BGuthrie Photos: MD -- Takoma Park -- Public Art: Spring for Poetry

MD -- Takoma Park -- Public Art: Spring for Poetry:

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[1] TAKOPO_210517_04.JPG	[2] TAKOPO_210517_06.JPG	[3] TAKOPO_210517_12.JPG
[4] TAKOPO_210517_13.JPG	[5] TAKOPO_210517_19.JPG	[6] TAKOPO_210517_27.JPG
[7] TAKOPO_210517_29.JPG	[8] TAKOPO_210517_36.JPG	[9] TAKOPO_210517_41.JPG
[10] TAKOPO_210517_44.JPG	[11] TAKOPO_210517_45.JPG	[12] TAKOPO_210517_53.JPG
[13] TAKOPO_210517_60.JPG	[14] TAKOPO_210517_66.JPG	[15] TAKOPO_210517_70.JPG

Specific picture descriptions: Photos above with "i" icons next to the bracketed sequence numbers (e.g. "[1] ") are described as follows:
1. TAKOPO_210517_04.JPG: Spring for Poetry in Takoma Park Daffodils I wandered lonely as a Cloud That floats on high o'er Vales and Hills, When all at once I saw a crowd A host of dancing Daffodils; Along the Lake, beneath the trees, Ten thousand dancing in the breeze. The waves beside them danced, but the Outdid the sparkling waves in glee:- A Poet could not but be gay In such a laughing company: I gazed – and gazed – but little thought What wealth the shew to me had brought: For oft when on my couch I lie In vacant or in pensive mood. They flash upon that inward eye Which is the bliss of solitude, And then my heart with pleasure fills, And dances with the Daffodils. William Wordsworth
2. TAKOPO_210517_12.JPG: Spring for Poetry in Takoma Park My Mother Reads Poetry 2 packs thin ready-rolled pastry sheets 2 coffee cups butter melted a kilogram of apples 1 cup biscuit crumbs 1 cup ground walnuts 2 coffee cups sugar 1 packet cinnamon powder Wash the apples, peel and remove the seeds, grate in large strips, mix with the sugar, the ground walnuts and the cinnamon. Take a pastry sheet, grease it and cover it with another sheet. Spread some of the apple mix over them and roll them together. Repeat with the other pastry sheets. Grease them and bake over medium heat, until the top crust is red, and the bottom pink. When you bake it, it's a strudel, but for now it's still a poem. Georgi Gospodinov Translated by Maria Vassileva
3. TAKOPO_210517_19.JPG: Spring for Poetry in Takoma Park Portrait of a Girl With Comic Book Thirteen's no age at all. Thirteen is nothing. It is not wit, or powder on the face, Or Wednesday matinees, or misses' clothing, Or intellect, or grace, Twelve has its tribal customs. But thirteen Is neither boys in battered cars nor dolls, Not Sara Crewe or movie magazine, Or pennants on the walls. Thirteen keeps diaries and tropical fish (A month, at most); scorns jump-ropes in the spring; Could not, would fortune grant it, name its wish; Wants nothing, everything; Has secrets from itself, friends it despises; Admits none of the terrors it feels; Owns half a hundred masks but no disguises; And walks upon its heels. Thirteen's anomalous – not that, not this: Not folded bud, or wave that laps a shore, Or moth proverbial from the chrysalis. Is the one age defeats the metaphor. Is not a town, like childhood, strongly walled But easily surrounded; is no city. Nor, quitted once, can it be quite recalled – Not even with pity. - Phyllis McGinley
4. TAKOPO_210517_29.JPG: Spring for Poetry in Takoma Park Brother, I've Seen Some Brother, I've seen some Astonishing sights: A lion keeping watch Over pasturing cows; A mother delivered After her son was; A guru prostrated Before his disciple; Fish spawning On treetops; A cat carrying away A dog; A gunny-sack Driving a bullock-cart; A buffalo going out to graze, Sitting on a horse; A tree with its branches in the earth, Its roots in the sky; A tree with flowering roots. This verse, says Kabir, Is your key to the universe. If you can figure it out. -- Kabir Translated from the Hindi by Arvind Krishna Mehrotra
5. TAKOPO_210517_41.JPG: Spring for Poetry in Takoma Park All Souls - May Sarton Did someone say that there would be an end, An end, Oh, an end, to love and mourning? Such voices speak when sleep and waking blend, The cold bleak voices of the early morning When all the birds are dumb in dark November -- Remember and forget, forget, remember. After the false night, warm true voices, wake! Voice of the dead that touches the cold living, Through the pale sunlight once more gravely speak. Tell me again, while the last leaves are falling: "Dear child, what has been once so interwoven Cannot be raveled, nor the gift ungiven." Now the dead move through all of us still glowing, Mother and child, lover and lover mated, Are wound and bound together and enflowing. What has been plaited cannot be unplaited -- Only the strands grow richer with each loss And memory makes kings and queens of us. Dark into light, light into darkness, spin. When all the birds have flown to some real haven, We who find shelter in the warmth within, Listen, and feel new-cherished, new-forgiven, As the lost human voices speak through us and blend Our complex love, our mourning without end. -- May Sarton
6. TAKOPO_210517_45.JPG: Spring for Poetry in Takoma Park The Ladies of Sherman Avenue -- Beth Baker
7. TAKOPO_210517_53.JPG: Spring for Poetry in Takoma Park A serene evening. We spend it drinking wine. The sun, going down, lays its cheek against the earth to rest. The breeze lifts the coattails of the hills. The skin of the sky is as smooth as the pelt of the river. How lucky we are to find this spot for our sojourn with doves cooing for our greater delight. Birds sing, branches sigh and darkness drinks up the red wine of sunset. -- Muhammad ibn Ghalib al-Rusafi (12th century, Ruzafa, Valencia)
8. TAKOPO_210517_60.JPG: Spring for Poetry in Takoma Park The Night Plums Years afterward in the dark, in the middle of winter I saw them again, the wild sloes on the terraces, flowering in the small hours of the night after the turning of the night, and of the year, and of years when almost all whom I had known there in other years had gone and the stones of the barnyard lay buried in sleep and the animals were no more, I watched the white flowers open in their own hour naked and luminous greeting the darkness in silence with their ancient fragrance. -- W.S. Merwin Wild Plums In Blossom In a light, cold rain, at the edge of the woods, a line of brides is waiting, hand in hand. Their perfume carries far across the fields. They have been brought here from the east to marry farmers, and were left on the platform. The dark old depot of the woods is locked and no one has come for them but me. -- Ted Kooser
9. TAKOPO_210517_70.JPG: Spring for Poetry in Takoma Park Those Winter Sundays Sundays too my father got up early And put his clothes on in the blueblack cold Then with cracked hands that ached From labor in the weekday weather made Banked fires blaze. No one ever thanked him. I'd wake and hear the cold splintering, breaking When the rooms were warm, he'd call And slowly I would rise and dress Fearing the chronic angers of that house Speaking indifferently to him Who had driven out the cold And polished my good shoes as well What did I know, what did I know Of love's austere and lonely offices? -- Robert Hayden
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