Night poetry can be the poetry of promise. In the darkness, we can focus on what is most pressing, we can dream, we can make promises to ourselves or others. Robert Frost felt the compelling movement of a promise, that urged him to keep traveling through the dark and cold.
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.
—Robert Frost
Poetry Prompt
Write a night poem that makes a promise, to yourself or to someone else. Give us images that will bring the promise alive: a red velvet ribbon, a white cup, a pickup truck. (Let this be no abstract promise!)
Thanks to our participants in last week’s poetry prompt. Here’s a recent poem we enjoyed from Maureen…
Clearing Fog
We manage in the fog,
each looking
for the other’s heart.
But out there,
somewhere between us,
the old dark words
still hang. Please
don’t wait till sunrise,
Love, to rub a circle
clear, to let in
your once-bright light
through my window.
Photo by Phil Roeder, Creative Commons, via Flickr.
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Sometimes we feature your poems in Every Day Poems, with your permission of course. Thanks for writing with us!
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Richard Maxson says
Letting in the Ghosts
The house at midnight hums with consonants.
Particularly the air-handler’s lay
soothes me as seasons pass the windows―
summer slowly and winter’s frozen tracks―
I bless the steadiness of ems and ars.
Falls are less incessant, they tic and tock
on gables, like some anachronistic clock,
a brisk knocking in counterpoint, as oaks
forgo their acorns in erratic raucous drops,
while blown leaves brush against the windowpanes.
When in April comes the hour between the days,
a lull with lilacs from the dead ground grows
and through the open windows lets the ghosts in,
a redolence in all the rooms, almost seen
in moonlight―hyacinth, peony and rose.
Glynn says
I tried one: http://faithfictionfriends.blogspot.com/2013/12/night-train.html
Richard Maxson says
Glynn, This is lovely.
Maureen Doallas says
Thank you for highlighting my poem.
SimplyDarlene says
A famous lady once said –
A person cannot do a thing in heels.
I don Insulated coveralls, lined leather gloves,
and a grungy stocking
cap. To feed the dog, split
wood, and shovel
stalls.
Horse manure is not easily seen
in mere shadows of the night.
I tug and twist at
sequined, dainty straps;
yank wool socks
off mucky, frozen feet.
I dangle
(and give an unladylike verbal salute)
before I toss –
the ruby
red heels
into the fire
and boil potatoes
in my bare feet.
I agree.
A person cannot do a thing in heels.
L. L. Barkat says
oh, too very fun, Darlene! I love all the different vivid images. 🙂
SimplyDarlene says
indeed, famous lady. it was terrific fun to write.
blessings.
Richard Maxson says
Darlene, I remember hearing that Ginger Rogers did everything Fred Astaire used to do, but she did it backwards and in heels. I bet she couldn’t do what you’ve captured here. Very enjoyable!
SimplyDarlene says
Thank you, sir!
Marcy Terwilliger says
SimplyDarlene I loved your red heels and yes, I understand horse manure. Enjoyed!
Cold, clear, evening,
Wintertime comes again.
You step into stillness,
Watch your breath,
You breathe out and in.
Tall dark evergreens,
Home for the bright red birds.
Wiggle, shuffle, my feet,
Feeling the winter’s chill.
Bright beaming clusters,
Stars against velvet sky.
Out here in the country,
There are no city lights.
You think of a song,
Start to sing along.
Don McLean.
“Starry, starry night
Paint your palette blue
and gray
Look out on a summer’s day.”
It puts a smile upon my face,
Though my singing is a disgrace.
Who can hear me anyway?
SimplyDarlene says
Miss Marcy – I belt ’em out when I’ve drawn the short straw for late night chores. My hope is to keep the cougars away.
Blessings.
Ken Kirkpatrick says
Darlene,
Loved the flow of your poem – it is both descriptive and yet, leaves room on the canvas for the mind to paint it’s own picture… and punctuates it with a humorous twist. Very personal and comforting.
Peace,
Ken
Richard Maxson says
I miss cold, clear winters here in Florida. I’m Ohio born. Thanks for the memory, Marcy.
SimplyDarlene says
http://simplydarlene.com/2013/12/30/elle-willard/
I tried one at my site too… thanks sir Glynn for the photo pairing idea.
Blessings.
Marcy Terwilliger says
Richard, if your ever in Tallahassee tell my sweet oldest daughter hello.
SimplyDarlene, I love to watch the Bobcats jump into the air about dust. Like most cats I can’t see what they are jumping for.
Megan Willome says
’93 FORD RANGER
I promise I will get your truck back
the red one we sold
after I accidentally drowned
it. That water was deeper than it looked.
I know who bought it—the guy.
He said he could fix it up.
I know where he lives. Not far.
Only
you need to come home. I’m not
driving that far by myself in the middle of winter.
Just send word. Somehow I’ll get you those keys.
SimplyDarlene says
iLike.
Kenneth Kirkpatrick says
Blissful the dark,
Blissful the light,
“But I don’t want it to get dark, Daddy”
My little one says to me.
But the dark is our friend,
I whisper to him…
The night is a blanket that covers us all,
So rest, sweet rest can come again.
There are no monsters, I say to him.
There’s only angels?, his questioning grin… Only angels, son, I say to him,
As he tucks himself up under my arms.
The night watchmen, the dark’s plot foils,
A GodsMan standing at the foot of our beds. The daylight watchman, the day’s calling toils,
A GoodMan with sword and shield of faith raised.
And God is our happy end – our friend,
Like the night is to the long day’s end.
And I watch him drift into the deep,
Of the nightfall’s watch that angels keep.
And I run my hand through his soft hair,
And over him whisper a father’s prayer:
“Lord, send your angels to watch over ours…”
And the look upon,
Your face my son,
Is blissful…
Ever so blissful.
Amy says
There is light between the trees,
but it is not of sun or moon.
It falls amid the darkness like
weary stars that quit their post.
I scramble through the brush,
prying limbs that claw and rake
across my moonlit skin, bared
beneath the diving lights.
Feet are numb from cold,
pressing hollows in the snow,
that trail behind me, a dotted
line that points toward home.
I trudge on, a mask of reflected
brilliance blooming on my face.
Frozen fingers pierce the tree line,
as they are steeped in jeweled tones;
I am bathed in the embryonic light.
I do not feel the cold any longer,
nor do I know of pain or grief
from years past; there is only light
and transcendence, igniting the
silent, stalking shadows.
Ken Kirkpatrick says
Amy,
Your use of words conjures up very vivid imagery – i can see the poem playing out in front of me, even as I read it.
Amy says
Thank you, Ken.
Ken Kirkpatrick says
Certainly – I posted a poem in response called “blissful”- it is my first post on Tweetspeak, so if you have time to read it, I would love your feedback.
To the Words,
Ken
Maureen Doallas says
Morning’s dew is ice,
the trees, mute,
and foot-deep snow
stone-still.
Ungloved hands
cave the line
dividing space
between us.
A ghost sky gathers
into knots
the skeletal clouds,
failing to make a game
of sun’s own promise.
Marcy Terwilliger says
Megan Willome
I love your poem, that would make a good country song.
Veronika Dash says
Hyperborean
Something about the freshly fallen snow,
that makes you feel warm inside
like the first rich sip of a Brandy Alexander.
Thumbprints on my coffee mug
make me think about-
your smile
Catching flurries beneath the velvet sky
Just the mountains
and Us.
How you taught me to shoot a bow and arrow
How I fell out of the tree, so ungracefully
How I make a lousy hunter because the leaves rustle
so loudly beneath me
Time, captured like a tiny morsel of your favorite cake,
Savoring it before it
Vanishes.
As you have,
fading into the last years bitter winter
melting like the cold snow I catch
on my tongue.
Richard Maxson says
Your last image is perfect for this poem. I loved the entire piece.
Alexandra Barylski Stott says
I would search to cure
your shrinking bones,
your forgetfulness, your poor
balance on stairs
and in the garden-
any knotty pain
but not your hands, paper
thin. Skin with pale blue
veins and mottled liver spots.
Hands, beautiful but bruised
from every day battles
against corners, door knobs.
A beauty I am without
during church service. My hands
holding your hands holding
your daughter’s hands.
Three generations touch
in the time of one hymn:
Come Thou Fount, but not of youth.
Each evening I see my future
predicted in swelling knuckles,
feel it in folds of crepe skin
as I undress you for bed:
Never get old, never get old
you keep telling me,
and I keep listening
making you a promise
we pretend I can keep.
You, with eight decades
of work misshapen fingers
and cold-cracked palms.
Me thinking of my future,
hands hugging my cup late
into night for consolation.
Richard Maxson says
I am so touched by your poem, Alexandra. You are describing my own mother, who just had her 87th birthday. Three generations holding hands is a beautiful image. Thank you for sharing this.
Alexandra Barylski Stott says
Thank you, Richard.
I’m so pleased to know this poem meant something to you.
Maureen Doallas says
Poignant and touching, Alexandra. I think all of us of a certain age see ourselves through the lens of your poem.
Marcy Terwilliger says
Alexandra,
This poem you wrote had to be so true in your life for it to reach out so tender and full of love. Beautiful words capture the truth in the hands of the old. It so reminds me of Lydia my only Grandmother. Lovely.
Alexandra Barylski Stott says
Thank you, Maureen and Marcy!
Richard Maxson says
Here is another:
http://theimaginedjay.com/?p=501
Maureen Doallas says
Very, very nice, Richard.
Ken Kirkpatrick says
The Knighted Night
Too much sun can kill the skin,
The Benevolent whispered to me,
The daylight’s hard due diligence done,
Grants no shade from toil for free…
But yield instead to my calm implore,
Let loose the day’s long listed sins,
Walk into me to find the cure,
For all day’s debts I have forgiven.
So Benevolent marked in winter’s woods,
a place where I alone would find,
that kinder, gentler, steadfast light,
Where’s It’s man, the moon did shine.
And Benevolent breathed upon my skin,
and bathed me in moon’s light,
To rejuvenate the child within…
With dark, restore my sight.
And with new eyes I turned to see,
Who my Benevolent could truly be,
When in-beamed moonlight cascading down,
To dress Benevolent in his crown…
And all I thought was mine to bear,
I wept for now – it all made right,
And my smile beamed forth, as if a sword,
For Benevolent was the Night…
And with my beaming, smiling sword,
I Knighted Him the Night…
Marcy Terwilliger says
Oh Ken, I’m sitting here waiting for my Sir Lancelet to come and take me away for hot tea. That poem was regal, I see a dark tall horse, upon him sits the Knight as the moon cast light upon his handsome face. Those words, the story in them, if only we lived during those time, beautiful as I see it unfold before me.
Ken Kirkpatrick says
Marcy,
Thanks so very much – I am glad it conjured up something special and lasting for you – it was very strange, but in reading another poet’s contribution, the title came to me – and then the image of the night being an all embracing, noble sphere that would forgive the day’s troubles and replace them with gentle and welcomed rest. Thank you again for the kind words. I loved your posting as well.