Friday Poetry: The Call

file0001783491009My husband shared this poem with me which he had read on The Art of Manliness.  I must admit to being a closet fan of that blog and wishing there was something similar for women.

I think everyone has a different call and we all “face the crashin’ lightnin'” in different ways. Having a baby was certainly one way I had to face up to nature. As I was giving birth, I felt I was facing up to life.

The poem describes some occupations as “dyin’ in yer pod.” As a teacher I’ve been so lucky to never has this feeling of boredom. Well, that’s not entirely true. Exam supervision is pretty soul destroying. Every teacher would agree that teaching is an exciting and varied job, with no one day like the next. Every day can be inspirational, challenging, exhausting and hilarious.

Thanks to one of my bossy friends, I’ve actually done white water rafting (I thanked her later for being so pushy). It was very out of character for me, but I absolutely loved it. However facing thirty two kids, in a packed Year 10 classroom, can be every bit as exhilarating as going down the “rippin’ plungin’ rapids”.

The Call
By: Earl H. Emmons

Did you ever have a longin’ to get out and buck the trail,
And to face the crashin’ lightnin’ and the thunder and the gale?
Not for no partic’lar reason but to give the world the laugh,
And to show the roarin’ elyments you still can stand the gaff.

Don’t you ever feel a yearnin’ just to try your luck again
Down the rippin’ plungin’ rapids with a bunch of reg’lar men?
Don’t you ever sorta hanker for a rough and risky trip,
Just to prove you’re still a livin’ and you haven’t lost your grip?

Can’t you hear the woods a-callin’ for to have another try
Sleepin’ out beneath the spruces with a roof of moonlit sky,
With the wind a sorta singin’ through the branches overhead
And your fire a gaily crackin’ and your pipe a-glowin’ red?

Don’t you often get to feelin’ sorta cramped and useless there,
Makin’ figgers and a-shinin’ your pants upon a chair?
Don’t you yearn to get acquainted once again with Life and God?
If you don’t, then Heaven help you, for you’re a dyin’ in yer pod.


Friday Poetry: What is poetry?

imageWhat is poetry?

I recently found this group of definitions. It’s hard to pick a favourite out of them; they are all so brilliantly expressed and perfectly true.

Poetry is “the music of the soul” (Voltaire)

Poetry is the “art of uniting pleasure with truth.”(Samuel Johnson)

Poetry is the “record of the best and happiest moments of the best minds.” (Shelly)

Poetry is the “synthesis of hyacinths and biscuits…a series of explanations of life, fading off into horizons too swift for explanation” (Carl Sandburg)

Poetry is “not the assertion of truth, but the making of that truth more real to us.” (T.S. Eliot)

And best of all, poetry is that which “makes my body so cold no fire can warm me,” and makes me “feel as if the top of my head were taken off” (Emily Dickenson)