Maria Dahvana Headley’s Beowulf: A Translation for All of Us

How Close Did We Come to Losing Beowulf Forever?

I recently read Robert Bartlett’s article on Literary Hub entitled, How Close Did We Come to Losing Beowulf Forever? Rich in archival insight, it was a scholarly examination of how close we came to losing the poem forever.. One truth stayed with me: for Beowulf to reach us at all is nothing short of extraordinary. Only one manuscript survives. One.

The manuscript endured neglect, mishandling, and the devastating 1731 Cotton Library fire, where its edges were singed into fragile curls. That single document, charred, brittle, and vulnerable, holds the entire epic. We owe its survival to librarians who ran into smoke-filled rooms, to scholars who copied fading lines, and to centuries of quiet care.

This encounter with fragility brought me back to Maria Dahvana Headley’s translation. Knowing how close the poem came to disappearance makes her version feel even more amazing!

Why This Translation Matters Today

Headley’s Beowulf is bold, fierce, and alive. She restores the poem’s pulse with its swagger, humour, and humanity, and returns it to readers not as an artifact, but as a living story. Where academic writing often keeps the poem behind glass, Headley opens the door. Her translation is written for readers, not specialists, and it reminds us that Beowulf was meant to be heard, shared, and felt.

Beowulf tells the story of a hero who crosses the sea to help a kingdom tormented by a monster named Grendel. What follows are encounters that test courage, loyalty, pride, and mortality. Beneath the battles and boasts lies a meditation on community, impermanence, and the cost of heroism. Even the strongest cannot outrun time.

Headley writes with confidence and compassion. Her language is muscular and modern, restoring humour and presence while allowing women’s voices to emerge with clarity. Reading her translation feels like sitting near a fire, hearing an old story told with new breath. This story belongs to everyone!

Beowulf survived not because it was protected, but because it was carried forward. Its endurance reminds us that stories live only when people continue to listen. Headley honours this inheritance, returning Beowulf to the communal circle where it began. Stories endure because they are shared. Beowulf survived fire and time, and in Headley’s hands it speaks again, vivid, human, and alive.

Until the next page turns,

Rebecca

Walking in Nature with Myra Viola Wilds

“Catch your thoughts and hold them tightly…”

A poem has a way of returning to us. Not always when we expect it, and never in quite the same way. Several years ago, I created a video around this poem by Myra Viola Wilds. Recently, I found myself revisiting it. The words had not changed, but my understanding of them had deepened. I remember walking along a forest path on Burnaby Mountain when these lines first settled into my thoughts. Walking has always been a form of meditation for me—a way of giving space to thinking that is often crowded out by the day.

But what I have come to understand more clearly over time is this: We are not simply observers of our thoughts. We are participants in them. To think with care, to choose thoughts that are generous, steady, and hopeful, is a creative act. It is something we build, moment by moment. And in doing so, we shape a life that opens toward possibility. This poem speaks directly to that quiet responsibility.

Thoughts

by Myra Viola Wilds

What kind of thoughts now, do you carry
In your travels day by day
Are they bright and lofty visions,
Or neglected, gone astray?
Matters not how great in fancy,
Or what deeds of skill you’ve wrought;
Man, though high may be his station,
Is no better than his thoughts.
Catch your thoughts and hold them tightly,
Let each one an honour be;
Purge them, scourge them, burnish brightly,
Then in love set each one free.

Myra Viola Wilds (1875–1935) was born in Kentucky and was an American poet whose work often appeared in newspapers and small publications of her time. She wrote in a style that was clear, direct, and meant to be carried into daily life rather than set apart from it. Her poetry reflects a tradition that was once very common. Verses written not only for literary circles, but for ordinary readers seeking guidance, encouragement, and reflection.

“Thoughts” belongs to this tradition. It is less a poem to be studied than a poem to be lived with. In an era shaped by rapid change and modern pressures, writers like Wilds offered something steady: a reminder that character, outlook, and inner life remain within our influence.

Wilds authored the collection Thoughts of Idle Hours (1915), published by the National Baptist Publishing Board. What makes this work especially remarkable is that she wrote it after losing her eyesight, the result of years of overwork as a dressmaker.

Her words suggest that she was not merely observing human nature, but encouraging a kind of quiet responsibility. It was an invitation to tend one’s thoughts with care.

When I read this now, I find myself pausing on a single idea: We choose our thoughts. And in choosing them, we create the conditions of our lives.

Rebecca

https://youtu.be/IknhlH08FWo?si=cR-6NwuAze3hqkWY

https://open.spotify.com/episode/4z25sd8bKuTO91tzQ08skH?si=Ht5GoBVsScKcf0o-3cBZ_w&pi=JnsUFhYsQuS3q&t=22

In April

April is National Poetry Month. It is a time set aside to read poetry, to hear it, and to speak it aloud. Not to analyze it too quickly, but to let it move as it was meant to move through voice, through rhythm, through the quiet spaces between words.

Spring brings with it a natural turning toward poetry. The light changes, the air softens, and language seems to follow. This April, I return to Rainer Maria Rilke and his poem, “In April”.

https://youtu.be/Lysu57MuRug?si=3qrRY_VNihv1lNtk

In April

by Rainer Maria Rilke (1875-1926)

Again the woods are odorous, the lark
Lifts on upsoaring wings the heaven gray
That hung above the tree-tops, veiled and dark,
Where branches bare disclosed the empty day.

After long rainy afternoons an hour
Comes with its shafts of golden light and flings
Them at the windows in a radiant shower,
And rain drops beat the panes like timorous wings.

Then all is still. The stones are crooned to sleep
By the soft sound of rain that slowly dies;
And cradled in the branches, hidden deep
In each bright bud, a slumbering silence lies.

Kergord Woods in April

Amidst the wild and deeply indented coasts of the Shetland Islands, with their enclosed, steep hills and shifting skies, there stands a solitary forest. Kergord Woods is the only substantial woodland in the islands. Planted between 1909 and 1921, the trees have endured harsh winters and persistent winds, yet they thrive offering shelter to birds and a place of quiet gathering within an otherwise open landscape.

During my first visit to Shetland in 2018, I walked through these woods. There is something about Kergord that feels deeply aligned with Rilke’s poem. The air carries the scent of damp earth and awakening growth. Rain lingers, not as storm, but as presence soft against branches and leaves. Light arrives in brief, golden intervals, filtering through the trees before retreating again.

It is a place of transition. Not fully winter, not yet spring but held in that delicate in-between. And in that space, Rilke’s words seem not only descriptive, but present. The “odorous woods”, the rain against the panes, the hush that follows. All of it can be felt here.

Since that first walk, this poem returned to me each April, carried on the same quiet awakening that stirs in the trees. Poetry does not belong to a single moment. It returns. In seasons. In memory. In places that hold something we cannot quite name. We do not always go looking for it. Sometimes, it finds its way back to us as April returns, as the woods awaken, as a poem waits quietly to be spoken once more.

Until the next poem,

Rebecca

Sarah’s Musings on Katherine Mansfield and her poem “The Meeting”

Katherine Mansfield and “The Meeting” – Listening Beneath the Words

I am pleased to introduce a new thread within Rebecca’s Reading Room, one that occasionally brings conversations from The Book Dialogue into this quieter reading space. My sister Sarah and I host The Book Dialogue, a podcast devoted to books, poetry, and the shared pleasure of reading together. From time to time, I’ll be inviting readers of the Reading Room to linger with these conversations here, allowing them to unfold slowly on the page, just as they once did in voice.

In this offering, Sarah recites and reflects on “The Meeting” by Katherine Mansfield, a writer whose work, both in prose and poetry, attends closely to the inner life. Mansfield’s words do not announce their meaning; they invite us to step nearer, to listen more carefully.

A Brief Portrait of Katherine Mansfield

Born Kathleen Mansfield Beauchamp in Wellington, New Zealand, Katherine Mansfield (1888–1923) left her homeland as a young woman to pursue a literary life in Europe. She became one of the most influential voices of literary modernism, admired for her ability to capture fleeting emotional moments with remarkable clarity and restraint.

Mansfield’s life was shaped by restlessness, intense relationships, financial uncertainty, and prolonged illness. Tuberculosis marked her later years, often forcing her into periods of isolation and separation from those she loved. Yet it was within these constraints that her writing deepened, turning ever more attentively toward the subtleties of feeling, anticipation, and inner conflict.

Though she is best known for her short stories, Mansfield also wrote poetry that mirrors the same qualities of compression, emotional precision, and an acute sensitivity to moments that hover just before change.

The Meeting

by Katherine Mansfield

We started speaking,
Looked at each other, then turned away.
The tears kept rising to my eyes.
But I could not weep.
I wanted to take your hand
But my hand trembled.
You kept counting the days
Before we should meet again.
But both of us felt in our hearts
That we parted for ever and ever.
The ticking of the little clock filled the quiet room.
“Listen,” I said. “It is so loud,
Like a horse galloping on a lonely road,
As loud as a horse galloping past in the night.”
You shut me up in your arms.
But the sound of the clock stifled our hearts’ beating.
You said, “I cannot go: all that is living of me
Is here for ever and ever.”
Then you went.
The world changed. The sound of the clock grew fainter,
Dwindled away, became a minute thing.
I whispered in the darkness. “If it stops, I shall die.” 

https://youtu.be/C8Rbny7ILeY?si=CTrx1VIl5Di2WaZV

“The Meeting” was written during the final years of Mansfield’s life, around 1918–1920. By this time, much of her experience was defined by waiting. Waiting for health, for companionship, for moments of closeness that were often delayed or imperfectly realized. The poem is not directly about a specific biographical event, nor is it an elegy. Instead, it arises from an emotional landscape Mansfield knew well. A life lived in intervals. Rather than dramatizing reunion or fulfillment, she turns her attention to the threshold. The moment of approach, the quiet expectancy before connection.

This restraint was central to her modernist sensibility. Mansfield believed that meaning resides not in grand declarations, but in what is held back, felt, and sensed beneath the surface. After experiencing profound loss, including the death of her beloved brother during the First World War, she no longer trusted permanence. Presence became precious. Anticipation carried weight. In “The Meeting,” what matters is not what happens next, but what is felt in the waiting.

Hearing “The Meeting” read aloud allows its stillness to emerge more fully. The poem does not rush toward resolution. It lingers, asking us to remain present with uncertainty, with feeling that has not yet found its form. In this way, the poem aligns beautifully with the spirit of The Book Dialogue, a conversation between two sisters who value listening as much as speaking, and who believe that literature is not something to be mastered, but met.

Perhaps every meaningful poem is a meeting of this kind, shaped by what the writer has endured, and completed only when a reader is willing to arrive slowly.

Rebecca

Dear March -Come in by Emily Dickinson

Welcome to Rebecca’s Reading Room. This is a quiet place where poems are read slowly, not for answers, but for companionship. Here, we return to familiar voices not to explain them away, but to listen again, to notice what they say differently as we ourselves change. In this room, poems are not relics or assignments. They are guests. They arrive when they are ready, carrying something meant for us now.

Today, I invite you to sit with a poem by Emily Dickinson, a poem that opens a door rather than making a declaration, and welcomes a season as one might welcome a friend.

Dear March—Come in—
How glad I am—

Emily Dickinson opens this poem not with observation, but with welcome. March is not a date on a calendar or a meteorological shift. It is a visitor at the door. Slightly breathless. Hat still on. Carrying news.

“Put down your Hat—
You must have walked—
How out of Breath you are—”

Spring, in Dickinson’s hands, does not arrive polished or triumphant. It arrives on foot. This is the season before certainty, before colour fully commits itself, before the world decides what it will become. March is effort, movement, intention, not yet ease. She asks after March as one would ask after a friend returning from a long journey:

“Dear March, how are you, and the Rest—
Did you leave Nature well—”

There is tenderness here, and curiosity. Even Nature, Dickinson suggests, was not fully prepared.

“The Maples never knew that you were coming—
I declare—how Red their Faces grew—”

The image is quietly delightful: trees blushing, caught unaware. Colour arrives before announcement. Before readiness.

“There was no Purple suitable—
You took it all with you—”

March has borrowed the colours we expect later. Spring, at this moment, is promise rather than fulfilment. Hints rather than declarations. Then, inevitably, another knock at the door.

“Who knocks? That April—
Lock the Door—
I will not be pursued—”

How refreshing this refusal feels. April, so often celebrated, must wait. Dickinson is occupied with March, with conversation, with the delicate work of transition. This poem honours the in-between, the threshold season that asks nothing of us except attention. The closing lines deepen the poem’s quiet wisdom:

“That blame is just as dear as Praise
And Praise as mere as Blame—”

March brings balance. It strips judgement of its urgency. Once this guest has arrived, trifles fall away. What matters is presence, not verdict.

“Dear March—Come in—” reminds us that some moments should not be rushed or improved upon. Some seasons are meant to be welcomed, sat with, listened to. March is not yet bloom, not yet abundance, but it is essential. Without it, nothing else follows. March has come in. The door is closed to haste. And upstairs, there is still so much to tell.

Until the next page turns,

Rebecca

https://open.spotify.com/episode/445YeZZFMBZb4NDWD6usQO?si=mQUUU1fASku7GmrVG-aIeg&t=0&pi=z3Nn8Xy3SwKR2

https://youtu.be/KUsRgMuXJPk?si=AeVmOg3hv2iQGIrD

Dear March—Come in—
How glad I am—
I hoped 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—

Dear March – Come In by Emily Dickinson – Rebecca's Reading Room

A Long, Long Sleep, A Famous Sleep by Emily Dickinson

A Long, Long Sleep, A Famous Sleep

by Emily Dickinson (Poem 582)

A long, long sleep, a famous sleep
That makes no show for dawn
By stretch of limb or stir of lid,—
An independent one.

Was ever idleness like this?
Within a hut of stone
To bask the centuries away
Nor once look up for noon?

There is something both eerie and tender in these eight lines. Emily Dickinson’s poem opens with the rhythm of rest, a “famous sleep” that suggests death, not as an end but as an enduring state of being. The “independent one” is beyond the cycles of morning and noon, detached from time, yet curiously alive in our imagination.

Death here is not portrayed as tragic; rather, it is stillness without suffering, idleness without regret. The “hut of stone” reminds us of the grave, but also of solitude, a sanctuary from motion and measure. Dickinson transforms what might seem a bleak image into an act of cosmic repose.

When I read these words aloud, I felt a kind of reverent hush. There is no fear in this poem, only acceptance, a surrender to what lies beyond waking. It reminds me how rarely we allow ourselves to be still, to imagine existence without striving or movement. Dickinson’s voice whispers across the centuries, asking us to consider that eternity might not be loud or radiant, but quietly restful.

Perhaps that is the deeper invitation of this poem: to recognize that rest itself. The long, long sleep is not an absence of life, but a continuation of being in another form.

A Long, Long Sleep, A Famous Sleep by Emily Dickinson – Rebecca's Reading Room

As I recited this poem, I was struck by how Dickinson frames death not as darkness, but as independence, a release from the tyranny of time. The line “To bask the centuries away” lingers with me, an image of peaceful endurance. It made me wonder: if we could “bask” within the moments of our lives, instead of rushing through them, might we glimpse a little eternity even now?

Thank you for joining me in the Poetry Salon.

Until the next poem unfolds,

Rebecca

https://youtu.be/YrdOl8oSqj4?si=75qv1yfpdzooF0at

Poetry in Winter: A Tale of Heart, Friendship, and the “Shoulds” We Carry

The Elephant Child by D. Wallace Peach

There’s something magical about poetry in wintertime. Perhaps it’s the way words seem to echo in the stillness, or how stories find warmth in the cold. A couple of years ago, Diana Wallace Peach shared her delightful poem The Elephant Child with me and graciously allowed me to create a video pairing her recitation with my winter photography.

This charming tale of an elephant lost in the snow and the brave little mice who come to his rescue reminds us that kindness and courage often come in the smallest packages. It’s a poem that makes me smile every time I hear it, a gentle reminder that compassion is a kind of light in the darker months.

As the first snowflakes fall and the year draws to a close, stories like this one feel especially dear. So, pour a cup of tea, wrap yourself in a warm blanket, and join us for this winter’s tale of friendship and homecoming.

As we enter the Holiday Season, a time that celebrates joy, love, peace, and hope, The Elephant Child reminds us to prepare our hearts and minds to cherish these precious final weeks of 2025. It’s in these small, gentle stories that we rediscover what matters most: kindness, connection, and the quiet courage to care.

With gratitude to D. Wallace Peach for sharing her words and spirit.

Until the next page turns, may your days be filled with warmth, wonder, and a good story to share.

Rebecca

https://youtu.be/iElhOjFzfEc?si=urMqA_W-9IpzgY02

The Elephant Child by D. Wallace Peach

An elephant child, carefree and wild
Walked into the wintry woods
He followed fox tails and jackrabbit trails
Ignoring his mother’s “shoulds”

Of course, he got lost and chilled by the frost
As night began to fall
To his rump he sunk and tooted his trunk
But no one answered his call

Oh, that cold night, to the elephant fright
The clouds began to snow
He sniffled and shivered, shook and quivered
His nose he needed to blow

The blizzard swirled and snowflakes twirled
He plodded on wobbly knees
His head grew stuffy, the snow so fluffy
He blew out a honking sneeze

Losing hope, he started to mope
When in an evergreen tree
He spied a house, just right for a mouse
And he let go a trumpet of glee

Alas the place hadn’t the space
To fit an elephant’s bulk
The lost little guy plunked down for a cry
His head hung low in a sulk

The house was quite nice, chock full of mice
Who whispered quiet and low
What was that? Did you hear a cat?
Lurking out in the snow?

Across the wood floor, they dashed to the door
Flicked on the outside light
In a rodent flurry, they squeaked and scurried
An elephant! What a sight!

Let’s offer a seat for a tea and a treat
Said a mouse who felt overly bold
I think he is lost so covered in frost
And surely his ears are cold.

Full of care and courage to spare
They crawled out on a limb
They slipped on the ice those brave little mice
And their mission turned quite grim

But they held on tight with all their might
And called to the elephant
Come in from the storm, come in and get warm
But the elephant said I can’t!

Though I’m only four, I’ll bust the door
I’ll break the branch from the tree
I’ll crack your stairs and squash your chairs
I’m far too heavy, you see.

You have to try, hurry in and dry
Get up! Please give it a go!
The elephant groaned, he mumbled and moaned
Though he longed to get out of the snow.

With strength galore, he pushed on the door
The tree branch started to bend
The home nearly fell, and the mice had to yell
Please stop, or we’re end-over-end!

The elephant frowned as the flakes tumbled down
His trunk a bright shade of blue
Oh, what a glitch, mice-whiskers did twitch.
What were the rodents to do?

Now, due to their size, mice aren’t very wise
Their brains are as tiny as seeds
They may not be smart, but they have lots of heart
And sometimes that’s all that you need.

They sketched out a plan as only mice can
And piled his back with sweaters
And blankets and sheets, and curtains with pleats
Tiny coats of wool and black leather

With the elephant warm, and safe from all harm
They dialed their old-fashioned phone
We’re seeking his mother, a father or brother!
This elephant’s all alone!

Well what do you know, because of the snow
His parents were suffering fits
They dashed to him fast and hugged him at last
And stayed for some tea and biscuits.

Thus ends the plight of the elephant’s night
Be careful when out in the woods
You might meet some mice who are caring and nice
But just in case…
Remember your mother’s shoulds

Poem by D. Wallace Peach
Recitation by D. Wallace Peach

https://anchor.fm/s/4e4af350/podcast/rss

#collaboration #dwallacepeach #epidemicsound #howardharperbarnes #poetry #poetrySalon #rebecca #theelephantchild #winterpoem

The Way Through the Woods by Rudyard Kipling

This was my first reading of Rudyard Kipling’s The Way Through the Woods, and it felt less like discovering a text than stepping into a presence—something waiting, insistent, profound.

It tells of a road, closed seventy years ago, now hidden beneath trees, anemones, and the quiet lives of doves and badgers. The forest has reclaimed what human hands once cut open, and time itself has buried the memory.

The Way Through the Woods

by Rudyard Kipling

They shut the road through the woods
Seventy years ago.
Weather and rain have undone it again,
And now you would never know
There was once a road through the woods
Before they planted the trees.
It is underneath the coppice and heath,
And the thin anemones.
Only the keeper sees
That, where the ring-dove broods,
And the badgers roll at ease,
There was once a road through the woods.

Yet, if you enter the woods
Of a summer evening late,
When the night-air cools on the trout-ringed pools
Where the otter whistles his mate,
(They fear not men in the woods,
Because they see so few.)
You will hear the beat of a horse’s feet,
And the swish of a skirt in the dew,
Steadily cantering through
The misty solitudes,
As though they perfectly knew
The old lost road through the woods.
But there is no road through the woods.

On the surface, it is a poem of erasure. There was once a road; now there is no road. Yet Kipling shifts the ground beneath us. If you enter the woods on a summer evening, he writes, you may hear hoofbeats and the swish of skirts—the sound of travelers who still ride the old path. It is as though memory itself lingers in the air, haunting the present with its unseen presence.

Kipling knew loss. By the time this poem appeared in Rewards and Fairies (1910), he had already faced grief, and more would come—the devastating loss of his son in the First World War. The road in the poem feels like an image of memory itself: once clear, now overgrown, yet still alive with whispers. The ghostly riders are not frightening; they are tender reminders that what we lose does not vanish entirely. It moves differently through time.

What makes the poem all the more powerful is its recognition of nature’s steady triumph. The woods outlast the road. Rain and weather undo human plans. In the end, it is the trees and the night air that remain. Nature both conceals and heals, folding human absence into her vast endurance.

The Way Through the Woods invites us to hold two truths together: that we are haunted by what is gone, and that life continues in its own rhythms beyond us. In that sense, it is not just a ghost poem or a meditation on memory—it is also an ecological vision. Kipling reminds us that human marks are temporary, while the earth carries on, resilient and self-renewing.

To walk into the woods at dusk is to enter that mystery: to know that loss is real, yet so is continuity. There is no road through the woods, and yet—if we listen—we might still hear the sound of passing riders, steady and sure.

May we walk gently, listening for the whispers of the woods.

Rebecca

Postscript: Rudyard Kipling’s name often brings to mind empire, adventure, and the rhythms of marching verse. Yet The Way Through the Woods, first published in 1910 in Rewards and Fairies, reveals another voice: quieter, haunted, more attuned to absence than conquest.

Rewards and Fairies was itself a curious and beautiful creation—a mixture of short stories and poems, intended as a sequel to Puck of Pook’s Hill. In both books, Kipling draws on the figure of Puck, the mischievous sprite of Shakespeare’s A Midsummer Night’s Dream, to conjure ghosts of England’s past for two children, Dan and Una. Each story is followed by a poem, almost like an echo that lingers after the tale.

The Way Through the Woods was paired with the story “Marklake Witches.” That tale, set in Sussex during the Napoleonic Wars, tells of a French émigré doctor and the suspicion surrounding Ollyett, a young woman branded a witch for her healing knowledge. It explores superstition, memory, and the endurance of old beliefs. The poem serves as a companion piece, shifting the focus from haunted human stories to the haunted landscape itself. Just as superstition lingers in the story, so too do ghostly hoofbeats linger in the woods where a road once lay.

Seen in this light, the pairing is deliberate: Kipling was exploring how the past never fully disappears. Whether through human memory and myth, or through the land itself, we live among echoes of what came before.

Here, Kipling becomes less the bard of empire and more the poet of impermanence. He gives us a vision where nature is stronger than human memory, and where the past lingers as sound and shadow rather than as solid ground. For readers today, this may be his most enduring legacy: not the imperial storyteller, but the writer who understood how loss and healing, time and memory, all move through the woods together.

#poetry #poetryInTheAfternoon #poetryInTheEvening #poetryInTheMorning #poetrySalon #rudyardKipling #theWayThroughTheWoods

October by Robert Frost

October: A Celebration of Quiet Resilience

When I first recited “October” in 2020, the world was standing still. Streets were empty, gatherings were postponed, and even the air seemed to hesitate. Yet in that pause, poetry found its voice again. Frost’s gentle invocation to ‘retard the sun with gentle mist’ became a kind of prayer. Not for escape, but for endurance.

Resilience does not always roar. Sometimes, it whispers ‘slow, slow.’ It asks us to hold on just a little longer, to find beauty even in uncertainty. In Frost’s world, the falling of each leaf is not a loss but part of the rhythm of survival. Each pause, each delay, each quiet act of attention becomes an affirmation that life continues in tender, imperfect, and enduring ways.

https://youtu.be/fXtzCRWjXu0?si=3bpLzZakJ6cft2Pt

Looking back now, “October” reminds me how we learned to adapt: to find comfort in small rituals, to connect through words when touch was forbidden, and to let art and poetry become our gathering places. The mist that Frost imagined became, for us, a shelter with a soft veil through which we could still see light.

October

By Robert Frost

O hushed October morning mild,
Thy leaves have ripened to the fall;
Tomorrow’s wind, if it be wild,
Should waste them all.
The crows above the forest call;
Tomorrow they may form and go.
O hushed October morning mild,
Begin the hours of this day slow.
Make the day seem to us less brief.
Hearts not averse to being beguiled,
Beguile us in the way you know.
Release one leaf at break of day;
At noon release another leaf;
One from our trees, one far away.
Retard the sun with gentle mist;
Enchant the land with amethyst.
Slow, slow!
For the grapes’ sake, if they were all,
Whose leaves already are burnt with frost,
Whose clustered fruit must else be lost—
For the grapes’ sake along the wall.

So today, as leaves again turn to gold and wind stirs through the trees, I read “October” not as a farewell, but as a renewal. It is a reminder that even in seasons of loss, resilience grows quietly, leaf by leaf, word by word, morning by morning.

October by Robert Frost – Rebecca's Reading Room

Until the next page turns,

Rebecca

#Autumn #PoetryInTheAfternoon #PoetryInTheEvening #PoetryRecitation #PoetrySalon #RebeccaSReadingRoom #RobertFrost

Herman Melville, Poet of Contradictions

Until recently, I only knew Herman Melville as the author of Moby Dick and other seafaring novels. Imagine my surprise when I came across his poem Art and discovered another side of Melville – the poet. I had not realized that in his later years, when his novels were largely dismissed, he poured his creative energies into verse.

Art

Herman Melville (1819–1891)

In placid hours well-pleased we dream
Of many a brave unbodied scheme.
But form to lend, pulsed life create,
What unlike things must meet and mate:
A flame to melt—a wind to freeze;
Sad patience—joyous energies;
Humility—yet pride and scorn;
Instinct and study; love and hate;
Audacity—reverence. These must mate,
And fuse with Jacob’s mystic heart,
To wrestle with the angel—Art.

In Art, Melville captures in a handful of lines the tension every artist knows: the collision of flame and frost, patience and urgency, humility and pride. Creation, he tells us, is no gentle unfolding but a wrestling match with the angel. Jacob’s midnight struggle becomes the artist’s daily one: a demand for strength, vulnerability, and devotion all at once.

Discovering Melville’s poetry is like finding a quiet chamber off a grand hall. It is smaller, more intimate, but no less profound. Here we meet not only the sailor of prose but the pilgrim of paradox, who insists that art is born where contradictions refuse to cancel one another out, and instead fuse into something entirely new.

Reading the poem, Art, I felt a kinship with Melville’s honesty about how hard creativity can be. He doesn’t romanticize it—he calls it wrestling. And yet, in naming the struggle, he offers a kind of encouragement: art is forged not in perfection but in paradox.

Until the next page, may we meet courageously the contradictions that shape art and life.

Rebecca

Postscript: By the time Melville turned to poetry in the 1860s, his novels had been largely dismissed or ignored. Moby-Dick, now hailed as a masterpiece, was a commercial failure in his lifetime. The disappointment must have been excruciating for a writer who had poured so much of his spirit into prose. He spent much of his later career working as a customs inspector in New York, feeling misunderstood and financially strained.

It was in this context that Melville turned to poetry, publishing volumes such as Battle-Pieces and Aspects of the War (1866) and Clarel: A Poem and Pilgrimage in the Holy Land (1876). His verse wrestles with disillusionment, mortality, and the silence of God, which was a reflection on both his personal struggles and the upheavals of his time, including the American Civil War.

His poetry was not the happiest of work, but it was deeply honest. To read it is to encounter a man who continued to wrestle with the largest questions of existence long after the world seemed to turn away. That ongoing struggle, far from diminishing his voice, may be what gives his poetry its lasting resonance.

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