a poem on thursday: high summer

This week Madeline Bea's prompt was traditional.  Keeping with "my tradition" albeit short-lived, I started with a poem - a traditional sonnet.  My mind immediately wandered to "shall I compare thee to a summer's day", but since this is supposed to be about me exploring unknown poets and poetry I kept searching.  Ebenezer Jones' High Summer was the answer.

No mixed-media image this week.  The creative juices weren't up to the challenge, so some pretty pictures instead.

High Summer

by Ebenezer Jones

I never wholly feel that summer is high,

However green the trees, or loud the birds,

However movelessly eye-winking herds

Stand in field ponds, or under large trees lied

Till I do climb all cultured pastures by,

That hedged by hedgerows studiously fretted trim,

Smile like a lady's face with lace laced prim,

And on some moor or hill that seeks the sky

Lonely and nakedly,--utterly lie down,

And feel the sunshine throbbing on body and limb,
My drowsy brain in pleasant drunkenness swim,

Each rising thought sink back and dreamily drowns

Smiles creep o'er my face, and smother my lips, and cloy,

Each muscle sink to itself, and separately enjoy.


Em said...

I love poetry - and this particular poem! Thanks for posting and introducing us to different poets!

Anonymous said...

With you on the other side of the world, your poetry selection often prompts me to seek the Australian response - and often the response is diametrically opposed. No more so than writing of summer - whereas those in the northern hemisphere revel in its warmth, those in the southern hemisphere seek shelter from its brutality. And this is not new - here is an offering from an early poet. SB

I am weary,
Weary of bracing myself against the sun’s hot hand;
I am weary, and I dream of cool places . . . .

I see a grassy couch
Under a canopy of leaves;
A reedy river murmers by,
Crooning an old, old melody
Tuned to a long-forgotten scale,
Made when the world was young.

Rolled to the river’s edge the hills lie fast asleep;
Pale stars slip o’er their ledge and sink into the deep:
Down in the deep they sink to slumbrous peace,
Down in the deep they drink the water of peace;
In the quiet deep they quench their fires in sleep
And drown in a cool green dream.

The sun insists his burning hand upon my head;
I am weary, and I dream of cool places.

Louis Lavater: 1867 - 1953

Clare B said...

Great Poem! Although I think you'd find that most people in Berlin would very much relate to it - it's been above 25 degrees (and often more like 32-35) for three weeks. Pretty perfect conditions for an Australian summer and I'm loving it, but the northern Europeans are finding it a little too much!

justinegordon said...

saw you on the sunday creative, these are such lovely photographs

Diana Mieczan said...

Great poem and those photos are perfect for it:)


Maegan Beishline said...

Gorgeous images! And what a perfect 'traditional' sonnet for this time of year! Love this entire post!