A nonthreatening mix of the farmed and untamed wild edges, the countryside is more humble than grandiose. The relaxed landscape offers an alternative way of life. A slower pace. Idealized and intimate. The lure of sleepy towns and green as far as the eye can see is irresistible to many. There’s plenty of room for countryside poems.
In Alexander Pope‘s poem “The Quiet Life, ” we read about an isolated, yet fulfilling life. Pope paints this poem with pastoral images. This portrait of a simple, undisturbed existence ends as a sober depiction of identity.
The Quiet Life
Happy the man whose wish and care
A few paternal acres bound,
Content to breath his native air
In his own ground.
Whose herds with milk, whose fields with bread,
Whose flocks supply him with attire,
Whose trees in summer yield him shade,
In winter fire.
Blest who can unconcern’dly find
Hours, days and years slide soft away,
In health of body, peace of mind,
Quiet by day,
Sound sleep by night; study and ease,
Together mixt; sweet recreation;
And innocence, which most does please
With meditation.
Thus let me live, unseen, unknown,
Thus unlamented let me die,
Steal from the world, and not a stone
Tell where I lie.
—Alexander Pope
Try It
Write a poem about the countryside. Are you drawn to the quiet life or is it a little too quiet for your taste? Use your senses and write about what surrounds you (even if it’s in your imagination!).
Featured Poem
Thanks to everyone who participated in last week’s poetry prompt. Here’s a poem from Prasanta we enjoyed:
The Light of Steep Shoulders
You are the moon, the white glow
Bouncing off the wet pavement
You are red streaks of light shimmering on the road
Your heartbeat sets the rhythm
Keeps pace with an electric night
I can dodge shadows with the receding sun
Because you are a million flames
Like old wax candles burning in every window
You are a million diamonds glistening through glass
Flickering at the city below
I can find my way home when I close my eyes—
Yes, even then, in that kind of blindness
And sleep between your steep glittering shoulders —
Yes, even sleep peacefully
Because you keep watch through each blazing hour.
Photo by Greg Westfall. Creative Commons via Flickr.
Browse city and country poems
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How to Write a Poem uses images like the buzz, the switch, the wave—from the Billy Collins poem “Introduction to Poetry”—to guide writers into new ways of writing poems. Excellent teaching tool. Anthology and prompts included.
“How to Write a Poem is a classroom must-have.”
—Callie Feyen, English Teacher, Maryland
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- Poetry Prompt: Behind the Velvet Rope - February 26, 2018
Rick Maxson says
Prasanta, “The Light of Steep Shoulders” is a beautiful vision.
Prasanta says
Thank you for those kind words, Rick, Thank you also for the sweet surprise featuring my poem here today, Heather.
Andrew H says
It wasn’t much of a surprise to me – good poem!
Prasanta says
That was sweet- thank you, Andrew!
Bethany says
Love the comfort in the poem’s closing line, Prasanta. Thanks so much for sharing it here.
Heather Eure says
You are most welcome, Prasanta. It was a joy to read.
Sandra Heska King says
Adding my deep sighs here. This is beautiful, Prasanta.
Prasanta says
Thank you kindly, Sandra.
Donna says
Truly lovely poem!
Prasanta says
Thank you so much, Bethany and Donna.
Rick Maxson says
Concert
The bill and echo on a tree,
as if to call attention,
to the waft of titian sky.
The air lets fall its mallets
through the leaves, a samara
snare shivers on a limb:
the day begins its symphony.
The flute of Cardinals calling
and quickening piccolos of wren.
A field of timothy oscillates
in golden sighs of light,
the softest slight of violins.
From the bluing dawn the hawk
soprano augments the sky
and the voiceless chorus of the sun.
Mine is the intermezzo, a breath
or two and then a bumble bee,
like a cello, passes in the lull
and I am lost again in country morning.
Within all of this, there is a silence,
a presence and a listening,
like an unseen rapt assemblage.
Bethany R. says
Oh my. The “voiceless chorus of the sun” and the “A field of timothy oscillates/ in golden sighs of light” are such gorgeous lines and images. I want to visit this stunning place.
Sandra Heska King says
The “voiceless chorus of the sun.” Yes, that made me pause there, too.
I can’t wait for all the spring birds to return and for the sun to rise as early as I must.
Rick Maxson says
Thanks for commenting, Sandra. I’m with you on wanting the arrival of those spring birds. They and the sunrise make getting up early worth it.
Rick Maxson says
Thanks, Bethany. This place in in Snow Camp, NC, a field of timothy on the far side of a pond near a very deep and enchanted wood. I loved walking there with my dog. Sometimes though, I think enchantment is what you make of a place. It could be no more than a patch of trees behind your house or the movement made by a breeze and lemongrass in a garden.
Heather Eure says
“Mine is the intermezzo, a breath
or two and then a bumble bee,
like a cello, passes in the lull
and I am lost again in country morning.”
Beautiful. I was lost in your poem, Rick.
Rick Maxson says
Thank you, Heather! A poem is the best place in which to be lost.
Andrew H says
A shaded pond with silvered light
Revealed itself to scrutiny
Wherein I saw a lovely sight
Alike to emerald depths of sea;
There shook the fronds of sunken weed
Which waved to me with frantic speed.
Such was their haste I stood in awe
And looked about that gleaming pool,
For light there shone from all I saw
And in their depths the moon held rule;
For in the leaf strewn pond it hung,
Pale as silver on water strung.
There white the moon held sway on high,
The trees’ reflections rearing tall
Within the fragments of the sky
Which leaves besmirched with autumn’s fall;
They hung about that heaven’s door
Before they washed upon the shore.
A shadow rippled in the scene,
And in the depths my face arose
To tremble there amongst the green
In which was drowned my human woes;
About my head was hanging strewn
A crown of leaf and argent moon.
No more I walk that forest lane
Or linger long beside that pool
Which split the forest glade in twain
And sparkled as a clear cut jewel;
There dwelt I long against all sense,
But life away has led me since.
I wrote this before seeing the prompt, and it was a blatant attempt to write a “Daffodils” type poem (even has the same structure) but hey, it’ll do.
Sandra Heska King says
This makes me long for warmer weather and an evening stroll beside a pond… Beautiful, Andrew.
Heather Eure says
“A shadow rippled in the scene,
And in the depths my face arose
To tremble there amongst the green
In which was drowned my human woes;
About my head was hanging strewn
A crown of leaf and argent moon.”
Your poem develops like a spring blossom, Andrew. I especially liked this verse. Wonderful.
L. L. Barkat says
Favorite line: “A crown of leaf and argent moon.”
I’m always so pleased with the challenges you set for yourself, Andrew. How did you come to work with poetry? (And I say *work,* because it feels like more than just a cursory reading and writing life you have with poems.)
Andrew H says
There was no real epiphany involved. About two years ago I read a poem I loved and thought it would be wonderful to do something similar – put something meaningful to paper. So I decided to try to do so. It’s never been work – I just love poetry, or more specifically the emotion behind it.
Thanks for the interest, though!
And thank you, Heather and Sandra! If you’re not careful, I’ll begin to develop an ego 😛
L. L. Barkat says
Andrew, do you recall the poem? And I wonder how long you’ve been a reader of poetry (and how that started).
Andrew H says
Actually, that poem is when I started reading them properly rather than just seeing them here and there.
It was Dylan Thomas’ “Do not go gentle into that good night.” I suppose I was fascinated by how so few words in such an abrupt structure could impart so much passion and meaning. I know it’s not Byron or Keats, but it really meant a lot to me. I still use “do not go gently” as a sort of personal mantra. I wouldn’t say it’s my favourite poem – I’ve read too many and loved too many to give that title to any one of them – but it’s still up there.
L. L. Barkat says
Now there’s a poem to get a love of poetry reading started! 🙂 It’s one of the best villanelles ever written (that we know of), so I’d say it’s certainly a great one to read and re-read in lieu of Byron or Keats (though perhaps you read them now too).
Rick Maxson says
Andrew, what strikes me about so many of your poems, aside from the beauty of their words, is sound and rhythm. You have an excellent ear.
Donna says
He says
“I’m seeing someone new.
She’s a little bid rednkeck, though,”
like it’s a bad thing.
Awkward silence.
“She’s a little rough around the edges,” he winks.
I close my eyes and silently scream
one word
Into the vast, wide sisterhood.
RUN!
Sandra Heska King says
Donna… I hope this is supposed to be funny. Cuz I laughed. 🙂
Donna says
My dear, if you laughed, then you totally get it! 😉
Actually, when I wrote it I wasn’t going for funny, but after I read it I laughed out loud, too! 🙂
I feel a need to just say that the sentiment enrages me and I hear it all the time and it doesn’t shock me anymore, but it always enrages me… my inner barefoot hayseed redneck blue jeans baby pitches the fit of all fits 😉 )
Rick Maxson says
Not too long ago while watching Jerry Maguire for the nth time, my wife said Whoopi Goldberg has a book called, “If Someone Says, You Complete Me, RUN”
Your poem reminded me of that and also that C&W song, “I like My Women Just a Little on the Trashy Side”
Donna says
LOL Whoopi is such an interesting person. Love that – I’ll have to look for it!
I know that song! It’s a fun one. Redneck Woman, by Gretchen Wilson, comes to mind, too. https://www.google.com/url?sa=t&rct=j&q=&esrc=s&source=web&cd=1&cad=rja&uact=8&ved=0ahUKEwjZxMSxypbLAhWBKiYKHaVnCnkQyCkIHjAA&url=https%3A%2F%2Fwww.youtube.com%2Fwatch%3Fv%3D82dDnv9zeLs&usg=AFQjCNERPWD4k0hJEDPZ4kYGvyE1r_BO6w&sig2=fRsWYZGZ4KyVvUOFVhmZkg&bvm=bv.115339255,d.eWE
Sandra Heska King says
There is No Hurry
I pour tomatoes and chop sweet onion,
snip parsley frills and crush some basil,
dash salt, sprinkle sugar.
Stir.
I race against the clock.
Hurry.
A tasty sauce takes time to simmer,
but hungry stomachs will arrive at six.
I rattle glasses, bang the stainless,
wash and wipe.
Outside a silver needle drags a thread
straight and slow across the sky.
Autumn swirls its colors in the breeze,
and time crunches underfoot.
A hawk soars in circles high over khaki’d corn.
It’s in no hurry.
A cardinal perches on the clothesline T.
A one-eyed black cat glances my way,
then saunters toward the field’s edge.
I lay down my sponge and adjust my focus
while my eyes can see.
There is no hurry.
Donna says
What a beautiful scene you set here, in emotion and imagery…
I really love the images here –
Outside a silver needle drags a thread
straight and slow across the sky.
Autumn swirls its colors in the breeze,
and time crunches underfoot.
A hawk soars in circles high over khaki’d corn.
It’s in no hurry.
Rick Maxson says
Sandra, I’m with Donna on that same stanza—just beautiful!
Sandra Heska King says
Thanks, Rick! 🙂
Samuel Smith says
Beautiful. I love the imagery of the lines “Outside a silver needle drags a thread
straight and slow across the sky.”
It put me in mind of that passage of Frost’s:
“Part of a moon was falling to the west,
Dragging the whole sky with it to the hills…”
Nice work!
Sandra Heska King says
Thanks so much, Samuel. I don’t remember that Frost poem, but now I’m off to find it. 🙂
Samuel Smith says
It’s “Death of the Hired Man,” a long dialogue between a married couple over their duty to a former employee, broken up by these short, vivid descriptions of their surroundings.
Michael says
I wish I could say that here; I live in the county a little over an hour from Philadelphia and people here are ALWAYS in a hurry. I enjoyed the imagery.
Samuel Smith says
To a Country Lane
Let there not be
between such friends
any concrete
walkways. Streets
stretch out and bend,
letting there not be
any grass or weed
beneath them —
only concrete.
They cannot see
what we see in
letting there not be
pavements, in letting
earth lie uneven —
nothing concrete
save you and me.
But for our end
let there not be
any concrete.
Bethany says
Samuel, thank you for sharing your piece here. It’s nice to meet you. 🙂
Samuel Smith says
Thanks, Bethany. I’ve only been reading here for a few days, but I love what I see.
Bethany R. says
I was intrigued by you lines:
“in letting/ earth lie uneven —”
Thanks again for creating and sharing poetry with us. 🙂 Hope you’ll join in the fun here on Tweetspeak again.
Bethany R. says
Oops. I was intrigued by *your lines… 😉
Samuel Smith says
Oh, I’ll be happy to.
(About those lines: I was trying to tie in with this idea of pavement being uniform and sterile, contrasting with the rough, weedy world of the country.)
Sandra Heska King says
They cannot see
what we see in
letting there not be . . . pavements.
I love this poem, Samuel. I’ve read it over and over. And welcome to TSP. Have you visited our Mischief Cafe? https://www.tweetspeakpoetry.com/mischief-cafe/
Samuel Smith says
Thanks!
Yes, I did, and I’ve been catching up with a lot of TSP’s reading material as well.
L. L. Barkat says
Ooooo, a villanelle. But because of the short length of the lines and the slant rhymes I almost missed it.
I really like how profound this poem manages to be in the midst of its simplicity.
Samuel Smith says
Thanks for the kind words.
By the way, I don’t know how many times I reread your poem, “At The Window,” while I was working. A great inspiration!
L. L. Barkat says
I haven’t thought about that poem for a long time (until just the other day when you must have been reading it, but I did not know that you were reading it; I was simply showing the poem to my daughter, who had an assignment to write a villanelle).
Wow, where did you actually find it?
Samuel Smith says
Believe it or not, it was on the Tweatspeak article about Villanelles. Yours was one of the sample poems.
L. L. Barkat says
Ha. I forgot it was there. 🙂
Michael says
Now THAT’S country. Dirt roads, dusts trails and pollen laden air, no concrete for sure. For most areas of countryside it’s quiet and slow. Thank you for your poem.
Samuel Smith says
Thank you, Michael.
Prasanta says
“A field of timothy oscillates
in golden sighs of light,
the softest slight of violins.”
Rick, your piece is lovely as usual – I want to go there and hear that concert.
Andrew, your poem is such a delight- I love the rhythm and rhyme. Beautiful!
Sandra, I enjoyed the scene you depicted and how it makes me think of a warm country day and home cooked goodness. I agree with others — the stanza with the “silver needle drags a thread” is so descriptive!
Samuel Smith, deep and said in few words– excellent! I love it.
Samuel Smith says
Thanks, Prasanta!
The world you describe in “Country Balm” is so familiar to what I see all the time: the silver mist, the old trucks, the sleepiness of the land. A beautiful picture.
Prasanta says
Country Balm
An amber glow settles, a silver mist hovers
An awakening, from one serenity to the next
A new morn continues its ascent
A hum of crickets cracks the silence
I follow a trail of invisible prints
In soft, malleable soil
What is the distance between footsteps in this field?
A mile’s sigh, an acre of soreness
A lifetime of kneaded thoughts, finely aged wine
I hear the messages in this stillness
In the punctuated swish of a light breeze
And staccato chirp on a still afternoon
An old red pickup truck grumbles along its way home
Passing by clearings, meadows, knee-high corn
Density intersects a vast open sky
Hay bales warm the ground
Scattered like woolly mammoth sweaters
And I unravel like loosely wound yarn
The only doors here lead to voices,
Those of seedlings and uncaged birds
And quiet murmurings of grounded souls
I am the shepherd of this land,
But lo, I find I am the one who is
Shepherded.
Bethany R. says
This is gorgeous. I want to go back and read it again.
Michael says
Small Town, USA
Tight knit people here aren’t quick to let you in
despite the nature calling you back again and again;
a stubborn people that’s clearly set in there ways
against a place so poetic you’d want to live your days.
Church cemeteries abound across the landscape,
born and raised here it’s a life they can’t escape,
its nostalgic surroundings appeal to my senses
but I just can’t stay in a town with false pretenses.
Copyright by NewLife2008
Michael says
I love the AREA – the countryside, the hills and mountain ranges. The fawn and flora are beautiful and I love seeing all four seasons here. But the people, the people, man it’s a sad shame.