Shelburne Falls. I was living in the area
1970-72ish the first time. Even Northampton was a
dump then. Greenfield has since become a
spillover town for Northampton and Amherst, but a
lot less hip. Back then there was a Bahai
community in the area, centered on the Ed school at UMass. That too is gone.
Mark
At 08:11 PM 7/2/2007, you wrote:
>I lived in Greenfield for about a year in the '70s and
>worked at a local nursing home, but never got to the
>cemetery. We (my then husband) didn't find much to do
>in Greenfield, so we'd go to the Bridge of Flowers or
>the Sweet Heart Tearoom (a wonderful restaurant) in
>Sherburne (sp?) Falls. It was that year that I met
>Anne Sexton and joined her summer workshop, which
>always ended with a swim in her pool. She died about a
>year later, inspiring my angry poem "Lady Suicide's
>Lament."
>
>Candice
>
>
>
>
>--- Mark Weiss <[log in to unmask]> wrote:
>
> > Green River Cemetery seems equally conventional
> > to me, though with a far lighter hand than poems
> > on similar themes by Longfellow. I can see what
> > Tennyson appreciated. The sonnets read like
> > precursors of the confessional school.
> >
> > When I lived in western Massachussets I used to
> > drive up to Greenfield often. A 19th century mill
> > town that was just becoming mildly prosperous
> > again after better than half a century of decay,
> > bounded on the east by a long, high ridge running
> > north-south. Very pretty. The cemetery is also
> > pleasant--it was on my route.
> >
> > Did Tuckerman have anything to do with the ravine?
> >
> > Mark
> >
> >
> >
> > At 05:59 PM 7/2/2007, you wrote:
> > >Hi Joe,
> > >
> > >I think the Green River poem is superb, especially
> > its
> > >last stanza and unexpected last line.
> > >
> > >Maybe others will like the sonnets, but I don't.
> > They
> > >seem too conventional even for their time.
> > >
> > >Candice
> > >
> > >
> > >
> > >--- joe green <[log in to unmask]> wrote:
> > >
> > > > Some Tuckerman poems. I have a version of "The
> > > > Cricket" edited by Ben but he told me it is
> > > > classified.
> > > >
> > > > THREE SONNETS
> > > >
> > > > But unto him came swift calamity
> > > > In the sweet springtime when his beds were
> > green;
> > > > And my heart waited, trustfully serene,
> > > > For the new blossom on my household tree.
> > > > But flowers and gods and quaint philosophy
> > > > Are poor, in truth, to fill the empty place;
> > > > Nor any joy nor season's jollity
> > > > Can aught indeed avail to grace our grief.
> > > > Can spring return to him a brother's face,
> > > > Or bring my darling back to me—to me?
> > > > Undimmed the May went on with bird and bower;
> > > > The summer filled and faded like a flower;
> > > > But rainy autumn and the red-turned leaf
> > > > Found us at tears and wept for company.
> > > >
> > > >
> > > >
> > > > Each common object too, the house, the grove,
> > > > The street, the face, the ware in the window,
> > seems
> > > > Alien and sad, the wreck of perished dreams;
> > > > Painfully present, yet remote in love.
> > > > The day goes down in rain, the winds blow wide.
> > > > I leave the town; I climb the mountain side,
> > > > Striving from stumps and stones to wring relief,
> > > > And in the senseless anger of my grief,
> > > > I rave and weep, I roar to the unmoved skies;
> > > > But the wild tempest carries away my cries.
> > > > Then back I turn to hide my face in sleep,
> > > > Again with dawn the same dull round to sweep,
> > > > And buy and sell and prate and laugh and chide,
> > > > As if she had not lived, or had not died.
> > > >
> > > >
> > > >
> > > > And so, as this great sphere (now turning slow
> > > > Up to the light from that abyss of stars,
> > > > Now wheeling into gloom through sunset bars)—
> > > > With all its elements of form and flow,
> > > > And life in life; where crowned, yet blind, must
> > go
> > > > The sensible king,—is but an Unity
> > > > Compressed of motes impossible to know;
> > > > Which worldlike yet in deep analogy,
> > > > Have distance, march, dimension, and degree;
> > > > So the round earth—which we the world do call—
> > > > Is but a grain in that that mightiest swells,
> > > > Whereof the stars of light are particles,
> > > > As ultimate atoms of one infinite Ball,
> > > > On which God moves, and treads beneath his feet
> > the
> > > > All!
> > > >
> > > >
> > > > GREEN RIVER CEMETERY
> > > > DEDICATION HYMN
> > > >
> > > > Beside the River's dark green flow,
> > > > Here, where the pine trees weep,
> > > > Red Autumn's winds will coldly blow
> > > > Above their dreamless sleep:
> > > >
> > > > Their sleep, for whom with prayerful breath
> > > > We've put apart today
> > > > This spot, for shadowed walks of Death,
> > > > And gardens of decay.
> > > >
> > > > This crumbling bank with Autumn crowned,
> > > > These pining woodland ways,
> > > > Seem now no longer common ground;
> > > > But each in turn conveys
> > > >
> > > > A saddened sense of something more:
> > > > Is it the dying year?
> > > > Or a dim shadow, sent before,
> > > > Of the next gathering here?
> > > >
> > > > Is it that He, the silent Power,
> > > > Has now assumed the place
> > > > And drunk the light of morning's house,
> > > > The life of Nature's grace?
> > > >
> > > > Not so-the spot is beautiful,
> > > > And holy is the sod;
> > > > Tis we are faint, our eyes are dull;
> > > > All else is fair in God.
> > > >
> > > > So let them lie, their graves bedecked,
> > > > Whose bones these shades invest,
> > > > Nor grief deny, nor fear suspect,
> > > > The beauty of their rest.
> > > >
> > > >
> > > >
> > > >
> > > >
> > > >
> > > >
> > > > ---------------------------------
> > > > 8:00? 8:25? 8:40? Find a flick in no time
> > > > with theYahoo! Search movie showtime shortcut.
> > > >
> > >
> > >
> > >
> > >
> >
> >_______________________________________________
> _____________________________________
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