My November Guest by Robert Frost

Today is the last day of my Thirty Day Challenge of blogging everyday. I am happy to say that this month has been a success. Even though I was tempted to skip sometimes, I never missed a day. As a result, the daily traffic on my blog has more than doubled and I’ve been able to share my writing with so many other people. I totally recommend doing this to bloggers who love to write but typically hesitate before posting because they are a giant over-analyzing perfectionists.

To end this month I will post another one of my Robert Frost favorites that relates to next month, November.

A picture I took a few days ago.

A picture I took a few days ago.

My November Guest by Robert Frost

My Sorrow, when she’s here with me,
Thinks these dark days of autumn rain
Are beautiful as days can be;
She loves the bare, the withered tree;
She walked the sodden pasture lane.

Her pleasure will not let me stay.
She talks and I am fain to list:
She’s glad the birds are gone away,
She’s glad her simple worsted gray
Is silver now with clinging mist.

The desolate, deserted trees,
The faded earth, the heavy sky,
The beauties she so truly sees,
She thinks I have no eye for these,
And vexes me for reason why.

Not yesterday I learned to know
The love of bare November days
Before the coming of the snow,
But it were vain to tell her so,
And they are better for her praise.

If you like Robert Frost, check out some more of his poems that I’ve posted like October and Nothing Gold Can Stay.

Advertisements

Musings From a Fall Day

20131029-212936.jpg

A picture I took this weekend.

For today’s post I’ve decided to feature some of my little sister’s writing. This weekend while on a hike she was so inspired by everything around her that I had to pass her my notebook and tell her to write down the thoughts (quite visably) bouncing around her brain.

So, here is one of the first creative writing pieces done by my 13 year old sister, Annamaria.

It is a a rock’s natural ability is to crush things, it’s not his fault. A gentle leaf struggles to stay above the surface, but it’s fate is inevitable. Its holes and cracks will crumble while its short, uneventful life will never be seen again– not that many have seen it before. But the rock is still sitting as everything is fluttering around, dreaming, living. What is the rock to do? It watches the leaf’s short, wonderful life…end. Small, trapped, dying. What is it to do?

The Thought Of Something Else– Wendell Berry

“…that old dream of going, of becoming a better man just by getting up and going to a better place.”

A picture I took today.

A picture I took today.

Here is one of my favorite poems.
The Thought of Something Else by Wendell Berry.

1.

A spring wind blowing
the smell of the ground
through the intersections of traffic,
the mind turns, seeks a new
nativity—another place,
simpler, less weighted
by what has already been.

Another place!
it’s enough to grieve me—
that old dream of going,
of becoming a better man
just by getting up and going
to a better place.

2.

The mystery. The old
unaccountable unfolding.
The iron trees in the park
suddenly remember forests.
It becomes possible to think of going

3.

—a place where thought
can take its shape
as quietly in the mind
as water in a pitcher,
or a man can be
safely without thought
—see the day begin
and lean back,
a simple wakefulness filling
perfectly
the spaces among the leaves.

All Too Soon

“Nature is painting for us, day after day, pictures of infinite beauty if only we have the eyes to see them.”
–John Ruskin

all too soon

Today was such a beautiful autumn day. It makes me glad I live in New England.

The dead leaves sweep
through the winding roads
always moving with the wind

The bare trees stretch
out to the distant sky
reaching and reaching

The dim sun fades
into purple dusk
all too soon

Autumn

020I can see the first
tip of autumn
seeping through the veins
of a leaf
one far off in the distance
at the base of a misty mountain
one much too far away to touch
from behind concrete walls and
screened in, airtight windows
but I see it, the tree, a maple tree,
in all its autumnal glory
withering away
the slow death of the cold months
a graceful fall
more beautiful than its life

Winter Drives

the car ate up the pavement as it glided along the open road

the descending sun reflected off the windows

sending rays of light into the glittering eyes

watching behind the crystal specked window

the mountains loomed at the horizon

dips and rises cascaded across the sky

spanning like a majestically crafted barricade

they stood undaunted

the ridges were glistening with a layer of snow on its floor

the ground was visible through the gaps

between the skeletons’ of trees whose  once thriving branches

now stood bare and reaching out for life

the vast plains were only interrupted

by the poured concrete of the road and the base of the mountain

snow covered wisps of dead brush blew across the fields

their hands pulling towards the summit

the scene coated with a layer of ice

mirrored more light from the sinking sun

with each fleeting second dissolving the view

my eyes tried to travel across the glistening earth

when time eats away miles of road

it suddenly becomes more important

to soak in the land

before it’s lost in the rear view mirror