Poetry Friday - Now Remembered

Robyn Hood Black, of haiku and artistic fame, is our host today at Life on the Deckle Edge, remembering her wonderful time in Scotland! Thanks, Robyn!

It's Poetry Friday! Three weeks ago on this post I shared an old anthology that I was fortunate to get at the used bookstore where I volunteer. And I chose one poem that I liked the writer of which was not acknowledged. I assumed it to be anonymous until Heidi Mordhorst (My Juicy Little Universe) asked. It was then it occurred to me that I could Google the poem's lines. I did, and found a large amount of marvelous information about a Celia Thaxter, the author! With a red face, I'm now sharing about this "past" well-known poet, a bit of her life, and another poem! I did look through the anthology again and still found no mention of her name.

I should have researched further, and thanks to Heidi's question, I did! Celia Thaxter lived from 1835 to 1894. You can find more about her here and an interesting essay about her among other women in the nineteenth century here. If you don't have time for it all, here is one paragraph about Celia: "The economic straits of most nineteenth-century American women were all but inescapable, and Celia won a degree of financial independence too late to do her career any good. Levi's high-minded Transcendentalism didn't include such mundane considerations as allowing his wife household help, and thus Celia was forced to write most of her poetry in a state of mental, physical and emotional exhaustion." 



And its conclusion: "Celia Thaxter would have found in the voice of Margaret Fuller'sWomen in the Nineteenth Century a kindred spirit and a thinking woman's consolation. Both women struggled against convention and prejudice in order to unburden themselves of the truth of life as they knew it. In the twentieth century,

 Adrienne Rich speaks for those of us

who have continued that very struggle:

Iowa State University
Ames

35. Fuller, p. 38.

Today when I see "truthful" written somewhere, it flares
like a white orchid in wet woods,
rare and grief-delighting, up from the page.
Sometimes, unwittingly even, we have been truthful.
In a random universe, what more exact and starry consolation?"

            I discovered added information at this blog titled "Civil War Women", with more details of Celia's life and connection to a murder. She lived with her father in a lighthouse early in her life, then with him in a hotel he opened in Maine. Her most known work is a book of poems about her garden. You can find an e-copy here.  And more poems by her are here! 

Celia in her garden

Wow, I will continue to learn about this woman who was often overlooked because she was a woman living in that time, yet it seems that since that time, others have ensured a memory of her life and work. 

       And now, I share my sorrow at the news of the passing of Paul B. Janeczko this past week. I know many of you know his beautiful books, those gifts to us as poets, as writers, as teachers. Years ago when I began teaching middle schoolers, writing was an important thing in my mind to help them know they can love it, can use it in many ways, perhaps especially in poetry, perhaps just for themselves. I no longer remember how I found these two books, but when I began reading them, and using what Paul and other writers shared about their writing poetry, I knew I would be okay. I had a mentor who showed me how. Then came others, of course, A Kick In The Head, A Poke In The I, Seeing The Blue Between . . .  

        I've chosen a poem from Celia Thaxter to celebrate Paul B. Janeczko's life.

Seaward To___

HOW long it seems since that mild April night,
When, leaning from the window, you and I
Heard, clearly ringing from the shadowy bight,
The loon’s unearthly cry!

Southwest the wind blew, million little waves 
Ran rippling round the point in mellow tune,
But mournful, like the voice of one who raves,
That laughter of the loon!

We called to him, while blindly through the haze
Uprose the meagre moon behind us, slow, 
So dim, the fleet of boats we scarce could trace,
Moored lightly just below.

We called, and, lo, he answered! Half in fear
We sent the note back. Echoing rock and bay
Made melancholy music far and near; 
Sadly it died away.

That schooner, you remember? Flying ghost!
Her canvas catching every wandering beam,
Aerial, noiseless, past the glimmering coast
She glided like a dream. 

Would we were leaning from your window now,
Together calling to the eerie loon,
The fresh wind blowing care from either brow,
This sumptuous night of June!

So many sighs load this sweet inland air, 
’T is hard to breathe, nor can we find relief:
However lightly touched, we all must share
This nobleness of grief.

But sighs are spent before they reach your ear;
Vaguely they mingle with the water’s rune; 
No sadder sound salutes you than the clear,
Wild laughter of the loon.