June is a month that seems to inspire poetry. Maybe it is all of the contradictions that the month brings. The new spring days. The colder nights that remind us of the last gasp of winter’s long grasp. The blue of the sky which promises of long summer days. It is all there; packed into one month. Does it inspire you? If so, what about it does? And if it doesn't, why not?
Inspiration. This is something that puzzles all of us. What inspires us? What motivates us? The great news is that there are so many things. How we are inspired is unique to us. Even if we were all inspired by June, for example, it would be in a thousand different ways. Below are three totally different poetic responses to the month of June. All different approaches but all about the same thing.
The myriad of ways that we find inspiration is one of the amazing and mysterious gifts of God’s creation. And one of the things that helps keep life interesting. You just never know when it is going to appear or what it will lead to. You might find yourself writing a poem, starting a new project or off on an new adventure. While it can be scary to try something new or exciting, to find a new twist on an old idea, we do so knowing God is with us when we try. During this month of contradictions why not let yourself be inspired, you never know the dreams you might find or the places you might go.
Cut grass lies frail:
Brief is the breath
Mown stalks exhale.
Long, long the death
It dies in the white hours
Of young-leafed June
With chestnut flowers,
With hedges snowlike strewn,
White lilac bowed,
Lost lanes of Queen Anne's lace,
And that high-builded cloud
Moving at summer’s pace.
Philip Larkin (1922-1985)
From The Poet’s Calendar
Mine is the Month of Roses; yes, and mine
The Month of Marriages! All pleasant sights
And scents, the fragrance of the blossoming vine,
The foliage of the valleys and the heights.
Mine are the longest days, the loveliest nights;
The mower’s scythe makes music to my ears;
I am the mother of all dear delights;
I am the fairest daughter of the year.
Henry Wadsworth Longfellow
There Is A June When Corn Is Cut 930
There is a June when Corn is cut
And Roses in the Seed—
A Summer briefer than the first
But tenderer indeed
As should a Face supposed the Grave's
Emerge a single Noon
In the Vermilion that it wore
Affect us, and return—
Two Seasons, it is said, exist—
The Summer of the Just,
And this of Ours, diversified
With Prospect, and with Frost—
May not our Second with its First
So infinite compare
That We but recollect the one
The other to prefer?