The RetroLounge Thanksgiving Poem Thread 2011

[RetroLounge]

After Apple-Picking

My long two-pointed ladder's sticking through a tree
Toward heaven still,
And there's a barrel that I didn't fill
Beside it, and there may be two or three
Apples I didn't pick upon some bough.
But I am done with apple-picking now.
Essence of winter sleep is on the night,
The scent of apples: I am drowsing off.
I cannot rub the strangeness from my sight
I got from looking through a pane of glass
I skimmed this morning from the drinking trough
And held against the world of hoary grass.
It melted, and I let it fall and break.
But I was well
Upon my way to sleep before it fell,
And I could tell
What form my dreaming was about to take.
Magnified apples appear and disappear,
Stem end and blossom end,
And every fleck of russet showing clear.
My instep arch not only keeps the ache,
It keeps the pressure of a ladder-round.
I feel the ladder sway as the boughs bend.
And I keep hearing from the cellar bin
The rumbling sound
Of load on load of apples coming in.
For I have had too much
Of apple-picking: I am overtired
Of the great harvest I myself desired.
There were ten thousand thousand fruit to touch,
Cherish in hand, lift down, and not let fall.
For all
That struck the earth,
No matter if not bruised or spiked with stubble,
Went surely to the cider-apple heap
As of no worth.
One can see what will trouble
This sleep of mine, whatever sleep it is.
Were he not gone,
The woodchuck could say whether it's like his
Long sleep, as I describe its coming on,
Or just some human sleep.

Robert Frost

[CaliforniaPeggy]

1. Thank you, Retro...

This is perfect and beautiful.

Happy Thanksgiving to you and yours!

[RetroLounge]

6. ...

:hi:

RL

[Flaxbee]

2. Retro! Retro! Retro! Retro!

So nice to see you! :hi: :hug:

[RetroLounge]

4. ...

:hi:

RL

[BlueIris]

3. Good Lord, a poetry thread!

Even I gave that up.

Hi, Retro.

[RetroLounge]

5. ...

:hi:

RL

[freshwest]

7. Thanks, I love Robert Frost. This poem of his has kept me company for many years:

Stopping By Woods on a Snowy Evening

Whose woods these are I think I know.
His house is in the village though;
He will not see me stopping here
To watch his woods fill up with snow.

My little horse must think it queer
To stop without a farmhouse near
Between the woods and frozen lake
The darkest evening of the year.

He gives his harness bells a shake
To ask if there is some mistake.
The only other sound's the sweep
Of easy wind and downy flake.

The woods are lovely, dark and deep.
But I have promises to keep,
And miles to go before I sleep,
And miles to go before I sleep.

So many days in our lives are that way. Promises to keep and miles to go before we can sleep. And yes, the woods are always lovely, dark and deep. Have a great holiday, Retro.

:hi:

[RetroLounge]

8. ...

:hi:

RL

[zanana1]

9. My seven year-old niece wrote this tonight.

Poetry
by Olivia

I like writing as you may see,
but I won't give up on poetry.
No. Poetry is not what you wear
No. Poetry is not in your hair!
Poetry has rhyming things.
It can even talk about wings!
Wow! I was just rhyming too.
You can do it! Yes, even you!


I don't like to brag, but not bad for a seven year-old, huh? (Actually I do like to brag).