This week, the tables have been turned. Instead of me introducing you to new works by a previously lesser known poet, I have been taken to school on Wallace Stevens. I thank Daniel Paicopulos for steering us in Mr. Stevens direction.

More than any other modern poet, Stevens was concerned with the transformative power of the imagination. Composing poems on his way to and from the office and in the evenings, Stevens continued to spend his days behind a desk at the office, and led a quiet, uneventful life.

Though now considered one of the major American poets of the century, he did not receive widespread recognition until the publication of his Collected Poems, just a year before his death.

Stevens died in Hartford, Connecticut, on August 2, 1955.

Wallace Stevens
Wallace Stevens – 1879-1955


Among twenty snowy mountains,
The only moving thing
Was the eye of the blackbird.


I was of three minds,
Like a tree
In which there are three blackbirds.


The blackbird whirled in the autumn winds.
It was a small part of the pantomime.


A man and a woman
Are one.
A man and a woman and a blackbird
Are one.


I do not know which to prefer,
The beauty of inflections
Or the beauty of innuendoes,
The blackbird whistling
Or just after.


Icicles filled the long window
With barbaric glass.
The shadow of the blackbird
Crossed it, to and fro.
The mood
Traced in the shadow
An indecipherable cause.


O thin men of Haddam,
Why do you imagine golden birds?
Do you not see how the blackbird
Walks around the feet
Of the women about you?


I know noble accents
And lucid, inescapable rhythms;
But I know, too,
That the blackbird is involved
In what I know.


When the blackbird flew out of sight,
It marked the edge
Of one of many circles.


At the sight of blackbirds
Flying in a green light,
Even the bawds of euphony
Would cry out sharply.


He rode over Connecticut
In a glass coach.
Once, a fear pierced him,
In that he mistook
The shadow of his equipage
For blackbirds.


The river is moving.
The blackbird must be flying.


It was evening all afternoon.
It was snowing
And it was going to snow.
The blackbird sat
In the cedar-limbs.

I chose this piece by Stevens for its study of a single simple subject. Keep this thought in mind as we near the next Sunday Seed! 😉 Walt.


Around these parts, today marks the first day of the new school year. And no more appropriate time to introduce a “School” poem and another obscure poet.

John Greenleaf Whittier (December 17, 1807 – September 7, 1892) was an American Quaker poet and advocate of the abolition of slavery in the United States. Frequently listed as one of the fireside poets, he was influenced by the Scottish poet Robert Burns. Whittier is remembered particularly for his anti-slavery writings, as well as his 1866 book Snow-Bound.

John Greenleaf Whittier – 1807-1892
By John Greenleaf Whittier

Still sits the school-house by the road, 
A ragged beggar sleeping; 
Around it still the sumachs grow, 
And blackberry-vines are creeping. 

Within, the master's desk is seen, 
Deep-scarred by raps official; 
The warping floor, the battered seats, 
The jack-knife's carved initial; 

The charcoal frescoes on its wall; 
Its door's worn sill, betraying 
The feet that, creeping slow to school, 
Went storming out to playing! 

Long years ago, a winter sun 
Shone over it at setting; 
Lit up its western window-panes, 
And low eaves' icy fretting. 

It touched the tangled golden curls, 
And brown eyes full of grieving, 
Of one who still her steps delayed 
When all the school were leaving. 

For near it stood the little boy 
Her childish favor singled; 
His cap pulled low upon a face 
Where pride and shame were mingled. 

Pushing with restless feet the snow 
To right and left, he lingered; --- 
As restlessly her tiny hands 
The blue-checked apron fingered. 

He saw her lift her eyes; he felt 
The soft hand's light caressing, 
And heard the tremble of her voice, 
As if a fault confessing. 

"I'm sorry that I spelt the word: 
I hate to go above you, 
Because,"---the brown eyes lower fell, --- 
"Because, you see, I love you!" 

Still memory to a gray-haired man 
That sweet child-face is showing. 
Dear girl! the grasses on her grave 
Have forty years been growing! 

He lives to learn, in life's hard school, 
How few who pass above him 
Lament their triumph and his loss, 
Like her, because they love him.


Jack Kerouac, (1922-1969), was an American novelist, poet, and leader of the Beat movement. Born Jean-Louis Lebris de Kerouac.  His most famous book, On the Road (1957), broadly influenced cultural perceptions before it was recognized for its literary merits. On the Road celebrated the spirit of its era.

While enrolled at Columbia University, Kerouac met two writers who would become lifelong friends: Allen Ginsberg and William S. Burroughs. Together with Kerouac, they linked to the literary movement known as Beat, inspired by Herbert Huncke, a Times Square drifter. (Read: junkie, petty thief, hustler, and writer). It expressed a feeling of being “down-and-out”. Also, there is a sense of being beat down and therefore signified the bottom of the barrel (from a financial and an emotional point of view), but as well the utmost spiritual high.

Jack Kerouac was severely beaten in a drunken brawl and later died from the internal injuries suffered in the altercation.

JACK KEROUAC 1922-1969

I lie on my back at midnight
hearing the marvelous strange chime
of the clocks, and know it's mid-
night and in that instant the whole
world swims into sight for me
in the form of beautiful swarm-
ing m u t t a worlds-
everything is happening, shining
Buhudda-lands, bhuti
blazing in faith, I know I'm
forever right & all's I got to
do (as I hear the ordinary
extant voices of ladies talking
in some kitchen at midnight
oilcloth cups of cocoa
cardore to mump the
rinnegain in his
darlin drain-) i will write
it, all the talk of the world
everywhere in this morning, leav-
ing open parentheses sections
for my own accompanying inner
thoughts-with roars of me
all brain-all world
roaring-vibrating-I put
it down, swiftly, 1,000 words
(of pages) compressed into one second
of time-I'll be long
robed & long gold haired in
the famous Greek afternoon
of some Greek City
Fame Immortal & they'll
have to find me where they find
the t h n u p f t of my
shroud bags flying
flag yagging Lucien
Midnight back in their
mouths-Gore Vidal'll
be amazed, annoyed—
my words'll be writ in gold
& preserved in libraries like
Finnegans Wake & Visions of Neal

© by owner. provided at no charge for educational purposes


Leonard Cohen
1934 – 2016

Leonard Norman Cohen CC GOQ (September 21, 1934 – November 7, 2016) was a Canadian singer-songwriter, poet and novelist. His work explored religion, politics, isolation, sexuality, and personal relationships. Cohen was inducted into the Canadian Music Hall of Fame, the Canadian Songwriters Hall of Fame, and the Rock and Roll Hall of Fame. He was a Companion of the Order of Canada, the nation’s highest civilian honour.

Cohen pursued a career as a poet and novelist during the 1950s and early 1960s; he did not launch a music career until 1967, at the age of 33.

Perhaps Cohen’s most famous song, “Hallelujah” was first released on his studio album Various Positions in 1984.



I loved you in the morning, our kisses deep and warm,
your hair upon the pillow like a sleepy golden storm,
yes, many loved before us, I know that we are not new,
in city and in forest they smiled like me and you,
but now it’s come to distances and both of us must try,
your eyes are soft with sorrow,
Hey, that’s no way to say goodbye.

I’m not looking for another as I wander in my time,
walk me to the corner, our steps will always rhyme
you know my love goes with you as your love stays with me,
it’s just the way it changes, like the shoreline and the sea,

but let’s not talk of love or chains and things we can’t
your eyes are soft with sorrow,
Hey, that’s no way to say goodbye.

I loved you in the morning, our kisses deep and warm,
your hair upon the pillow like a sleepy golden storm,
yes many loved before us, I know that we are not new,
in city and in forest they smiled like me and you,
but let’s not talk of love or chains and things we can’t
your eyes are soft with sorrow,
Hey, that’s no way to say goodbye.

© by owner. provided at no charge for educational purposes


Edna St. Vincent Millay was an American lyrical poet and playwright. 

She was too rebellious to make a success of formal education, but she won poetry prizes from a young age, (Pulitzer Prize – 1923) She also wrote verse-dramas and operas, (The King's Henchman). She chose to write under the name Nancy Boyd, not wanting to publish her novels under her own name. 

Millay was noted for her uninhibited lifestyle, forming many passing relationships. She was also a social and political activist and those relationships included prominent anti-war activists including Floyd Dell, and perhaps John Reed. She became a prominent feminist of her time and inspired a generation of American women. 

Her career as a poet was meteoric. She became the first woman to win the Pulitzer prize in poetry. She became a performance artist super-star, reading her poetry to enthusiastic audiences across the country. 

A motor accident in middle-age left her a partial invalid and she became morphine-dependent for years. In spite of her suffering in later life, she wrote some of her greatest poetry. 
Edna St. Vincent Millay (1892-1950)


by Edna St. Vincent Millay

I know I am but summer to your heart,
And not the full four seasons of the year;
And you must welcome from another part
Such noble moods as are not mine, my dear.
No gracious weight of golden fruits to sell
Have I, nor any wise and wintry thing;
And I have loved you all too long and well
To carry still the high sweet breast of Spring.
Wherefore I say: O love, as summer goes,
I must be gone, steal forth with silent drums,
That you may hail anew the bird and rose
When I come back to you, as summer comes.
Else will you seek, at some not distant time,
Even your summer in another clime.


A few weeks back, our discussion in the POETIC BLOOMINGS READING ROOM had mentioned the poetry of Rod McKuen. Another man of many talents, McKuen has several poetry collections to his credit as well as record albums of his song stylings. Rod fancied himself a singer. You may have heard his gravelly voiced rendition of the song “Baby, It’s Cold Outside” (Duet with Petula Clarke) at Christmas time. But his poetry did seem to reach a higher level.

There was a level of angst to his work, drawn from his life experiences and failed relationships. He always found a way to channel any bitterness into his worded works.

Rod McKuen 1933 – 2015
by Rod McKuen

It’s nice sometimes
to open up the heart a little
and let some hurt come in.
It proves you’re still alive. 
If nothing else
it says to you -
clear as a high hill air,
as diving through cold water -
I’m here.
However wretchedly I feel, 
I feel.
I’m not sure
why we cannot shake
the old loves
from our minds.
It must be that
we build on memory
and make them more
then what they were.
And is the manufacture
just a safe device
for closing up the wall?
I do remember.
The only fuzzy circumstance 
is sometimes where and how.
Why, I know.
It happens
just because we need 
to want and to be 
wanted, too,
when love is here or gone
to lie down in the darkness 
and listen to the warm.


A Poetic Find by Candy

Quite a challenge – choose a favorite poem and poet to share!

Billy Collins has been a favorite of mine for some time, although my first poetic love was Rod McKuen (yes, I freely admit it). So I went to my bookcases to find which of Billy Collins’ poems I would share. This took most of the afternoon, reading poems from his books (and from Rod’s too), which turned out to be the perfect way to spend a rainy day, along with a cup of tea.

I came across some slim volumes of poetry hiding there in the dark, waiting for someone to hold them, open them, read the words from a poet’s heart. One of these was a book titled, Grass Songs by Ann Turner. I’m sure I found this little gem at a used book sale. It is a collection of 17 poems about the women who were part of the westward wagon trains and their experiences. These poems are simple and real, and they pierce your heart.

According to the brief biography included, Ann Turner was doing research for a novel when she first read some of the journals of these pioneer women and was inspired to tell their stories in poetic form.

She is best known for her children’s books, but has written several volumes of poetry.

The book was published in 1993, so I don’t know if its still available. If you haunt used books sales, as I do, be on the lookout for it.

Here is the one I chose to share with you:

“Make One Woman”

by Ann Turner

Ann Turner
There is a better way
to make a woman.
Cut her from cloth, gabardine,
so strong and fine
it will not scratch or tear.
Sew eyes of black
that will not cry.
Paint one nose not over-
Particular about cattle
Smells and prairie ills.
Fashion two ears
that do not listen
for love,
that are content
with the wind and rain
and sleet.
Stitch her hair down tight
so the blizzard will not
tear it off.
Make those arms strong
enough for horse, harness,
and frozen wood.
Get two legs that will not
ache, that walk a prairie
like a city street.
And feet – do not forget
to make them long and large
for river fords and
winter boots.
Did I forget the heart?
Sew one red outline,
No shading in between.
It will not feel a child
gone, a husband cold,
a home left behind
like a favorite patchwork
I would have lasted,
had I been of thread,
cloth, and buttons.


Today’s entry to the READING ROOM is presented by Debi Swim. Thanks to my heritage, I am somewhat familiar with Szymborska’s work. Here is Debi’s summation:

Wislawa Szymborska
1923 – 2012

 Wislawa Szymborska, from Krakow Poland, received the Nobel Prize for Literature in 1996.   

Three of my favorite poets are Wislawa Szymborska, Langston Hughes and Wendell Berry. You are probably familiar with the last two but maybe not the first. I was ‘introduced’ to her by Barbara Young (author of Heirloom Language) on her prompt blog Quickly.

“The voice in Szymborska’s poems is natural, conversational in places, but even the seemingly simpler poems cast shadows that vie for your attention.” (Quote from Arms, Legs, and Astounded Head: Wislawa Szymborska’s Here | Outside of a Cat (wordpress.com))

Hatred, by Wislawa Szymborska

See how efficient it still is,
how it keeps itself in shape—
our century’s hatred.
How easily it vaults the tallest obstacles.
How rapidly it pounces, tracks us down.

It’s not like other feelings.
At once both older and younger.
It gives birth itself to the reasons
that give it life.

When it sleeps, it’s never eternal rest.
And sleeplessness won’t sap its strength; it feeds it.

One religion or another –
whatever gets it ready, in position.
One fatherland or another –
whatever helps it get a running start.
Justice also works well at the outset
until hate gets its own momentum going.

Hatred. Hatred.
Its face twisted in a grimace
of erotic ecstasy…

Hatred is a master of contrast-
between explosions and dead quiet,
red blood and white snow.
Above all, it never tires
of its leitmotif – the impeccable executioner
towering over its soiled victim.

It’s always ready for new challenges.
If it has to wait awhile, it will.
They say it’s blind. Blind?
It has a sniper’s keen sight
and gazes unflinchingly at the future
as only it can.


Whew! We’ve done it once more. Another April poetry challenge in the books. Hopefully, some of these poem drafts possibly find their way into one! You’ve all done an incredible job and have written some outstanding poems! But, today we begin again. We start over. We resume where we’ve left off.

There is no better way to confirm that fact then by writing a “Resume” poem. Get started to get re-started and write the next best thing outside of the confines of April!


Resumé of a Ten-Year-Old Who Wants to Volunteer at a School for Refugee Women and Children

She spent the entire afternoon asking me relevant, insightful questions about the school’s students, staff, and mission. How do you teach babies and preschoolers a second language? What countries do they come from?  What languages are spoken? Which is the most common?  (She made note of Arabic, and couldn’t wait to ask her mom if she can begin studying it via Rosetta Stone or Duolingo).  Would I please contact the volunteer coordinator to see if it is acceptable for a ten-year-old to volunteer to help the adults care for the children? Are masks required? Is there a dress code?  Is there a form her parents could complete and sign, giving her permission to volunteer there?  Even if they can’t let her volunteer yet, can she take a tour of the school, and meet the staff?  Oh, and would I please tell them she is mature for her age?

Eager native sprout
seeks to share energy to
root and bloom transplants

© Marie Elena Good, 2021



Starting from here;
going on from now.
A fresh start is at the heart
of all that is to come.
A brand new month
came to call, and all
that transpires grows
from the seeds planted
in those twelve months prior.
That fire in your belly
spurs you on, a prodding
giving the nod to better things.
A fresh start is at the heart
of perfecting your art.
It all up to you
to begin anew

© Walter J. Wojtanik - 2021


Sometimes writing is a challenge. But as I’ve always prescribed… inspiration is found wherever we look. So we’re going to find our inspiration in the mundane… with a twist. We will write a “challenge” poem. At the end of our poem we will choose one of our poets and give them a topic upon which to muse. Any form, any style, any subject within reason are game. Watch for the gauntlet to be thrown in your direction and write your poem(s).



She spewed out a detailed confession.
Her friend made a robust suggestion:
Don’t let your mouth gush –
You must learn to hush
when asked a rhetorical question.

© Marie Elena Good, 2021

I challenge Damon Dean to write a tight-lipped poem.  😀 



Do you take everything for granted?
And does your truth live within you?
Are questions that are never asked ever answered?
Is it right to set your own standards?
Or should you demand to know how to go?
Is the road less traveled always a good choice?
Does your voice ever come unraveled?
Do you allow no to be a solution?
Can roadblocks bring you to some conclusion?

© Walter J Wojtanik - 2021

My challenge goes out to Sara McNulty to write a "Horizon" poem.