Does anyone have a favorite poem about Rain, or Snow? No wind poems please. Here's one of mine:
Lodged
by Robert Lee Frost
The rain to the wind said,
'You push and I'll pelt.'
They so smote the garden bed
That the flowers actually knelt,
And lay lodged--though not dead.
I know how the flowers felt.
Les
Many years ago in a performance of Christopher Fry’s play ‘The Boy with a Cart’, these lines about a sudden rainstorm on a hayfield stuck in my memory:
[supposedly spoken by a chorus ‘The people of south England’]
That is rain on dry ground. We heard it:
We saw the little tempest in the grass,
The panic of anticipation: heard
The uneasy leaves flutter, the air pass
In a wave, the fluster of the vegetation;
Heard the first spatter of drops, the outriders
Larruping on the road, hitting against
The gate of the drought, and shattering
On to the lances of the tottering meadow
It is rain; it is rain on dry ground.
Rain riding suddenly out of the air,
Battering the bare walls of the sun.
It is falling on to the tongue of the blackbird,
Into the heart of the thrush; the dazed valley
Sings it down. Rain, rain on dry ground!
This is the urgent decision of the day,
The urgent drubbing of earth, the urgent raid
On the dust; downpour over the flaring poppy,
Deluge on the face of noon, the flagellant
Rain drenching across the air.––The day
Flows in the ditch; bubble and twisting twig
And the sodden morning swirl along together
Under the crying hedge. And where the sun
Ran on the scythes, the rain runs down
The obliterated field, the blunted crop.
The rain stops.
The air is sprung with green.
The intercepted drops
Fall at their leisure; and between
The threading runnels on the slopes
The snail drags his caution into the sun.
Post Edited (11-13-04 16:02)
Another one that sticks in the memory from when I read it quite young, which I suppose is one criterion of poetic quality, though reading it again now I find it a bit over-weighted with adjectives and adverbs.
'Late Snow'
by Sir John Squire
The heavy train through the dim country went rolling, rolling
Interminably passing misty snow-covered ploughland ridges
That merged in the snowy sky; came turning meadows, fences,
Came gullies and passed, and ice-coloured streams under frozen bridges.
Across the travelling landscape evenly drooped and lifted
The telegraph wires, thick ropes of snow in the windless air;
They drooped and paused and lifted again to unseen summits,
Drawing the eyes and soothing them, often, to a drowsy stare.
Singly in the snow the ghosts of trees were softly pencilled,
Fainter and fainter, in distance fading, into nothingness gliding,
But sometimes a crowd of the intricate silver trees of fairyland
Passed, close and intensely clear, the phantom world hiding.
O untroubled these moving mantled miles of shadowless shadows,
And lovely the film of falling flakes, so wayward and slack;
But I thought of many a mother-bird screening her nestlings,
Sitting silent with wide bright eyes, snow on her back.
Post Edited (11-13-04 16:33)
From a very long poem about Napoleon by Victor Hugo, this extract describing the imperial army’s snow-harried retreat from Moscow in the winter of 1812 :
Il neigeait. On était vaincu par sa conquête.
Pour la première fois l'aigle baissait la tête.
Sombres jours! L'empereur revenait lentement,
Laissant derrière lui brûler Moscou fumant.
Il neigeait. L'âpre hiver fondait en avalanche.
Après la plaine blanche une autre plaine blanche.
On ne connaissait plus les chefs ni le drapeau.
Hier la grande armée, et maintenant troupeau.
On ne distinguait plus les ailes ni le centre:
Il neigeait. Les blessés s'abritaient dans le ventre
Des chevaux morts; au seuil des bivouacs désolés
On voyait des clairons à leur poste gelés
Restés debout, en selle et muets, blancs de givre,
Collant leur bouche en pierre aux trompettes de cuivre.
Boulets, mitraille, obus, mêlés aux flocons blancs,
Pleuvaient: les grenadiers, surpris d'être tremblants,
Marchaient pensifs, la glace à leur moustache grise.
Il neigeait, il neigeait toujours! la froide bise
Sifflait; sur le verglas, dans des lieux inconnus,
On n'avait pas de pain et l'on allait pieds nus.
Ce n'étaient plus des cœurs vivants, des gens de guerre;
C'était un rêve errant dans la brume, un mystère,
Une procession d'ombres sur le ciel noir.
La solitude, vaste, épouvantable à voir,
Partout apparaissait, muette vengeresse.
Le ciel faisait sans bruit avec la neige épaisse
Pour cette immense armée un immense linceul;
Et, chacun se sentant mourir, on était seul.
Sortira-t-on jamais de ce funèbre empire?
Deux ennemis! le Tzar, le Nord. Le Nord est pire.
The complete poem is No.13 at:
< [www.google.com.au] />
Post Edited (11-13-04 16:09)
Rainy Night.. Dorothy Parker
Ghosts of all my lovely sins,
Who attend too well my pillow,
Gay the wanton rain begins;
Hide the limp and tearful willow.
Turn aside your eyes and ears,
Trail away your robes of sorrow,
You shall have my further years-
You shall walk with me tomorrow.
I am sister to the rain;
Fey and sudden and unholy,
Petulant at the windowpane,
Quickly lost, remembered slowly.
I have lived with shades, a shade;
I am hung with graveyard flowers.
Let me be tonight arrayed
In the silver of the showers.
Every fragile thing shall rust;
When another April passes
I may be a furry dust,
Sifting through the brittle grasses.
All sweet sins shall be forgot;
Who will live to tell their siring?
Hear me now, nor let me rot
Wistful still, and still aspiring.
Ghosts of dear temptations, heed;
I am frail, be you forgiving.
See you not that I have need
To be living with the living?
Sail, tonight, the Styx's breast;
Glide among the dim processions
Of the exquisite unblest,
Spirits of my shared transgressions,
Roam with young Persephone.
Plucking poppies for your slumber . . .
With the morrow, there shall be
One more wraith among your number.
Here's one by F. Scott Fizgerald:
RAIN BEFORE DAWN
F. Scott Fitzgerald
The dull, faint patter in the drooping hours
Drifts in upon my sleep and fills my hair
With damp; the burden of the heavy air
Is strewn upon me where my tired soul cowers,
Shrinking like some lone queen in empty towers
Dying. Blind with unrest I grow aware:
The pounding of broad wings drifts down the stair
And sates me like the heavy scent of flowers.
I lie upon my heart. My eyes like hands
Grip at the soggy pillow. Now the dawn
Tears from her wetted breast the splattered blouse
Of night; lead-eyed and moist she straggles o'er the lawn,
Between the curtains brooding stares and stands
Like some drenched swimmer -- Death's within the house!
Les
SONG: Cold Rain and Snow
Traditional - Grateful Dead
Well, I'll marry me a wife,
she's been trouble all my life--
walk me out in the cold rain and snow.
Rain and snow!
Walk me out in the cold rain and snow.
Well she's coming down the stairs,
holding back her yellow hair,
and I ain't gonna be treated this a way--
this a way,
and I ain't gonna be treated this a way.
She went up to her room,
and she sang a fateful tune,
and I'm going where those chilly winds don't blow.
Winds don't blow,
and I'm going where those chilly winds don't blow.
But I'm married to her life,
she's been trouble all my life,
walk me out in the cold rain and snow.
Rain and snow,
walk me out in the cold rain and snow,
Rainy Night In Georgia
Words and Music by Tony Joe White
Hoverin' by my suitcase, tryin' to find a warm place to spend the night
Heavy rain fallin', seems I hear your voice callin' "It's all right."
A rainy night in Georgia, a rainy night in Georgia
It seems like it's rainin' all over the world
I feel like it's rainin' all over the world
Neon signs a-flashin', taxi cabs and buses passin' through the night
A distant moanin' of a train seems to play a sad refrain to the night
A rainy night in Georgia, such a rainy night in Georgia
Lord, I believe it's rainin' all over the world
I feel like it's rainin' all over the world
How many times I wondered
It still comes out the same
No matter how you look at it or think of it
It's life and you just got to play the game
I find me a place in a box car, so I take my guitar to pass some time
Late at night when it's hard to rest I hold your picture to my chest and I feel fine
But it's a rainy night in Georgia, baby, it's a rainy night in Georgia I
feel it's rainin' all over the world, kinda lonely now And it's rainin' all over the world
Oh, have you ever been lonely, people?
And you feel that it was rainin' all over this man's world
You're talking 'bout rainin', rainin', rainin', rainin', rainin', rainin', rainin',
rainin', rainin' rainin', rainin', rainin'
"The Cheerful Insanity of Giles, Giles & Fripp"
The sun is shining
The sun is shining but it's raining in my heart
So please come back dear
And we'll make a brand new start
Because of you the flowers will not bloom
Because of you the clouds obscure the moon
The day will come
I hope it's very soon
The day that brings the sun right into June
I want to hear your voice so tenderly
The voice that says you'll love no one but me
My love is stronger than the raging sea
So tell me now you'll hear this urgent plea
Falling<br />
like unwanted foreign coin
into a beggar's cup, rain happens in Parma
heavy and troublesome: only a few minor drops
of its songs heard, in the hiss of arcs
thrown out by cars, pressing it
like a juice, and tossing it down Via Garibaldi
in a hurry.
I still can slip
into slow childhood afternoons
in Wisconsin when summer clouds
tore with a slamming crack.
Rain slack on our tongues,
complicit on our tender feet,
rain twirled us and we looked up at steady, falling life.
Sometime, like lilacs, wet and brushed
we kissed on rain. Our mouths soft as ... our hands wild as
and the wetness slurred.
Shaking my flowery blue and red umbrella,
I enter the modern underpass,
hoping
the Sudanese are laying out
bright ikats, positioning them
so we see an ancient world
rarely in orbit.
I want to chat with the skirted men.
Rain rattles and whispers: no nostalgia,
and no charity; poet and woman, you need it,
one of the flutes they sell--its eternal,
leaping sounds.
With the first breath I discover
none of us knows
the reed's toy notes.
Laughing, the tallest toots a long lost mi.
Beyond the underpass, the torrente fills,
its green weeds rising, dragging
impressing a flow of rain's collection.
How far from the desert
the immigrants know. How distant
from my once bare feet.
Rain
Blind searching
open-handed homeless early
earlier gift gift, gift its smell
pulls chariots
of roses breaking from stillness
Where? I can't remember.
Wallis Wilde-Menozzi
COPYRIGHT 2000 Fairleigh Dickinson University
COPYRIGHT 2001 Gale Group
This is one of my favorites from E.D.
It sifts from Leaden Sieves --
It powders all the Wood.
It fills with Alabaster Wool
The Wrinkles of the Road --
It makes an Even Face
Of Mountain, and of Plain --
Unbroken Forehead from the East
Unto the East again --
It reaches to the Fence --
It wraps it Rail by Rail
Till it is lost in Fleeces --
It deals Celestial Vail
To Stump, and Stack -- and Stem --
A Summer's empty Room --
Acres of Joints, where Harvests were,
Recordless, but for them--
It Ruffles Wrists of Posts
As Ankles of a Queen --
Then stills its Artisans -- like Ghosts --
Denying they have been --
One from the late Spike Milligan:
The sky has holes
Where the rain gets in,
But they're very small -
That's why rain is thin.
And one from Australia's favourite bush bard of yore:
'Frying Pan's Theology'
by A. B. "Banjo" Paterson
Scene: On Monaro.
Dramatis Personae
Shock-headed blackfellow,
Boy (on a pony).
Snowflakes are falling
Gentle and slow,
Youngster says, "Frying Pan
What makes it snow?"
Frying Pan, confident,
Makes the reply --
"Shake 'im big flour bag
Up in the sky!"
"What! when there's miles of it?
Surely that's brag.
Who is there strong enough
Shake such a bag?"
"What parson tellin' you,
Ole Mister Dodd,
Tell you in Sunday-School?
Big pfeller God!
"Him drive 'im bullock dray,
Then thunder go;
Him shake 'im flour bag --
Tumble down snow!"
Published in:
The Bulletin, 16 December 2021
and
'The Man from Snowy River and Other Verses'
20 October 2021
Post Edited (11-13-04 16:30)
Rain in the Desert
By John Gould Fletcher
THE HUGE red-buttressed mesa over yonder
Is merely a far-off temple where the sleepy sun is burning
Its altar fires of pinyon and toyon for the day.
The old priests sleep, white-shrouded;
Their pottery whistles lie beside them,
the prayer-sticks closely feathered.
On every mummied face there glows a smile.
The sun is rolling slowly
Beneath the sluggish folds of the sky-serpents,
Coiling, uncoiling, blue black, sparked with fires.
The old dead priests
Feel in the thin dried earth that is heaped about them,
Above the smell of scorching, oozing pinyon,
The acrid smell of rain.
And now the showers
Surround the mesa like a troop of silver dancers:
Shaking their rattles, stamping, chanting, roaring,
Whirling, extinguishing the last red wisp of light.
Les
Post Edited (11-13-04 01:03)
Here's a haiku I like:
"First snow
falling
on a half-finished bridge." (M.Basho)
Veronika
Rain
Charles Bukowski
a symphony orchestra.
there is a thunderstorm,
they are playing a Wagner overture
and the people leave their seats under the trees
and run inside to the pavilion
the women giggling, the men pretending calm,
wet cigarettes being thrown away,
Wagner plays on, and then they are all under the
pavilion. the birds even come in from the trees
and enter the pavilion and then it is the Hungarian
Rhapsody #2 by Lizst, and it still rains, but look,
one man sits alone in the rain
listening. the audience notices him. they turn
and look. the orchestra goes about its
business. the man sits in the night in the rain,
listening. there is something wrong with him,
isn't there?
he came to hear the
music.
Les
Horses and Men in Rain
--Carl Sandburg
LET us sit by a hissing steam radiator a winter’s day, gray wind pattering frozen raindrops on the window,And let us talk about milk wagon drivers and grocery delivery boys.
Let us keep our feet in wool slippers and mix hot punches—and talk about mail carriers and messenger boys slipping along the icy sidewalks.
Let us write of olden, golden days and hunters of the Holy Grail and men called “knights” riding horses in the rain, in the cold frozen rain for ladies they loved.
A roustabout hunched on a coal wagon goes by, icicles drip on his hat rim, sheets of ice wrapping the hunks of coal, the caravanserai a gray blur in slant of rain.Let us nudge the steam radiator with our wool slippers and write poems of Launcelot, the hero, and Roland, the hero, and all the olden golden men who rode horses in the rain.
Les
Rainy Days
© 1998 CG Mair
There can be nothing quite as awesome
As Mother Nature spewing her tears on us
Seems rain makes most feel depressed and futile
But it makes me think of the past and gives calm
If ever my times are bad
Rain soothes me
Tiny droplets on the panes
Refresh me, lift me
Sprinkling spatters cool my face
As I look in to the sky -- all lost loves wash clean
Falling deep in to my thoughts -- refreshed
Sleep says hello to my dreams
Patting down on a tin roof -- rain sings
Making the night clear for a new dawn
Never can there be a more soothing sound to me
Breathe the air -- it is fresh and clean
A sound of nature that is free for the choosing
Take this gift of the earth
Use it for your musing
Appreciate the days of rain
And the sun will always shine on your tomorrow
Les
THE RAIN is raining all around,
It falls on field and tree,
It rains on the umbrellas here,
And on the ships at sea.
R.L.Stevenson
It was a dark and stormy night
The man stood in the street
His aged eyes were full of tears
His boots were full of feet
?author?
Off the top of my head, it sounds like Spike Milligan.
?author?
foudn this
<[www.folkmusic.com] />
I can't get the link to hypersapce, so here's the cutnpaste:
Barefoot Boy with Boots On
Words by Asa Martin, Music Traditional
John: fiddle & vocal
George: guitar
?The Barefoot Boy with Boots On? is one of many wild and woolly songs composed by the late Asa Martin of Irvine, Ky. Asa was, for much of his early career, a talent scout for several east Kentucky radio stations...back when live broadcasts were the rule rather than the exception. His inventive guitar style made him much in demand for recordings (he recorded extensively with Doc Roberts) and for fiddling contests. Probably Asa?s most well known songs is ?Hot Corn, Cold Corn,? the very first surrealistic bluegrass song, recorded by Flatt and Scruggs. Asa died in his garden last August, ending a life of great vitality and music.
The tune I use here is not Asa?s but rather ?The Death of Floyd Collins,? as inspired by Tracy Schwarz. The last verse is lifted from ?The Dying Fishermsn?s Lament? or ?The Raving of Sir Rupt.? Take your pick.
Oh, the night was dark and cloudy
The moon was shining bright
The stars were casting burning rays
On the storm that raged that night
Lightening struck the cowshed
And the cows all chewed their cud
Moonlight set the prairie on fire
In the middle of the woods
Oh, the barefoot boy with boots on
Come a-shuffling down the street
His pants were full of pockets
And his boots were full of feet
He was born when he was a baby
His grandma?s pride and joy
His only sister was a girl
And his brother was a boy
He never was a triplet
But he always was a twin
His legs were fastened to his knees
Just below his chin
And his feet were fastened to his ankles
Several inches from his shoulder
And when he grew up he became a man
And everyday got older
He married him a woman
Who quickly became his wife
For you see he could not marry her
And maintain a single life
Her head was full of notions
And her mouth was full of tongue
They raised a dozen children
All born when they was young
Six boys, five girls
And then another child
They never tried to raise them right
Just let them grow up wild
And late in the evening
They?d send them off to bed
Not sure if they was living
And they wished they all was dead
The youngest was a baby
But the oldest was one first
The good one was the bad one
But the bad one was the worst
They never knew their ages
No, they never seemed to care
?Cause they knew they had a birthday
And it came ?round once a year
They never knew their father?s age
But they always had a hunch
That he was born before their time
Was the oldest of the bunch
And when they died they could not speak
Their names they could not tell
The girls all went to heaven
And the boys all went to
The organ peeled potatoes
Lard was rendered by the choir
When the parson rang the dishrag
Someone set the church on fire
?Hole smokes!? the preacher shouted
As he madly tour his hair
Now his head resembles heaven
For there?ll be no parting there
Post Edited (11-14-04 09:57)
A Patch of Old Snow<br />
<br />
There's a patch of old snow in a corner<br />
That I should have guessed
Was a blow-away paper the rain
Had brought to rest.
It is speckled with grime as if
Small print overspread it,
The news of a day I've forgotten --
If I ever read it.
Robert Frost
The Snow Man
One must have a mind of winter
To regard the frost and the boughs
Of the pine-trees crusted with snow;
And have been cold a long time
To behold the junipers shagged with ice,
The spruces rough in the distant glitter
Of the January sun; and not to think
Of any misery in the sound of the wind,
In the sound of a few leaves,
Which is the sound of the land
Full of the same wind
That is blowing in the same bare place
For the listener, who listens in the snow,
And, nothing himself, beholds
Nothing that is not there and the nothing that is.
The Snow Man
One must have a mind of winter
To regard the frost and the boughs
Of the pine-trees crusted with snow;
And have been cold a long time
To behold the junipers shagged with ice,
The spruces rough in the distant glitter
Of the January sun; and not to think
Of any misery in the sound of the wind,
In the sound of a few leaves,
Which is the sound of the land
Full of the same wind
That is blowing in the same bare place
For the listener, who listens in the snow,
And, nothing himself, beholds
Nothing that is not there and the nothing that is.
Sorry bout that. I guess two snow men are better than one. Ohwh. stop. No ice balls. oouw.
Post Edited (11-15-04 05:39)
'To A Snowflake'
by Francis Thompson (1859-1907)
What heart could have thought you? --
Past our devisal
(O filigree petal!)
Fashioned so purely,
Fragilely, surely,
From what Paradisal
Imagineless metal,
Too costly for cost?
Who hammered you, wrought you,
From argentine vapor? --
"God was my shaper.
Passing surmisal,
He hammered, He wrought me,
From curled silver vapor,
To lust of His mind --
Thou could'st not have thought me!
So purely, so palely,
Tinily, surely,
Mightily, frailly,
Insculped and embossed,
With His hammer of wind,
And His graver of frost."
The Rain Comes Sobbing to the Door
The night grows dark, and weird, and cold; and thick drops patter on the pane;
There comes a wailing from the sea; the wind is weary of the rain.
The red coals click beneath the flame, and see, with slow and silent feet
The hooded shadows cross the woods to where the twilight waters beat!
Now, fan-wise from the ruddy fire, a brilliance sweeps athwart the floor;
As, streaming down the lattices, the rain comes sobbing to the door:
As, streaming down the lattices,
The rain comes sobbing to the door.
Dull echoes round the casement fall, and through the empty chambers go,
Like forms unseen whom we can hear on tip-toe stealing to and fro.
But fill your glasses to the brims, and, through a mist of smiles and tears,
Our eyes shall tell how much we love to toast the shades of other years!
And hither they will flock again, the ghosts of things that are no more,
While, streaming down the lattices, the rain comes sobbing to the door:
While, streaming down the lattices,
The rain comes sobbing to the door.
The tempest-trodden wastelands moan — the trees are threshing at the blast;
And now they come, the pallid shapes of Dreams that perished in the past;
And, when we lift the windows up, a smothered whisper round us strays,
Like some lone wandering voice from graves
that hold the wrecks of bygone days.
I tell ye that I love the storm, for think we not of thoughts of yore,
When, streaming down the lattices, the rain comes sobbing to the door?
When, streaming down the lattices,
The rain comes sobbing to the door?
We’ll drink to those we sadly miss, and sing some mournful song we know,
Since they may chance to hear it all, and muse on friends they’ve left below.
Who knows — if souls in bliss can leave the borders of their Eden-home —
But that some loving one may now about the ancient threshold roam?
Oh, like an exile, he would hail a glimpse of the familiar floor,
Though, streaming down the lattices, the rain comes sobbing to the door!
Though, streaming down the lattices,
The rain comes sobbing to the door.
Henry Kendall
(Australian bush poet 1839-1882)
For the lighter side of snow, as viewed by fellow emulers, go here:
<[www.emule.com] />
joet
The Snow Man above is by Wallace Stevens. The feet-filled boots is by Anon. There is also this one by edward estlin c, which I guess qualifies because of the last line:
somewhere i have never travelled, gladly beyond
any experience, your eyes have their silence:
in your most frail gesture are things which enclose me,
or which i cannot touch because they are too near
your slightest look easily will unclose me
though i have closed myself as fingers,
you open always petal by petal myself as Spring opens
(touching skilfully, mysteriously) her first rose
or if your wish be to close me, i and
my life will shut very beautifully, suddenly,
as when the heart of this flower imagines
the snow carefully everywhere descending;
nothing which we are to perceive in this world equals
the power of your intense fragility: whose texture
compels me with the colour of its countries,
rendering death and forever with each breathing
(i do not know what it is about you that closes
and opens; only something in me understands
the voice of your eyes is deeper than all roses)
nobody, not even the rain, has such small hands