A Palamino Poem for Winter

I subscribed recently to NPR's Writer's Almanac, and have been enjoying reading one poem a day. I haven't posted a poem in a while, so here's a recent favorite:

by Alden Nowlan

Though the barn is so warm
that the oats in his manger,
the straw in his bed
seem to give off smoke —

though the wind is so cold,
the snow in the pasture
so deep he'd fall down
and freeze in an hour —

the eleven-month-old
palomino stallion
has gone almost crazy
fighting and pleading
to be let out.

Have a poem to share? Go for it :o)


tinkandalissa said…
Do you see what the first thing I do when I get to work is? Haha!
I am in such a great mood this morning because I got my car stereo fixed and now I have volume control again! So sweet!
Ok, I have two this morning...
Stephen Crane:
"Think as I think," said a man,
"Or you are abominably wicked;
You are a toad."

And after I had thought of it,
I said, "I will, then, be a toad."

Edgar Allen Poe, "Conqueror Worm":
LO! 'tis a gala night
Within the lonesome latter years.
An angel throng, bewinged, bedight
In veils, and drowned in tears,
Sit in a theatre to see
A play of hopes and fears,
While the orchestra breathes fitfully
The music of the spheres.

Mimes, in the form of God on high,
Mutter and mumble low,
And hither and thither fly;
Mere puppets they, who come and go
At bidding of vast formless things
That shift the scenery to and fro,
Flapping from out their condor wings
Invisible Woe.

That motley drama—oh, be sure
It shall not be forgot!
With its Phantom chased for evermore
By a crowd that seize it not,
Through a circle that ever returneth in
To the self-same spot;
And much of Madness, and more of Sin,
And Horror the soul of the plot.

But see amid the mimic rout
A crawling shape intrude:
A blood-red thing that writhes from out
The scenic solitude!
It writhes—it writhes!—with mortal pangs
The mimes become its food,
And over each quivering form
In human gore imbued.

Out—out are the lights—out all!
And over each quivering form
The curtain, a funeral pall,
Comes down with the rush of a storm,
While the angels, all pallid and wan,
Uprising, unveiling, affirm
That the play is the tragedy, "Man,"
And its hero, the Conqueror Worm.

PS Kristin, I promised my mom on the phone last night that I would relay her message to you of how much she thought your book rocks! She just finished last night and says hurry up with the next one because she can't wait. (me either, of course!)
Anonymous said…
Here is a poem I recently came across that I enjoyed. I hope you enjoy it too.

Camas Lilies

Consider the lilies of the field,
the blue banks of camas opening
into acres of sky along the road.
Would the longing to lie down
and be washed by that beauty
abate if you knew their usefulness,
how the natives ground bulbs
for flour, how the settler’s hogs
uprooted them, grunting in gleeful
oblivion as the flowers fell?

And you—what of your rushed and
useful life? Imagine setting it all down—
papers, plans, appointments, everything,

leaving only a note: “Gone to the fields
to be lovely. Be back when I’m through
with blooming.”

Even now, unneeded and uneaten,
the camas lilies gaze out above the grass
from their tender blue eyes.
Even in sleep your life will shine.
Make no mistake.
Of course, your work will always matter.
Yet Solomon in all his glory
was not arrayed like one of these.

-Lynn Ungar from What We Share (Collected Meditations, Volume 2)
ICQB said…
That palamino sounds like my littlest cat. She wants out, even when the snow is three times as deep as she is.
ICQB said…
Oh, and here's a poem. It's an original which I composed while mowing the lawn last summer:

Escaping murderous blades,
In my hand.

And that's the extent of my poetical talent.
mysteryflavour said…
Spring And Fall
To a Young Child

MÁRGARÉT, áre you gríeving
Over Goldengrove unleaving?
Leáves, líke the things of man, you
With your fresh thoughts care for, can you?
Áh! ás the heart grows older
It will come to such sights colder
By and by, nor spare a sigh
Though worlds of wanwood leafmeal lie;
And yet you wíll weep and know why.
Now no matter, child, the name:
Sórrow’s spríngs áre the same.
Nor mouth had, no nor mind, expressed
What heart heard of, ghost guessed:
It ís the blight man was born for,
It is Margaret you mourn for.

-Gerard Manley Hopkins
Artemis Grey said…
I love poetry, but I'm wretchedly bad at writing it. The Palomino poem is lovely, and reminds me very much of my own horse, who has an obsession with being hit by precipitation of any sort. The following poem is actually more of a little prayer that popped into my head some years ago. I say it to myself all the time. :)

I am still and silent,
shadow moving
I am calm and patient,
always waiting
I am fierce and wild,
soul untamed
I am soft and gentle,
mothering spirit
I am my own,
and my own is wolf
Ancestors watch over me and guide me home when all is done and I am free.
Grandma Carol said…
I liked the Writers Almanac Poem from Feb 8th. 'On the Back Porch'.
by Dorianne Laux. We used to have a back porch when I was growing up.

'The cat calls for her dinner.
On the porch I bend and pour
brown soy stars into her bowl,
stroke her dark fur.'

Amanda said…
I've always been partial to Philip Larkin's "This Be The Verse" when it comes to favorite poems (though I did change my mind about the feelings expressed in the last line, obviously, but perhaps it's a fitting one for Katsa!):

They f*ck you up, your mum and dad.
They may not mean to, but they do.
They fill you with the faults they had
And add some extra, just for you.

But they were f*cked up in their turn
By fools in old-style hats and coats,
Who half the time were soppy-stern
And half at one another's throats.

Man hands on misery to man.
It deepens like a coastal shelf.
Get out as early as you can,
And don't have any kids yourself.
AndrewsMommom said…
The Little Boy and the Old Man

Said the little boy, "Sometimes I drop my spoon."
Said the old man, "I do that too."
The little boy whispered, "I wet my pants."
"I do that too," laughed the little old man.
Said the little boy, "I often cry."
The old man nodded, "So do I."
"But worst of all," said the boy, "it seems
Grown-ups don't pay attention to me."
And he felt the warmth of a wrinkled old hand.
"I know what you mean," said the little old man.

I love Shel!
My Poem

I ain't got time
To rhyme
So here's a thought
Write one yourself!!!
Anonymous said…
Andrew, I love that poem. There are many times when I try to remember how I felt when adults didn't pay attention, because I don't want to be that kind of 'grown-up.' I want to be the rarity that I had the priveledge of encountering every once inawhile; the rare adult who does listen and care and give you the soundest, most honest advice you've ever heard. I presume the poem is by Shel, but would you mind sharing the full name of the author?

Also, that Palamino reminds me of myself.. Despite the coldness, I yearn to be outside. What a lovely poem ;)

Anonymous said…
Will you still be in Jacksonville Florida on March 11th-15th? I'm in NJROTC (Naval Junior Reserve Officer Training Corps) its a leadership program, but our big unit trip is then and thats where we're going. My friend Cattie Told me about Graceling cause she said I looked similar and we said it was a good omen for the future that I'd actually stop procrastinating and finish a story. I hope your still there so I can get a picture of you Cat would be so envious and hyper! Its because of her that I'm going to read the book but it sounds pretty good.

--Voss From Kentucky
Anonymous said…
This is a poem i wrote myself.......(Mr. Shaner is our band derector...he has a temper)

Though we've been through some rough times,
with name calling and mean rhymes

we've stayed together through thick and thin,
even when Mr. Shaner had that grin

just remeber one thing at that end of school,
Band geeks....R REALLY KEWL!!!
Kristin Cashore said…
Thanks everybody for the poems -- the funny ones, the original ones, all of them! Candelion, I can answer for Andrew, it's Shel Silverstein.

Mystery Flavour, that poem always get me, because one of my cats, growing up, was named Maggie, after the Margaret of that poem. I wrote about her last August :o)
Unknown said…
January night, quiet and luminous
Down near the river, by the rocks, at your side

The night ripe for marvel and miracle
If a star fell, I should hold our my hand.

(I don't remember who that was by...a Latin American author, I think. But it was one of those "read it twice and have it memorized" deals.)
Anonymous said…
My ultimate favourite poem...

"I am the Song"

I am the song that sings the bird.
I am the leaf that grows the land.
I am the tide that moves the moon.
I am the stream that haults the sand.
I am the cloud that drives the storm.
I am the earth that light the sun.
I am the fire that strikes the stone.
I am the clay that shapes the hand.
I am the word that speaks the man.

-Charles Causley

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