An English poet once began his epic by writing "In a somer
seson whan soft was the sonne." (It was the fourteenth century, and
spell-checkers hadn't been invented yet.)
Summer may be the best season for poetry. We're on vacation and have time
to think about our lives ... and our loves. Especially our loves, since
people are in shorts or bathing suits instead of bundled up in shapeless
down jackets.
Here are some thoughts from four poets, three of whom frequent
Callahan's. (Emily Dickinson didn't have a Delphi account.) Enjoy!
'Once'
'Greenhouse Blues'
'Summer Sex'
'Wild Nights! Wild Nights!"
We hope you enjoy them all !
Once
Once I was young,
Then I grew old.
Young is better. |
Once she was warm,
Then she grew cold.
Warm is better. |
Once I was free
Then I was caged.
Free is better. |
Once I could ride,
Now I stay home.
Riding is better. |
Once I had money,
Now I get by.
Rich is better |
Once I had dreams,
Now I just sigh.
Goals are better. |
Once I was happy,
Now I pretend.
Truth is better. |
Once I was a loved,
Now I'm a friend.
Damn ! |
by Lou Rose
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Greenhouse Blues
We're in the middle of a heatwave. It must be ninety in the shade.
Can't stand this kind of weather. I swear it's ninety in the shade.
Think I'll go back in the kitchen and fix myself some lemonade.
Two weeks now we've had this heatwave. It's been ninety and above.
I heard it on the TV: they said it's ninety and above.
I'm having trouble sleeping, but it's too hot for making love.
I stay up late and watch the TV. That lemonade is sweet.
Sit and sweat and watch the TV. The lemonade's so sweet.
My glass is in my right hand, and the pitcher's at my feet.
The first week was a killer. The second one's no slouch.
Yes, the first week was a killer, and this second one's no slouch.
I'll finish off the pitcher, fall asleep here on the couch.
Sometimes life is like a heat wave, and you think the blues won't end.
When life gets like a heat wave, you think the blues won't end.
Until the heat wave passes, that lemonade's your friend.
by Peter H. Desmond
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Summer Sex
Summer sticks in the East
say the saturated;
summer sucks in the West.
say the dessicated;
yet, lovers hover
and cover
all over!
by Jeanne Khan
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Callahan's Saloon
Wild Nights! Wild Nights!
Wild nights! Wild nights!
Were I with thee,
Wild nights should be
Our luxury!
Futile the winds
To a heart in port,
Done with the compass,
Done with the chart.
Rowing in Eden!
Ah! The sea!
Might I but moor
To-night in thee!
by Emily Dickinson (1830 - 1886)
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Occasional Poetry
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