A Poet's Journal: September 23rd, 2013

September 23th, 2013

A flock of geese passed on the 20th--only the second to date, the other being sandhill cranes. The 22nd marked the equinox and the moon rose with such grandeur that I was able to follow the contours of a crater with my binoculars until it was enveloped in the earth's shadow. It makes us wonder what things we would see if we could only look hard enough; or rather, if we could focus our mind on one thought with such illuminating perception, what would our view from the earth look like and where the paths of migration lead?

Douglas Thornton

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NEWLY PUBLISHED TRANSLATIONS!!

Newly published at the Society of Classical Poets: Translations of André Chénier’s Poetry, by Douglas Thornton The Flute Douglas Thornton Ever tender and touching the moment, When pressing himself the flute to my mouth, Laughing and pulling me close to his breast, He named me his rival and soon to be Master. My stiff and timid lips were shown To breathe an air pure and harmonious, And my young fingers, by his practiced hands, Being raised and lowered a hundred times, Though ever so trying, were taught to close The different holes of the sonorous wood. La Flûte André Chénier Toujours ce souvenir m'attendrit et me touche, Quand lui-même, appliquant la flûte sur ma bouche, Riant et m'asseyant sur lui, près de son coeur, M'appelant son rival et déjà son vainqueur, Il façonnait ma lèvre inhabile et peu sûre A souffler une haleine harmonieuse et pure; Et ses savantes mains prenaient mes jeunes doigts, Les levaient, les baissaient, recommençai

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Newly Published Poetry: The Wintering-Ground (With Audio)

As winter is finally coming to a close, let us reflect upon the passing season and find a place where we are truly alive. Please click on the link below or scroll down to read this newly published poem: The Wintering-Ground by Douglas Thornton The Wintering-Ground Within what hut, My woodland maid, May I remain awhile? Next what fire may my chills Be warmed? Be there A path that leads Past stony piles and tells Us not to walk alone? I do not think, My woodland maid, Deep sleep my dreams will find; Nor will my coldness cede To warm sunshine. But if my steps Should weary long, nor learn My ways to scorn, that hut Through lost defiles I’ll find once more. Douglas Thornton

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A Poet's Journal: March 4th, 2015