Showing posts with label William Wordsworth. Show all posts
Showing posts with label William Wordsworth. Show all posts

Saturday, April 8, 2017

In This Corner: National Poetry Month



I'm pleased to introduce poet Dave Healy from St. Paul, MN. Retired director of the University of Minnesota's Writing Center, he now occupies his time with freelance writing and helping others write poetry and memoirs. 

Remember my previous post? About the world being too much with us? Here's Dave's response. What can each of us do to put our house in order? Leave your ideas in the comments.

This Corner

The world is too much with us
old Bill said.
Perhaps the world is too much
because of us.
Too much to comprehend
too much to fix.
A corner of the world
is quite enough to handle
to brighten and green
to tend
to keep well swept
to leave better than we found it.
Huxley said the only corner
of the universe
you can be certain of improving
is your own self.
Bullshit.
Let us risk uncertainty and
forego self-improvement.
Let us join those from
earth’s four corners
and put this great grand
house of ours in order.


Friday, April 7, 2017

The World is Too Much With Us: National Poetry Month

(Photo by Mick Baker, https://www.flickr.com/photos/36593372@N04/8573457815,(CC BY-ND 2.0))

The news is sometimes too much to take. It is mostly bad, often tragic, sometimes heart-rending. And in today's world of 24/7/365 newsfeeds, it's everywhere. I'm guessing that you, like me, are sometimes overwhelmed by it. Yet we cannot escape it, and as awful as it is, we need to know. That's when this poem comes to mind, and if possible, I go for a walk and appreciate nature. How do you cope with news overwhelm? Let me know in the comments below.

The World Is Too Much With Us

Related Poem Content Details

The world is too much with us; late and soon, 
Getting and spending, we lay waste our powers;— 
Little we see in Nature that is ours; 
We have given our hearts away, a sordid boon! 
This Sea that bares her bosom to the moon; 
The winds that will be howling at all hours, 
And are up-gathered now like sleeping flowers; 
For this, for everything, we are out of tune; 
It moves us not. Great God! I’d rather be 
A Pagan suckled in a creed outworn; 
So might I, standing on this pleasant lea, 
Have glimpses that would make me less forlorn; 
Have sight of Proteus rising from the sea; 
Or hear old Triton blow his wreathèd horn.