Poetry Friday this week is hosted by Karen Edmisten Here. Thank you, Karen for hosting this week! Please stop by and see what she is sharing today.
And to begin, congratulations to Irene Latham for her Caldecott Honor award for her picture book, THE CAT MAN OF ALEPPO! And happy birthday, too!
This week I will share work by Edna St. Vincent Millay, a poet was born in Maine in 1892 and lived to be only fifty eight. She wrote drama, librettos, and poetry, winning the Pulitzer Prize in 1923. Early on, she wanted to be a pianist, but since her teacher felt her hands were too small, she decided to write, to our benefit. Some thought her writing was naughty and outrageous, others found her the refreshing voice of the twentieth century woman.
She was the daughter of an independent mother, divorced from a “frivolous” husband. She became a practical nurse to support her children. Of her mother, Millay wrote: “I cannot remember once in the life when you were not interested in what I was working on, or even suggested that I should put it aside for something else.” You can read more about her fascinating life in the link above. But why choose a poem by her today?
Maybe because the end of the pandemic is more forseeable, I’ve been fantasizing about road trips. I can’t complain about a thing because I have much to be grateful for. Still everyday I think about summer and swimming in my favorite park in the Fingerlakes, visiting Maine or the Jersey Shore, the Adirondacks, places I love. I want to see my sister who lives across the country. So when I read the poem, TRAVEL, by Millay, I felt perfect. The language she uses, the sensory details created in me longing to board a train.
Edna St.Vincent Millay
TRAVEL The railroad track is miles away, And the day is loud with voices speaking, Yet there isn't a train goes by all day But I hear its whistle shrieking. All night there isn't a train goes by, Though the night is still for sleep and dreaming, But I see it's cinders red on the sky, And hear its engine steaming. My heart is warm with the friends I make, And better friends I'll not be knowing; Yet there isn't a train I wouldn't take, No matter where it's going.
I also have a poem to share from day eight of Laura Shovan’s February poetry Project. The photo for the prompt, with such beautiful detail, was provided by Buffy Silverman.
OLD SNOW Snow clings to winter tree bark like suds to hair and skin after a bath, before a final rinse and sticks around perhaps to dissolve the winter dirt, and scrub the forest trees for spring. © janice Scully 2021
I hope the numbers of vaccines in arms accelerate and all the communities most severely impacted by the pandemic get their shots! All of us want to see our family and friends, get the kids in school, and maybe feel more freedom see more of the world, before too long.