W.Whitman Books

It’s Sunday in early December with snow in the forecast this week. Here’s a poem for your consideration by Irish poet and playwright Frederick Louis MacNeice (September 12, 1907 September 3, 1963), a member of the Auden Group, which also included W. H. Auden, Stephen Spender and Cecil Day-Lewis. Snow... The room was suddenly rich and the great bay-window was Spawning snow and pink roses against it Soundlessly collateral and incompatible: World is suddener than we fancy it. World is crazier and more of it than we think, Incorrigibly plural. I peel and portion A tangerine and spit the pips and feel The drunkenness of things being various. And the fire flames with a bubbling sound for world Is more spiteful and gay than one supposes On the tongue on the eyes on the ears in the palms of one's hands There is more than glass between the snow and the huge roses. --Louis MacNeice

A quiet overcast Saturday morning here in Middleburgh, as we belatedly note the birth date of James Harrison (December 11, 1937 March 26, 2016), American poet, novelist, and essayist. He was a prolific and versatile writer publishing over three dozen books in several genres including poetry, fiction, nonfiction, children’s literature, and memoir. Harrison spent much of his life in Michigan on a farm near where he was born, as well as Montana and Arizona. His connection to ...Continue reading

As grey skies on this Monday afternoon transition into evening, let’s consider the following poem by Henry Wadsworth Longfellow (February 27, 1807 March 24, 1882), American poet and educator whose works include "Paul Revere's Ride", The Song of Hiawatha, and Evangeline. He was the first American to translate Dante Alighieri's Divine Comedy and was one of the Fireside Poets from New England. The Day Is Done The day is done, and the darkness... Falls from the wings of Night, As a feather is wafted downward From an eagle in his flight. I see the lights of the village Gleam through the rain and the mist, And a feeling of sadness comes o'er me That my soul cannot resist: A feeling of sadness and longing, That is not akin to pain, And resembles sorrow only As the mist resembles the rain. Come, read to me some poem, Some simple and heartfelt lay, That shall soothe this restless feeling, And banish the thoughts of day. Not from the grand old masters, Not from the bards sublime, Whose distant footsteps echo Through the corridors of Time. For, like strains of martial music, Their mighty thoughts suggest Life's endless toil and endeavor; And to-night I long for rest. Read from some humbler poet, Whose songs gushed from his heart, As showers from the clouds of summer, Or tears from the eyelids start; Who, through long days of labor, And nights devoid of ease, Still heard in his soul the music Of wonderful melodies. Such songs have power to quiet The restless pulse of care, And come like the benediction That follows after prayer. Then read from the treasured volume The poem of thy choice, And lend to the rhyme of the poet The beauty of thy voice. And the night shall be filled with music And the cares, that infest the day, Shall fold their tents, like the Arabs, And as silently steal away. --Henry Wadsworth Longfellow

It’s 37 degrees and breezy here in Middleburgh; winter is slowly approaching as leaves drift from trees and garden beds fade away. Here’s a poem by William Carlos Williams (September 17, 1883 March 4, 1963) for a Sunday morning. Approach of Winter The half-stripped trees... struck by a wind together, bending all, the leaves flutter drily and refuse to let go or driven like hail stream bitterly out to one side and fall where the salvias, hard carmine, like no leaf that ever was edge the bare garden. --William Carlos Williams See more

W.Whitman Bookslocated at 304 Main Street, Middleburgh, NY-- is open today (Friday) and tomorrow from 12 Noon to 4:00 p.m. and Sunday from 12 Noon to 3:00 p.m. We were fortunate to have a feature article about W.Whitman Books published in the Schenectady Gazette this past Sunday. Click on the following link to read the article: https://dailygazette.com//middleburgh-bookstore-also-feat/... Talk a stroll down Main Street in Middleburgh and shop local for your holiday gifts. Stop at WWB and peruse our large book inventory covering all subjects for all age groups, including some just-arrived Christmas/Holiday books. Step into our Antique/Collectible Corner and find that unique gift for that special someone. While you’re at it, check out our original Whitman Mugs and new selection of Middleburgh postcards. And remember---a WWB Gift Card is always appreciated by those hard to please people on your list. Click on W.Whitman Books to visit the WWB Facebook homepage and read our daily poem posts and view our exclusive acoustic music video clips from our past concerts. Like and Follow Us! I look forward to seeing you! Doug

Early voting starts today in New York State. I plan to go with my two sons to vote to change the direction of this country and I hope all of you will also exercise your fundamental right to vote. The motto of our country is e pluribus unum --out of many -- one. We can turn this around by understanding that one person can make a difference, especially when united with others. Here’s a poem by Marge Piercy to start your day. The Low Road... What can they do to you? Whatever they want. They can set you up, they can bust you, they can break your fingers, they can burn your brain with electricity, blur you with drugs till you can t walk, can’t remember, they can take your child, wall up your lover. They can do anything you can’t blame them from doing. How can you stop them? Alone, you can fight, you can refuse, you can take what revenge you can but they roll over you. But two people fighting back to back can cut through a mob, a snake-dancing file can break a cordon, an army can meet an army. Two people can keep each other sane, can give support, conviction, love, massage, hope, sex. Three people are a delegation, a committee, a wedge. With four you can play bridge and start an organization. With six you can rent a whole house, eat pie for dinner with no seconds, and hold a fund raising party. A dozen make a demonstration. A hundred fill a hall. A thousand have solidarity and your own newsletter; ten thousand, power and your own paper; a hundred thousand, your own media; ten million, your own country. It goes on one at a time, it starts when you care to act, it starts when you do it again after they said no, it starts when you say We and know who you mean, and each day you mean one more. --Marge Piercy ______________________________ W.Whitman Books is open today from 12 Noon to 4:00 p.m. and tomorrow from 12 Noon to 3:00 p.m. Drop in and say hi. I look forward to seeing you. Doug

Welcome to Lyrics as Poetry Friday! Today we visit lyrics for God Bless The Child by Billie Holiday (April 7, 1915 July 17, 1959), American jazz and swing music singer with a career spanning 26 years. Nicknamed "Lady Day" by her friend and music partner Lester Young, Holiday had an innovative influence on jazz music and pop singing. Her vocal style, strongly inspired by jazz instrumentalists, pioneered a new way of manipulating phrasing and tempo. She was known for her v...ocal delivery and improvisational skills. "God Bless the Child" was written by Billie Holiday and Arthur Herzog Jr. in 1939. It was first recorded on May 9, 1941 and released by the Okeh Records in 1942. In her autobiography, Lady Sings the Blues, Holiday indicated that an argument with her mother over money led to the song. She stated that during the argument her mother said "God bless the child that's got his own." The anger over the incident led her to use that line as the starting point for a song, which she worked out in conjunction with Herzog. In his 1990 book Jazz Singing, Will Friedwald describes the song as "sacred and profane," as it references the Bible while indicating that religion seems to have no effect in making people treat each other better. Click on the following link to see and hear Billie Holiday sing God Bless The Child https://youtu.be/Wc4JvGfRLpA God Bless The Child Them that's got shall have Them that's not shall lose So the Bible said and it still is news Mama may have, Papa may have But God bless the child that's got his own, that's got his own Yes, the strong gets more While the weak ones fade Empty pockets don't ever make the grade Mama may have, Papa may have But God bless the child that's got his own, that's got his own Money, you've got lots of friends They're crowding around your door But when you're gone and spending ends They don't come no more Rich relations give crust of bread and such You can help yourself, but don't take too much Mama may have, Papa may have But God bless the child that's got his own, that's got his own Money you've got lots of friends They're crowding around your door But when you're gone and spending ends They don't come no more Rich relations give crust of bread and such You can help yourself, but don't take too much Mama may have, Papa may have But God bless the child that's got his own, that's got his own Here just don't worry about nothing cause he's got his own Yes, he's got his own --Billie Holiday (lyrics)

This afternoon we note the birth date of Ivan Alekseyevich Bunin (October 22,1870 November 8, 1953), first Russian writer awarded the Nobel Prize for Literature. Bunin was noted for the strict artistry with which he carried on the classical Russian traditions in the writing of prose and poetry. The texture of his poems and stories, sometimes referred to as "Bunin brocade", is considered to be one of the richest in the language. Here is one of his poems for your considerati...on: The Pleiades It's dark. Not caring where I go, which path I follow, Past sleepy ponds I stroll. Of autumn freshness, leaves and fruit the fragrance mellow Drifts over all. The garden's almost bare, and through the branches whitely The stars of evening show. Dead silence reigns. Murk clothes the paths. It's nighttime. My steps are slow. They're slow, but wake the hush High in the sky's cool darkness, A princely diadem, The icy Pleiades blaze diamond-like and sparkle, Each one a gem. --Ivan Bunin

It’s Lyrics As Poetry Friday and we turn to a literally feel-good song. Feeling Good" is a song written by English composers Anthony Newley and Leslie Bricusse for the musical The Roar of the Greasepaint The Smell of the Crowd, with the words of the song usually attributed to Bricusse, and the music to Newley. It was first performed on stage in 1964 by Cy Grant on the UK tour and by Gilbert Price in 1965 with the original Broadway cast. Nina Simone (February 21, 1933 ... April 21, 2003) American singer, songwriter, musician, arranger, and civil rights activist recorded "Feeling Good" for her 1965 album I Put a Spell on You. The song has also been covered by Traffic, Michael Bublé, John Coltrane, George Michael, Victory, Eels, Joe Bonamassa, EDEN, Muse, Black Cat Bones, Sammy Davis Jr., Bassnectar, and Avicii, among others. Click on the following link to hear Nina Simone sing Feeling Good https://youtu.be/lWYxTW02-MA Feeling Good Birds flying high You know how I feel Sun in the sky You know how I feel Breeze driftin' on by You know how I feel It's a new dawn It's a new day It's a new life For me And I'm feeling good I'm feeling good Fish in the sea You know how I feel River running free You know how I feel Blossom on a tree You know how I feel It's a new dawn It's a new day It's a new life For me And I'm feeling good Dragonfly out in the sun, you know what I mean, don't you know Butterflies all havin' fun, you know what I mean Sleep in peace when day is done, that's what I mean And this old world is a new world And a bold world For me For me Stars when you shine You know how I feel Scent of the pine You know how I feel Oh, freedom is mine And I know how I feel It's a new dawn It's a new day It's a new life It's a new dawn It's a new day It's a new life It's a new dawn It's a new day It's a new life It's a new life For me And I'm feeling good I'm feeling good I'm feeling so good I feel so good --Songwriters: Leslie Bricusse /Anthony Newley

On this Wednesday morning, we note the birth date of Patrick Kavanagh (October 21, 1904 November 30, 1967), Irish poet and novelist. His best-known works include the novel Tarry Flynn, and the poems "On Raglan Road" and "The Great Hunger". He is known for his accounts of Irish life through reference to the everyday and commonplace. Here are two of his poems for your consideration: On Raglan Road... On Raglan Road on an autumn day I met her first and knew That her dark hair would weave a snare that I might one day rue; I saw the danger, yet I walked along the enchanted way, And I said, let grief be a fallen leaf at the dawning of the day. On Grafton Street in November we tripped lightly along the ledge Of the deep ravine where can be seen the worth of passion's pledge, The Queen of Hearts still making tarts and I not making hay - O I loved too much and by such and such is happiness thrown away. I gave her gifts of the mind I gave her the secret sign that's known To the artists who have known the true gods of sound and stone And word and tint. I did not stint for I gave her poems to say. With her own name there and her own dark hair like clouds over fields of May On a quiet street where old ghosts meet I see her walking now Away from me so hurriedly my reason must allow That I had wooed not as I should a creature made of clay - When the angel woos the clay he'd lose his wings at the dawn of day. --Patrick Kavanagh ____________________________________ In Memory of My Mother I do not think of you lying in the wet clay Of a Monaghan graveyard; I see You walking down a lane among the poplars On your way to the station, or happily Going to second Mass on a summer Sunday - You meet me and you say: 'Don't forget to see about the cattle - ' Among your earthiest words the angels stray. And I think of you walking along a headland Of green oats in June, So full of repose, so rich with life - And I see us meeting at the end of a town On a fair day by accident, after The bargains are all made and we can walk Together through the shops and stalls and markets Free in the oriental streets of thought. O you are not lying in the wet clay, For it is a harvest evening now and we Are piling up the ricks against the moonlight And you smile up at us - eternally. --Patrick Kavanagh

Today we note the birth date of Emily Elizabeth Dickinson (December 10, 1830 May 15, 1886). Little known during her life, she has since been regarded as one of the most important figures in American poetry. Evidence suggests that Dickinson lived much of her life in isolation. Considered an eccentric by locals, she developed a penchant for white clothing and was known for her reluctance to greet guests or, later in life, to even leave her bedroom. Dickinson never married, an...Continue reading

On this Tuesday morning, here's a poem by Olivia Ward Bush-Banks (née Olivia Ward; May 23, 1869 1944), American author, poet and journalist of African-American and Montaukett Native American descent. Ward celebrated both of her heritages in her poetry and writing. Morning on Shinnecock The rising sun had crowned the hills, ... And added beauty to the plain; O grand and wondrous spectacle! That only nature could explain. I stood within a leafy grove, And gazed around in blissful awe; The sky appeared one mass of blue, That seemed to spread from sea to shore. Far as the human eye could see, Were stretched the fields of waving corn. Soft on my ear the warbling birds Were heralding the birth of morn. While here and there a cottage quaint Seemed to repose in quiet ease Amid the trees, whose leaflets waved And fluttered in the passing breeze. O morning hour! so dear thy joy, And how I longed for thee to last; But e’en thy fading into day Brought me an echo of the past. ‘Twas this,how fair my life began; How pleasant was its hour of dawn; But, merging into sorrow’s day, Then beauty faded with the morn. --Olivia Ward Bush-Banks _________________________ Note: The Shinnecock Indian Nation is a federally recognized tribe of historically Algonquian-speaking Native Americans based at the eastern end of Long Island, New York. This tribe is headquartered in Suffolk County, on the southeastern shore. Since the mid-19th century, the tribe's landbase is the Shinnecock Reservation within the geographic boundaries of the Town of Southampton. Their name roughly translates into English as "people of the stony shore".

Very few of us now living in the United States have ever experienced the ravages of war, and yet war still persists in many places throughout the world. Here is a poem by Wilfred Edward Salter Owen, MC (March 18, 1893 November 4, 1918), English poet and soldier who was one of the leading poets of the First World War. His war poetry on the horrors of trench and gas warfare stood in contrast to the public perception of war at the time and to the confidently patriotic verse ...Continue reading

Walking along the road in Middleburgh on a brisk Fall Sunday morning, you can see and hear birds preparing for migration and the colder days of Winter. Here are three poems by Judith Wright (May 31, 1915 June 25, 2000), Australian poet, environmentalist and campaigner for Aboriginal land rights. Magpies... Along the road the magpies walk with hands in pockets, left and right. They tilt their heads, and stroll and talk. In their well-fitted black and white. They look like certain gentlemen who seem most nonchalant and wise until their meal is served - and then what clashing beaks, what greedy eyes! But not one man that I have heard throws back his head in such a song of grace and praise - no man nor bird. Their greed is brief; their joy is long. For each is born with such a throat as thanks his God with every note. --Judith Wright ___________________________ Egrets Once as I travelled through a quiet evening, I saw a pool, jet-black and mirror-still. Beyond, the slender paperbarks stood crowding; each on its own white image looked its fill, and nothing moved but thirty egrets wading - thirty egrets in a quiet evening. Once in a lifetime, lovely past believing, your lucky eyes may light on such a pool. As though for many years I had been waiting, I watched in silence, till my heart was full of clear dark water, and white trees unmoving, and, whiter yet, those thirty egrets wading. --Judith Wright _______________________________ Lyrebirds Over the west side of the mountain, that’s lyrebird country. I could go down there, they say, in the early morning, and I’d see them, I’d hear them. Ten years, and I have never gone. I’ll never go. I’ll never see the lyrebirds - the few, the shy, the fabulous, the dying poets. I should see them, if I lay there in the dew: first a single movement like a waterdrop falling, then stillness, then a brown head, brown eyes, a splendid bird, bearing like a crest the symbol of his art, the high symmetrical shape of the perfect lyre. I should hear that master practising his art. No, I have never gone. Some things ought to be left secret, alone; some things birds like walking fables ought to inhabit nowhere but the reverence of the heart. --Judith Wright ______________________________ Reminder: W.Whitman Books--located at 304 Main Street-- will be open today from 12 Noon to 3:00 p.m.

A beautiful, sunny morning here in Middleburgh. A time to celebrate being alive and hopeful in spite of world events! Here's a poem by Countee Cullen (May 30, 1903 January 9, 1946), American poet, novelist, children's writer, and playwright, active during the artistic period known as the Harlem Renaissance*. Cullen published "From the Dark Tower" in 1927 in his second collection of poems, Copper Sun. It is a sonnet that focuses on the injustices of racism but ultimately ...suggests that such hardships build strength and resiliency. From The Dark Tower We shall not always plant while others reap The golden increment of bursting fruit, Not always countenance, abject and mute, That lesser men should hold their brothers cheap; Not everlastingly while others sleep Shall we beguile their limbs with mellow flute, Not always bend to some more subtle brute; We were not made to eternally weep. The night whose sable breast relieves the stark, White stars is no less lovely being dark, And there are buds that cannot bloom at all In light, but crumple, piteous, and fall; So in the dark we hide the heart that bleeds, And wait, and tend our agonizing seeds. --Countee Cullen _________________________ *The Harlem Renaissance was the development of the Harlem neighborhood in New York City as a black cultural mecca in the early 20th Century and the subsequent social and artistic explosion that resulted. Lasting roughly from the 1910s through the mid-1930s, the period is considered a golden age in African American culture, manifesting in literature, music, stage performance and art.

On this rainy Friday morning, we note the birth date of Oscar Wilde (October 16, 1854 November 30, 1900), Irish poet and playwright. After writing in different forms throughout the 1880s, the early 1890s saw him become one of the most popular playwrights in London. He is best remembered for his epigrams and plays, his novel The Picture of Dorian Gray, and the circumstances of his criminal conviction for gross indecency for consensual homosexual acts, imprisonment (from May ...Continue reading

Sometimes we need a poem to let our spirits soar! Here’s a poem by Joy Harjo (born May 9, 1951), poet, musician, playwright, and author. She is the incumbent United States Poet Laureate, the first Native American to hold that honor. Harjo is a member of the Muscogee Nation (Este Mvskokvlke) and belongs to Oce Vpofv (Hickory Ground). She is an important figure in the second wave of the literary Native American Renaissance of the late 20th century.... Eagle Poem To pray you open your whole self To sky, to earth, to sun, to moon To one whole voice that is you. And know there is more That you can't see, can't hear, Can't know except in moments Steadily growing, and in languages That aren't always sound but other Circles of motion. Like eagle that Sunday morning Over Salt River. Circled in blue sky In wind, swept our hearts clean With sacred wings. We see you, see ourselves and know That we must take the utmost care And kindness in all things. Breathe in, knowing we are made of All this, and breathe, knowing We are truly blessed because we Were born, and die soon within a True circle of motion, Like eagle rounding out the morning Inside us. We pray that it will be done In beauty. In beauty. --Joy Harjo

W.Whitman Bookslocated at 304 Main Street, Middleburgh, NY-- is open today (Thursday) through Saturday from 12 Noon to 4:00 P.M.; Sunday from 12 Noon to 3:00 P.M. Drop in, say hi and browse through our eclectic mix of books in all subject areas and for all age groups. You’re sure to find that special book or books to both entertain and educate. Our Antique/Collectible Corner has unique treasures that make wonderful gifts for your special someone or yourself. Click on ww...w.facebook.com/bestreads304 to visit the WWB Facebook page and read our daily poem and/or view our music videos of past acoustic music concerts at the store. Like and Follow us! In conformance with NYS safety regulations, and to ensure the good health of our customers, facial masks/coverings are required while in the store and hand-sanitizer or disposable gloves are provided for your use. A maximum of 3 customers are permitted at any one time. I look forward to seeing you! Doug