Poetry Jag

Seems like I’ve been on a poetry jag lately, and I must say that I am digging it.

Jacob and I have studied some poets for school and my two favorites from this year are most definitely Emily Dickinson and Paul Laurence Dunbar. Sadly, I cannot get my son quite as excited about it as I am, but he is a science brain and that is cool too. His science brain digs Edgar Allan Poe…who I find find a little frightening, yet intriguing. Kinda like a train wreck that you can’t look away from no matter how hard you try.

I have always had a soft spot for literature and as a young child and on into my angst-y, getting-in-touch-with-my-emotions adolescent years I dabbled in some poetry. Most of it was very rhyme-y and cheesy and about my friends. Some of it was written for school assignments and was less cheesy. I wrote them, as well as some other poems that I liked, in a bound journal that my mom gave me in 1982. She really encouraged me in my writing, though I generally kept it to myself. In addition to my “secret poetry”, I also usually always had some sort of  journal going as well, you know, for my “inner most thoughts”. <wink> Over the years, and well into my adult life, I have kept a journal off and on, as I have found it a good outlet. Then, in 2006, I abandoned that for blogging, which has basically served the same purpose.

I think it is fair to blame our recent poetry studies for inspiring me to start writing poetry again and often, it is the best and most concise way to express my thoughts and emotions. Thus, the inspiration for my last post. So, we’ll see where it takes me.

We are rushing headlong into summer here. Even hurricane season is itching to get going. We’ve already had 2, mostly uneventful,  tropical storms here in coastal South Carolina. So, after a very dry spring, we are catching up with some very nice rainfall. I am sure the farmers are grateful. I have been enjoying my hydrangeas and Clyn and Jacob are less than enthusiastic about our lush lawn which begs to be mowed more frequently than they would like!

On that note, here is a little something by Paul Laurence Dunbar. Enjoy.

Summer in the South

The oriole sings in the greening grove

As if he were half-way waiting,

The rosebuds peep from their hoods of green,

Timid and hesitating.

The rain comes down in a torrent sweep

And the nights smell warm and piney,

The garden thrives, but the tender shoots

Are yellow-green and tiny.

Then a flash of the sun on a waiting hill,

Streams laugh that erst were quiet,

The sky smiles down with a dazzling blue

And the woods run made with riot.

 

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