Spirit of the air, Long Island Poem for a very hot summer Sunday

Archival postcard of Cedarmere
from the Bryant Public Library
in Roslyn, NY

Summer Wind, we like this poem, not because it is entirely free of the thys and thous of many a poem of the times (we mind the affectation not the noble words themselves), but because it strikes such a familiar chord with the swelterers of Long Island on this very hot summer day.

The poet, William Cullen Bryant (1794-1878), owned Cedarmere, a large estate overlooking a bay, in Roslyn, NY. Though the house (now closed) and the extensive grounds (open to public), to which he tended with meticulous care, are now in a sad state of disrepair, you can still see where he found inspiration for his nature-embracing poetry.

The poem below would be best read aloud in a good, rich voice.

Summer Wind
William Cullen Bryant

It is a sultry day; the sun has drunk
The dew that lay upon the morning grass;
There is no rustling in the lofty elm
That canopies my dwelling, and its shade
Scarce cools me. All is silent, save the faint
And interrupted murmur of the bee,
Settling on the sick flowers, and then again
Instantly on the wing. The plants around
Feel the too potent fervors: the tall maize
Rolls up its long green leaves; the clover droops
Its tender foliage, and declines its blooms.
But far in the fierce sunshine tower the hills,
With all their growth of woods, silent and stern,
As if the scorching heat and dazzling light
Were but an element they loved. Bright clouds,
Motionless pillars of the brazen heaven–
Their bases on the mountains–their white tops
Shining in the far ether–fire the air
With a reflected radiance, and make turn
The gazer’s eye away. For me, I lie
Languidly in the shade, where the thick turf,
Yet virgin from the kisses of the sun,
Retains some freshness, and I woo the wind
That still delays his coming. Why so slow,
Gentle and voluble spirit of the air?
Oh, come and breathe upon the fainting earth
Coolness and life! Is it that in his caves
He hears me? See, on yonder woody ridge,
The pine is bending his proud top, and now
Among the nearer groves, chestnut and oak
Are tossing their green boughs about. He comes;
Lo, where the grassy meadow runs in waves!
The deep distressful silence of the scene
Breaks up with mingling of unnumbered sounds
And universal motion. He is come,
Shaking a shower of blossoms from the shrubs,
And bearing on their fragrance; and he brings
Music of birds, and rustling of young boughs,
And sound of swaying branches, and the voice
Of distant waterfalls. All the green herbs
Are stirring in his breath; a thousand flowers,
By the road-side and the borders of the brook,
Nod gayly to each other; glossy leaves
Are twinkling in the sun, as if the dew
Were on them yet, and silver waters break
Into small waves and sparkle as he comes.

"Summer Wind" by William Cullen Bryant.
Reprinted after Poetry Foundation. In public domain.

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Previous Long Island Poem for Sunday - Patriotic sounds and rhythms, Long Island poem for the 4th of July Sunday

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Happy Summer from Think Long Island First

If you, like many other Long Islanders, choose staycations on the Island, you have many attractions to enjoy: from the beaches and parks, farms and vineyards of the North Fork to the various cultural events, many outdoors.

Evenings of July 13th, 20th, and 27th will find us Dancing in the Street of Oyster Bay, where, we hope, you will join us. Like last year, good music, attentive dance instructions, and the star lit skies are awaiting. More ...

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We hope you are enjoying our Long Island Poem for Sunday program. On this July Fourth we would like to entertain you not with a poem but with a sound of a marching band, the Sousa Band, in fact. We have learned that John Philip Sousa, the famous composer, band leader, and musician to presidents, lived in Sands Point on Long Island between 1915 and 1932.

This is the 1898 archival recording of the Star Spangled Banner performed by the Sousa Band:


Happy Independence Day! Happy Summer!

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Summer joys by Long Island artists.

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Patriotic sounds and rhythms, Long Island poem for the 4th of July Sunday

Wood carving
by Mike Denaro

We have been on a lookout for Long Island-penned verses appropriate for the patriotic nature of the 4th of July. In turn, we considered a speech either written or given on the Island. We imagined a portly speeker delivering an address on a village green, a modest crowd in their Sunday best waving red white and blue flags, lemonade sold on stands, field games getting under way, and a marching band of mustachioed firemen. And then John Philip Sousa came to mind. The famous composer, band leader, and musician to presidents lived on Long Island between 1915 and 1932. His house in Sands Point, now in private hands, was designated a National Historic Landmark in 1966. The sound and rhythm of his own Sousa Band playing patriotic songs are going to be our collective poem for today, the 4th of July Sunday.

We are particularly fond of the first recording, The Star Spangled Banner, from 1898, the oldest we present here - a bit blurry, affected by time but no less touching.

John Philip Sousa Band - The Star Spangled Banner (1898)

John Philip Sousa Band - Stars and stripes forever 1913 (Edison Cylinder)

John Philip Sousa Band - Liberty Bell March (1904)

Ironically, Sousa himself was not enamored with the emerging recording industry: "These talking machines are going to ruin the artistic development of music in this country. When I was a boy ... in front of every house in the summer evenings, you would find young people together singing the songs of the day or old songs. Today you hear these infernal machines going night and day. We will not have a vocal cord left. The vocal cord will be eliminated by a process of evolution, as was the tail of man when he came from the ape." (Sousa's sumission to 1906 congressional hearings, quote published after Wikipedia article on John Philip Sousa).

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Previous Long Island Poem for Sunday - Higher and higher, Long Island Poem for end of school Sunday

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Higher and higher, Long Island Poem for end of school Sunday

Front page of The Roosevelt Bears

We are back to children poetry this week.

The rhymed adventures of the Roosevelt Bears by Seymour Eaton were first published in 1906. The Roosevelt Bears, TEDDY-B (black vs bad) and TEDDY-G (gray vs good), traveled through New York, Chicago, Boston, North Pole; visited a school, worked on a farm, enjoyed a county fair, and let their imagination loose during a balloon ride. Their antics, richly illustrated by V. Floyd Campbell, added a lighter note to children's summer reading lists at the turn of the last century.

The Roosevelt Bears, Their Travels and Adventures
Seymour Eaton

The Roosevelt Bears in a Balloon

      The balloon sailed up above the crowds
      And the county fair and beyond the clouds.
      The sky around was clear and blue,
      The earth below was lost to view.
No sound was heard: the air was still;
The space about was too big to fill
With sound or house or town or hill.
    Distance was gone and direction too;
        The bears had nothing left to do;
            There wasn't a thing to fasten to.
                The sun alone and dazzling bright
                    Seemed to be laughing at their plight.

The first to speak was TEDDY-G;
  "The earth has dropped somewhere," said he;
    "Fell through those clouds: I saw it go;
      And where it's gone I want to know."
        "Don't ask me," said TEDDY-B,
        I never learned astronomy;
        We're off for good: dear knows how far:
        The sky will have another star.
        I suppose we'll have an orbit soon
        And revolve around the sun and moon
        And have day and night and spring and fall,
        And roll about like a rubber ball;
        Or play with Jupiter or the planet Mars,
        Or ride on comets through the stars.
        Scholars will look through telescopes,
        And tell our weight and count these ropes,
And measure time back to our birth,
And say we're peopled like the earth."

(...)

The Roosevelt Bears, Their Travels and Adventures by Seymour Eaton.
First published 1906. Reprinted after Dover Publications, Inc.
In public domain.

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Previous Long Island Poem for Sunday - "Quintessential moment with my father", Long Island Poem for Father's Day Sunday

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"Quintessential moment with my father", Long Island Poem for Father's Day Sunday

"Pear" by Yvonne Dagger

"The pluck, the toss, the catch, the drop"; no, the poem we have chosen for this Father's Day Sunday is not about baseball. It is no about pears, either, though we have picked a still life "Pear" by Yvonne Dagger to accompany it. Read on...

September
Barbara Novack

The pear tree in the neighbor's backyard
drops its crop on the driveway
with hard thumps
like baseballs hitting a mitt.
But the pears roll, uncaught.

Once my father climbed to the top of the garage
where the pear tree branches stretch over the peak
and perched there, straddling it, plucking pears
and tossing them down to me. I
caught each neatly,
brown-green balls of sweetness, small and firm,
slapping into my cupped palms
and deposited in a large paper bag at my feet.
The pluck, the toss, the catch, the drop:
we had a good rhythm that sunny September afternoon.
And when the bag was finally full and the game ended,
my father lit his pipe, set it at a jaunty angle,
and sat secure and serene
up high against the bluest sky.

The pear tree in the neighbor's backyard
drops its crop on the driveway
with hard thumps:
the pears roll, uncaught.

I stand at the kitchen window
and stare out at the branches
so high against
the emptiest sky.

"September" by Barbara Novack, Writer-in-Residence at Molloy College.
This award winning (First Place Poetry Honors) poem was first published by Nassau Review and it is reprinted here after www.barbaranovack.com, with author's permission.
Copyright (c) Barbara Novack.

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Previous Long Island Poem for Sunday - Sundays of old, Long Island Poem for Sunday

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Sundays of old, Long Island Poem for Sunday

Front page of When We Were Little
1985 edition

Mary Fanny Youngs, of an old Oyster Bay family, in the PREFACE to her collection of "When We Were Little / Children's Rhymes of Oyster Bay" says: "WHEN we were little, we lived in an old gray house in Oyster Bay Cove, so close to the harbor that the high tides in the Spring and Autumn always flooded the dark, earth-floored cellar. For two hundred and sixty years the little old house has stood there, and in all that time has never gone out of the possession of the lineal descendants of the staunch old pioneer who built it. For that reason, the love of the old traditions, the old ways, the very rafters over our heads and earth beneath our feet, were not only, "bread in our bone," they were soul of our souls."

Theodore Roosevelt adds in the Foreword: "Miss YOUNGS writes of the quaint, old-time Long Island life, of which not only her father and I, but she herself and my children, were part." Beautiful description of delights of Long Island follows. Conclusion reflects on good, honest living anywhere: "I hope these poems will also appeal to others; for our life was essentially the same as all the old-fashioned life lived elsewhere in the open coutry; this was fundamentally a simple and a wholesome life."

Now the poem:

SUNDAY
Mary Fanny Youngs

SUNDAY is such a different day
From all the other days-
I do such different kinds of things
And play such different plays.
Up to the queer old Chapel, first,
To Sunday-school I go,
And there learn Bible stories
Which I already know.

Then serv'ral miles to church we drive
All in our Sunday things-
Across the graves and out to sea
The cheerful church-bell rings.
We sit so far toward the front
We never dare be late-
I love to hear my Grandpa sing
And see him pass the plate.

And when it comes to sermon-time
Which I can't understand,
I watch the window where the Christ
Looks down, with lifted hand;
I look across the shining bay
All crinkled with the breeze,
And up into the still, blue sky,
And flowering locust trees.

And after we have gone back home
And dinner all is done,
Then I would like to go and play
And have a little fun,
But Grandma says "No games to-day!"-
Then Katie comes, and we
Go out for hours among the woods
To see what we can see.

And sometimes it is windflowers,
And sometimes bloodroot white,
And sometimes it is arbutus
Half hidden out of sight.

And sometimes it is puddingstones
And sometimes velvet moss-
But always we are happy there
And never come back cross.

Then, after tea we read awhile,
And when I've gone to bed-
When I am safely tucked away
And all my prayers are said,
Katie upstairs, and Grandpa down,
They both begin to sing,
And as I drift away to sleep
I hear their voices ring-

"From Greenland's Icy Mountains",
"Nearer, My God, to Thee,"
"The Church's One Foundation,"
"Jesus Loves Even Me"-
And that's the very last I hear.
And this is why I say
I like my Sundays different
From any other day!

"SUNDAY" by Mary Fanny Youngs from When We Were Little, published by The Mad Printers of Mattituck under the auspices of the Oyster Bay Historical Society.
Reprinted after 1985 edition, with publisher's permission.

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Previous Long Island Poem for Sunday - All the Swans, Long Island Poem for Sunday

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All the Swans, Long Island Poem for Sunday

We sink
quietly into each
other's company, watch
the sunset pour into the sea
a pink the sky cannot contain,
the artist cannot paint. Instead,
she paints the boats, kissing her
baby profusely between strokes.
Gulls squat on the stone bench
where we sip coffee, In the
salt marsh, a light blinks,
summoning infinite
summer bugs.
We ride home in silence, sweating, past all the swans.

"All the Swans" by Patricia Butler from "Poems by the Boatyard", Finishing Line Press, 2011.
Reprinted with author's permission.

Cover drawing by Jack Butler
Courtesy of Patricia Butler

"A beach. A boat. A backyard. And a father building a boat big enough to contain his large family, not to mention their imagination..." Patricia Butler, Long Island native, introduces herself. Her quirky sense of humor makes her fill her blogspot profile entry "Favorite Music" with "The sound of seagulls, an ocean wave crashing, the slap of water against the side of a boat" instead the usual name of a musician or an album.

Patricia grew up on Long Island, lived and traveled in many varied geographic and cultural areas; she is currently residing in Georgia.

The quintessential summer poem we have picked for this week was first published in Patricia's 2011 collection "Poems from the Boatyard" which we carry at he store. A drawing by her late uncle, Jack Butler of Oyster Bay Cove / Sea Cliff / Syosset, graces the cover.

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Previous Long Island Poem for Sunday - Long Island Poem for Sunday, Walt Whitman's birthday, May 27th 2012

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