Join me this Thursday, December 1 at 7pm at Booksmart in Morgan Hill as I host the second public reading of Santa Clara County’s Favorite Poems. I’m looking forward to hearing contributors read their poems and their thoughts about them. We’ve got a great line-up of readers. You can see them and their favorite poems on the “List of Readers” page above. We’ll begin and end with “bells,” perfect for the holiday season.
See you there!
Sally Ashton
Poet Laureate
Filed under Favorite Poem, Laureate's News
We and They
by Rudyard Kipling
One of my favorite poems is Kipling’s “We and They.” I first read it in high school just prior to embarking on a 4-month backpacking trip around western Europe – my first trip abroad and alone. The poem always stuck with me because I read it at a time when I was experiencing many new and foreign ideas and thinking about what makes “us” and “them.”
Elizabeth Sanford, MPA
Policy Analyst / Communications and Outreach
Office of Supervisor Mike Wasserman
Santa Clara County Board of Supervisors
We and They
Father and Mother, and Me,
Sister and Auntie say
All the people like us are We,
And every one else is They.
And They live over the sea,
While We live over the way,
But-would you believe it? –They look upon We
As only a sort of They!
We eat pork and beef
With cow-horn-handled knives.
They who gobble Their rice off a leaf,
Are horrified out of Their lives;
While they who live up a tree,
And feast on grubs and clay,
(Isn’t it scandalous? ) look upon We
As a simply disgusting They!
We shoot birds with a gun.
They stick lions with spears.
Their full-dress is un-.
We dress up to Our ears.
They like Their friends for tea.
We like Our friends to stay;
And, after all that, They look upon We
As an utterly ignorant They!
We eat kitcheny food.
We have doors that latch.
They drink milk or blood,
Under an open thatch.
We have Doctors to fee.
They have Wizards to pay.
And (impudent heathen!) They look upon We
As a quite impossible They!
All good people agree,
And all good people say,
All nice people, like Us, are We
And every one else is They:
But if you cross over the sea,
Instead of over the way,
You may end by (think of it!) looking on We
As only a sort of They!
Rudyard Kipling
Filed under Favorite Poem
Let Evening Come
by Jane Kenyon
“Let Evening Come” disarms the reader with its almost-familiar imagery and almost-folksy tone of voice. Just beneath the surface of the poem, however, is something that I’m tempted to call existential terror. The coming of evening is natural, yes, but ominous. Like Robert Frost’s “Acquainted with the Night,” it is a meditation on mortality. For me, the poem almost functions as a prayer of consolation, a surrender in the face of the inevitable, into the arms of Comfort. I also admire the poem’s subtle technique: its rhythmical structure and its mastery of rhetorical nuance—for example, the whole weight of the poem pivots on a single word: “so.”
Dave Denny
Professor of English, De Anza College
Poet Laureate, Cupertino
Let Evening Come
Let the light of late afternoon
shine through the chinks in the barn, moving
up the bales as the sun moves down.
Let the cricket take up chafing
as a woman takes up her needles
and her yarn. Let evening come.
Let dew collect on the hoe abandoned
in long grass. Let the stars appear
and the moon disclose her silver horn.
Let the fox go back to its sandy den.
Let the wind die down. Let the shed
go black inside. Let evening come.
To the bottle in the ditch, to the scoop
in the oats, to air in the lung
let evening come.
Let it come, as it will, and don’t
be afraid. God does not leave us
comfortless, so let evening come.
Jane Kenyon
1947-1995
Filed under Favorite Poem
Retro
by Kathie Isaac-Luke
I love this poem for the freshness in describing what might have been. It is refreshing because the usual angst or sadness is missing. The subject shows no dissatisfaction with her own life, yet wistfully creates a scene and scenario in which she would have been content or even happy. I think the everyday picture of attire and activities makes a broad stroke coloring both sides of the poet’s pen.
Dave Eisbach
Realtor, teacher, former San Jose Arts Commissioner
San Jose
Retro
I should have liked to live in Paris
in the fifties.
It would have suited me to wear
my flared voile dress with polka dots,
matching pumps, and wide brimmed hat.
So dressed, I would descend the stairs
from my compact apartment to check the mail,
delivered twice daily in the fifties,
and look for the vellum envelope
postmarked Marseilles with his initials
inked across the back.
Then I would walk my dog-
no not a poodle, even in the fifties
I retained my sense of individuality-
a terrier, let’s say.
I would sit in an outdoor bistro drinking
coffee, faintly trying not to meet the eyes
of a gentleman facing me under the canopy
of smoke that swirled around those cafes.
I would pretend not to notice how he lowered
his Le Monde to admire my well-turned ankles-
I had well turned ankles in the fifties-
Then off to the market to buy a fresh baguette,
gruyere and brie. Yes, I should have liked to live in
Paris in the fifties. That would have suited me, I think.
Filed under Favorite Poem
Jenny Kissed Me
by James Henry Leigh Hunt
“Jenny Kissed Me,” by James Henry Leigh Hunt Was the first poem I remember memorizing – I was probably five or six. At that age, I understood every word of the poem, (which was not true of others I had read), and I had a soaring expectation that maybe some day that breathless encounter would happen with me. It still registers with gentle loving passion.
Millicent Kellogg
Sheep Rancher and Poet; Retired RN
Morgan Hill
Jenny Kissed Me
Jenny kissed me when we met,
Jumping from the chair she sat in;
Time, you thief, who love to get
Sweets into your list, put that in!
Say I’m weary, say I’m sad,
Say that health and wealth have missed me,
Say I’m growing old, but add,
Jenny kissed me.
James Henry Leigh Hunt
1784-1859
Filed under Favorite Poem
Demain, des l’aube
by Victor Hugo
For over 30 years my favorite poem has been “Demain, des l’aube” by Victor Hugo. I first came upon this poem in a college French literature class, where I fell in love with the sound of the words and the unexpected conclusion. Even to this day I gasp when the destination is reached. Over the years I have read this poem to many friends who do not know French, yet they feel the emotion. Victor Hugo’s beautiful biographical words touch and console me, giving me hope to continue on when times are tough.
Karen DeMello
Software Engineer by day, Nature walk educator by night/weekend
Mountain View
Demain, des l’aube
Tomorrow, at dawn, in the hour when the countryside becomes white,
I will leave. You see, I know that you are waiting for me.
I will go by the forest, I will go by the mountain.
I cannot stay far from you any longer.
I will walk the eyes fixed on my thoughts,
Without seeing anything outside, nor hearing any noise,
Alone, unknown, the back curved, the hands crossed,
Sad, and the day for me will be like the night.
I will not look at the gold of the evening which falls,
Nor the faraway sails descending towards Harfleur.
And when I arrive, I will put on your tomb
A green bouquet of holly and flowering heather.
(for the original French, click below)
Victor Hugo
1802-1885
Continue reading
Filed under Favorite Poem
Theme for English 1B
by Langston Hughes
I chose this poem for two reasons: I was able to find a connection with the poem and the poet since I am a person of color, and I know how difficult it is to be accepted in a different society. I also love this poem because it shows Hughes’ struggles for equality. This poem has given me a clear insight into the importance of being different but at the same time equal. Being an ESL student has helped me to realize that I should never give up and to work hard to achieve my goals in life. I really like Langston Hughes’ writing. He makes it easier to understand the importance of equality and what makes each individual unique and different in America.
Maria Diaz, 25
Full-time student
SJSU
Theme for English 1B
The instructor said,
Go home and write
a page tonight.
And let that page come out of you—
Then, it will be true.
I wonder if it’s that simple?
I am twenty-two, colored, born in Winston-Salem.
I went to school there, then Durham, then here
to this college on the hill above Harlem.
I am the only colored student in my class.
The steps from the hill lead down into Harlem
through a park, then I cross St. Nicholas,
Eighth Avenue, Seventh, and I come to the Y,
the Harlem Branch Y, where I take the elevator
up to my room, sit down, and write this page:
It’s not easy to know what is true for you or me
at twenty-two, my age. But I guess I’m what
I feel and see and hear, Harlem, I hear you:
hear you, hear me—we two—you, me, talk on this page.
(I hear New York too.) Me—who?
Well, I like to eat, sleep, drink, and be in love.
I like to work, read, learn, and understand life.
I like a pipe for a Christmas present,
or records—Bessie, bop, or Bach.
I guess being colored doesn’t make me NOT like
the same things other folks like who are other races.
So will my page be colored that I write?
Being me, it will not be white.
But it will be
a part of you, instructor.
You are white—
yet a part of me, as I am a part of you.
That’s American.
Sometimes perhaps you don’t want to be a part of me.
Nor do I often want to be a part of you.
But we are, that’s true!
As I learn from you,
I guess you learn from me—
although you’re older—and white—
and somewhat more free.
This is my page for English B.
Filed under Favorite Poem
God’s Grandeur
by Gerard Manley Hopkins
I first read this poem in my sophomore year in high school, an all-girls’ Catholic academy. A spiritual poem, I thought, but with such exultation, such beauty in images, such depth dealing with nature, the world, God, the dawn. So hard to read aloud. I practiced, joined a group where we were a concertof voices reciting poetry aloud. For a time I had it memorized.It was only in the last few years that its sonnet structure appeared to me. The craftsmanship—alliteration, internal rhyme, repetition. I know that “The Windhover” is the poem he loved the most, but “God’s Grandeur” is my favorite.
Mary Lou Taylor, Octogenarian
Retired Teacher, Poet
Saratoga
and~
My favorite poem is “God’s Grandeur” by Gerard Manley Hopkins. It’s a poem that I see as a “sacred” text of literature (used it in my doctoral dissertation), but especially powerful to me is that though “Generations have trod, have trod, have trod;/And all is seared with trade; bleared, smeared with toil…” that “…for all of this, nature is never spent.”
Dr. Mary Warner
Associate Professor of English
Director of the English Credential Program, SJSU
San Jose
God’s Grandeur
Gerard Manley Hopkins
Filed under Favorite Poem
The Windhover
by Gerard Manley Hopkins
I was a young college student, and stumbled into a class being taught by Wayne Booth (my future wife invited me to sit in, and I’m glad for many reasons that I did!) “The Windhover” seems impenetrable, so obscure. And that’s why it was so important to me. Poems are sometimes mysteries, they are marks on paper that have to be struggled with, bartered with, worked with–to give their deepest meanings. But the struggle is so beautiful, just because of the power and beauty of the language. Just one hint of the complexities buried here: the Trinity is “hidden” in the first two lines, “spirit (servant)-king and son.”
Jerry Dyer, 54
Teacher for East Side Union High School District
San Jose
The Windhover
To Christ our Lord
I caught this morning morning’s minion, king-
dom of daylight’s dauphin, dapple-dawn-drawn Falcon, in his riding
Of the rolling level underneath him steady air, and striding
High there, how he rung upon the rein of a wimpling wing
In his ecstasy! then off, off forth on swing,
As a skate’s heel sweeps smooth on a bow-bend: the hurl and gliding
Rebuffed the big wind. My heart in hiding
Stirred for a bird,—the achieve of; the mastery of the thing!
Brute beauty and valour and act, oh, air, pride, plume, here
Buckle! AND the fire that breaks from thee then, a billion
Times told lovelier, more dangerous, O my chevalier!
No wonder of it: shéer plód makes plough down sillion
Shine, and blue-bleak embers, ah my dear,
Fall, gall themselves, and gash gold-vermillion.
Gerard Manley Hopkins
Filed under Favorite Poem
The Doves of Vasona
by Parthenia Hicks.
My favorite poem is “The Doves of Vasona” by Los Gatos Poet Laureate Parthenia Hicks. I particularly enjoy it when Parthenia reads it.
Denise Leffers
Licensed Marriage and Family Therapist
Los Gatos
the purple-throated doves sit
round and full
under the girders of Highway 17
undaunted by tons of steel
rushing over their nests
of nicks and nacks
sitting two by two
tucked along
the lips of green metal
one slim white mother
speckled with large black spots
stands out from the
smooth soft grey,
a spaniel of a dove,
she eyes me
warily, sizes me up, then
flies to her raftered nest,
lets me see the bobbing heads,
their peeps and pulls
here, she says, here
underneath the Avenue of the Larks
just off the freeway
we fly the same exit home
to the hidden cities beneath the city
beyond county lines
and sub-divisions
here, she calls, here
to the walkers and cyclists
the joggers and the hypnotized
drivers,
to the poets who stumble
in the dark following the symphony
of the roo-coo-coo
as it bounces off the steel
in the chilly, chilly night
Filed under Favorite Poem
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