#WingedWordsWindsday: 2023/03/08 -- Poems for the Month of March

 WINGED WORDS WINDSDAY

Compiled & Edited by Rob Chappell (@RHCLambengolmo)

Vol. 2, No. 19: March 8, 2023

 

 

A Cornucopia of March Poems

 

Introduction by the Editor

                In this week’s collection of poems. we celebrate the month of March in all its contradictions: the last days of winter, the first days of spring, and the wild windy weather that binds them together! We also remember the planet that the month is named after – Mars, the divine patron of warfare and warriors in the ancient Roman pantheon. The opening selection is from one of my elementary school reading textbooks (long live the Open Court reading curriculum!), and be sure to watch for a special verse from Mother Goose, too!

 

“A March Motto”

By Anonymous

 

Month of bluster, ice and sleet,

Silent wood and ugly street,

Winds that roar and flakes that fly,

Frozen earth and gloomy sky,—

Angry March, thy name to me

Like a battle-cry shall be!

"Forward, march!" but leave behind

Stubborn will and stupid mind.

"Forward, march!" and sing a song

As we stoutly march along.

"Forward, march!" away from sin;

"Forward, march!" the goal to win;

"Forward, march!" without a fear;

"Forward, march!" through all the year.

 

Homeric Hymn #8: “To Ares” [Mars]

Translated by Hugh G. Evelyn-White (1914)

                Ares, exceeding in strength, chariot-rider, golden- helmed, doughty in heart, shield-bearer, savior of cities, harnessed in bronze, strong of arm, unwearying, mighty with the spear, O defense of Olympus, father of warlike Victory, ally of Themis, stern governor of the rebellious, leader of righteous men, sceptred king of manliness, who whirl your fiery sphere among the planets in their sevenfold courses through the aether wherein your blazing steeds ever bear you above the third firmament of heaven; hear me, helper of men, giver of dauntless youth!

                Shed down a kindly ray from above upon my life, and strength of war, that I may be able to drive away bitter cowardice from my head and crush down the deceitful impulses of my soul. Restrain also the keen fury of my heart which provokes me to tread the ways of blood-curdling strife. Rather, O blessed one, give you me boldness to abide within the harmless laws of peace, avoiding strife and hatred and the violent fiends of death.

 

“One Misty, Moisty Morning”

Attributed to Mother Goose

(Traditional English Nursery Rhyme)

Editor’s Note: This was one of my Aunt Jo Ann’s favorite rhymes; she used to recite it to her children (my cousins) on rainy days.

 

One misty, moisty morning,

When cloudy was the weather,

I chanced to meet an old man,

Clothed all in leather.

He began to compliment,

And I began to grin,

How do you do,

And how do you do?

And how do you do again?

 

An illustration of the foregoing nursery rhyme by Blanche Fisher Wright, as published in The Real Mother Goose from 1916. (Image Credit: Public Domain via Wikimedia Commons)

 

“March”

By William Cullen Bryant (1794-1878)

 

The stormy March is come at last,

With wind, and cloud, and changing skies,

I hear the rushing of the blast,

That through the snowy valley flies.

 

Ah, passing few are they who speak,

Wild stormy month! in praise of thee;

Yet, though thy winds are loud and bleak,

Thou art a welcome month to me.

 

For thou, to northern lands, again

The glad and glorious sun dost bring,

And thou hast joined the gentle train

And wear’st the gentle name of Spring.

 

And, in thy reign of blast and storm,

Smiles many a long, bright, sunny day,

When the changed winds are soft and warm,

And heaven puts on the blue of May.

 

Then sing aloud the gushing rills

And the full springs, from frost set free,

That, brightly leaping down the hills,

Are just set out to meet the sea.

 

The year’s departing beauty hides

Of wintry storms the sullen threat;

But in thy sternest frown abides

A look of kindly promise yet.

 

Thou bring’st the hope of those calm skies,

And that soft time of sunny showers,

When the wide bloom, on earth that lies,

Seems of a brighter world than ours.

 

“The Light of Stars: A Second Psalm of Life”

By Henry Wadsworth Longfellow (1807-1882)

 

The night is come, but not too soon;

And sinking silently,

All silently, the little Moon

Drops down behind the sky.

 

There is no light in Earth or heaven

But the cold light of stars;

And the first watch of night is given

To the red planet Mars.

 

Is it the tender star of love?

The star of love and dreams?

Oh no! from that blue tent above

A hero's armor gleams.

 

And earnest thoughts within me rise,

When I behold afar,

Suspended in the evening skies,

The shield of that red star.

 

O star of strength! I see thee stand

And smile upon my pain;

Thou beckonest with thy mailed hand,

And I am strong again.

 

Within my breast there is no light

But the cold light of stars;

I give the first watch of the night

To the red planet Mars.

 

The star of the unconquered will,

He rises in my breast,

Serene, and resolute, and still,

And calm, and self-possessed.

 

And thou, too, whosoever thou art,

That readest this brief psalm,

As one by one thy hopes depart,

Be resolute and calm.

 

Oh, fear not in a world like this,

And thou shalt know erelong,

Know how sublime a thing it is

To suffer and be strong.

 

Mars, the “Red Planet,” as viewed through the Hubble Space Telescope. (Photo Credit: NASA – Public Domain via Wikimedia Commons)

 

“High Waving Heather”

By Emily Brontë (1818-1848)

 

High waving heather 'neath stormy blasts bending,

Midnight and moonlight and bright shining stars,

Darkness and glory rejoicingly blending,

Earth rising to heaven and heaven descending,

Man's spirit away from its drear dungeon sending,

Bursting the fetters and breaking the bars.

 

All down the mountain sides wild forests lending

One mighty voice to the life-giving wind,

Rivers their banks in their jubilee rending,

Fast through the valleys a reckless course wending,

Wider and deeper their waters extending,

Leaving a desolate desert behind.

 

Shining and lowering and swelling and dying,

Changing forever from midnight to noon;

Roaring like thunder, like soft music sighing,

Shadows on shadows advancing and flying,

Lightning-bright flashes the deep gloom defying,

Coming as swiftly and fading as soon.

 

“The Tree's Prayer”

By George MacDonald (1824-1905)

 

Alas, 'tis cold and dark!

The wind all night hath sung a wintry tune!

Hail from black clouds that swallowed up the moon

Beat, beat against my bark.

Oh! why delays the spring?

Not yet the sap moves in my frozen veins;

Through all my stiffened roots creep numbing pains,

That I can hardly cling.

The sun shone yester-morn;

I felt the glow down every fiber float,

And thought I heard a thrush's piping note

Of dim dream-gladness born.

Then, on the salt gale driven,

The streaming cloud hissed through my outstretched arms,

Tossed me about in slanting snowy swarms,

And blotted out the heaven.

All night I brood and choose

Among past joys. Oh, for the breath of June!

The feathery light-flakes quavering from the moon

The slow baptizing dews!

Oh, the joy-frantic birds!-

They are the tongues of us, mute, longing trees!

Aha, the billowy odors! and the bees

That browse like scattered herds!

The comfort-whispering showers

That thrill with gratefulness my youngest shoot!

The children playing round my deep-sunk root,

Green-caved from burning hours!

See, see the heartless dawn,

With naked, chilly arms latticed across!

Another weary day of moaning loss

On the thin-shadowed lawn!

But icy winter's past;

Yea, climbing suns persuade the relenting wind:

I will endure with steadfast, patient mind;

My leaves will come at last!

 

“A Calendar of Sonnets March”

By Helen Hunt Jackson (1830-1885)

 

Month which the warring ancients strangely styled

The month of war,--as if in their fierce ways

Were any month of peace!--in thy rough days

I find no war in Nature, though the wild

Winds clash and clang, and broken boughs are piled

As feet of writhing trees. The violets raise

Their heads without affright, without amaze,

And sleep through all the din, as sleeps a child.

And he who watches well may well discern

Sweet expectation in each living thing.

Like pregnant mother the sweet earth doth yearn;

In secret joy makes ready for the spring;

And hidden, sacred, in her breast doth bear

Annunciation lilies for the year.

 

“To March”

By Emily Dickinson (1830-1886)

 

    Dear March, come in!

    How glad I am!

    I looked for you before.

    Put down your hat —

    You must have walked —

    How out of breath you are!

    Dear March, how are you?

    And the rest?

    Did you leave Nature well?

    Oh, March, come right upstairs with me,

    I have so much to tell!

 

    I got your letter, and the birds';

    The maples never knew

    That you were coming, — I declare,

    How red their faces grew!

    But, March, forgive me —

    And all those hills

    You left for me to hue;

    There was no purple suitable,

    You took it all with you.

 

    Who knocks? That April!

    Lock the door!

    I will not be pursued!

    He stayed away a year, to call

    When I am occupied.

    But trifles look so trivial

    As soon as you have come,

    That blame is just as dear as praise

    And praise as mere as blame.