and stomped the table while Tartan Army, a local Celtic band, played rousing folk music and men wearing kilts and tam o’shanters sang along. My sisters, who did not order tea, filched mine with shocking regularity despite my protests. I drank very little of it, nor did I eat more than two pieces of the kidney in my steak and kidney fries. But the steak was good :).

After that we drove to Chapters just before it closed, and I used the gift card Deborah gave me for Christmas to buy three lovely hardbound books: a copy of Dickens’ Nicholas Nickleby, and two small books of poetry by Christina Rossetti and William Blake.

To see a World in a Grain of Sand
And a Heaven in a Wild Flower,
Hold Infinity in the palm of your hand
And Eternity in an hour.

(from Blake’s Auguries of Innocence)

On an entirely different note, I spent an hour or two fiddling with the page on LittleDozen.com which features all of my Samuel Generation articles, so the contents page now includes little quotes and descriptions and is hopefully much more accessible to the general browser. Check it out and let me know what you think.

happy birthday, Robbie Burns!

Rachel — Thu, 25 Jan 2007 22:16:00 +0000

But tent me, Davie, Ace o’ Hearts!
(To say aught less wad wrang the cartes,
And flatt’ry I detest)
This life has joys for you and I;
And joys that riches ne’er could buy;
And joy’s the very best.
There’s a’ the Pleasures o’ the Heart,
The Lover an’ the Frien’;
Ye hae your Meg, your dearest part,
And I my darling Jean!
It warms me, it charms me,
To mention but her name:
It heats me, it beets me,
And sets me a’ on flame!

O all ye Pow’rs who rule above!
O Thou, whose very self art love!
Thou know’st my words sincere!
The life-blood streaming thro’ my heart,
Or my more dear Immortal part,
Is not more fondly dear!
When heart-corroding care and grief
Deprive my soul of rest,
Her dear idea brings relief,
And solace to my breast.
Thou Being, All-seeing,
O hear my fervent pray’r!
Still take her, and make her
Thy most peculiar care!

All hail! ye tender feelings dear!
The smile of love, the friendly tear,
The sympathetic glow;
Long since, this world’s thorny ways
Had number’d out my weary days,
Had it not been for you!
Fate still has blest me with a friend,
In ev’ry care and ill;
And oft a more endearing band,
A tie more tender still.
It lightens, it brightens,
The tenebrific scene,
To meet with, and greet with
My Davie, or my Jean!

from Epistle to Davie, A Brother Poet, by Robert Burns, whose birthday was today.