January 7-8

i am running into a new year,  by Lucille Clifton;  Wolf Moon by Susan Mitchell; While the World Falls Apart, I watch the Great British Bakeoff in Bed  by Jillian Stacia;  A Fabulous Night. by Bruce Weigl; After Our Daughter's Wedding by Ellen Bass

I started the session with this Chinese Proverb.

 

If there is light in the soul,

there is beauty in the person;

if there is beauty in the person,

there will be harmony in the house;

if there is harmony in the house,

there will be order in the nation; 

if there is order in the nation,

there will be peace in the world.

 

Then, these ending lines from Counting, New Years Morning, what powers yet remain:

(full poem hyperlinked here  Hirshberg:

Stone did not become apple. War did not become peace. 

Yet joy still stays joy. Sequins stay sequins. Words still bespangle, bewilder. 

Today, I woke without answer.

The day answers, unpockets a thought from a friend  

don’t despair of this falling world, not yet

didn’t it give you the asking

 

Nutshell of discussion

i am running... :  we immediately noted the lack of capitalization and punctuation.  It heightens the sense of motion, that defies being pinned down by time.  The simile of the old years akin to a wind, and the power of the poet who seizes them, with the additional simile describing her strong fingers akin to her promises in the first 6 short lines  create a whirlwind. The reader will not know anything about the past, but senses something difficult may have happened when she was 36 since that number is repeated -- and the unpunctuated sentence continues with a "but"

into the repeat of the first line.  The last two lines have an odd syntax, but shows the power of poetry to compress:

it could be understood this way:  "I beg what I love and I beg what I leave" (as dual subject) to forgive her.

AI gives this interpretation:  "This request for forgiveness underscores the poem's themes of reconciliation with the past and the hope for understanding and compassion from both oneself and others".  What AI leaves out is the layered meanings of the verbs, "beg" and "leave", perhaps implying her leaving is also an implied permission she gives herself.

 

Poetry is NOT about answers, but invites us to reflect on our own contradictions.

Clifton's choice to avoid capitalization and punctuation applies to her work in general.  It could be argued that she is rebelling against traditional rules, but it could also possibly imply that she is not putting herself above anyone else.

 

The poem has great power and overall a spirit of uplift.   

 

Wolf Moon: This year, Jan. 3, we had a full moon, called the Wolf Moon according to classification of Indigenous North American tribes.  The implications of winter cold, where wolves would howl in hunger and to protect territory come to mind. In this 14-line poem, the title appears in the penultimate line.  Looking at the 8th line to see if there is some sonnet technique of a turn, the words "not afraid" appear only to reappear two lines later to deliver what seems to be yet another clue with the line "not afraid to let bliss devour me whole".  Or grief... Is bliss a way of thinking about death where "my forever in orbit" is some afterlife, in some stratosphere for the soul?  

 

The opening line, "hold on" perhaps is advice, or warning.  Who is "they", and who is "she"?   The kite's will, as wind, is compared to love in its ability to carry surrender and forgiveness. Is that "but" an acceptance of something greater than hanging on?   Some thought the poem about  a mother about to lose her child.  Who is "I" wanting this kite to swoop her up and "rub her nose in the sky" with the wolf moon?  Is this an ecological poem, where we who are losing our mother earth, howl at the loss of wilderness?  Is  this a parallel to the idea of hope, a speck, and gone?   

 

Regardless, there is something gripping about the poem, inviting us to find ways to question within ourselves all it evokes. 

 

While the World Falls Apart:  who can resist alliterative fun and metaphorical puns!  For fun, and comparison, I give a link to the 18th century poem:  To Mrs K____, On Her Sending Me an English Christmas Plum-Cake at Paris  18th c.

https://www.poetryfoundation.org/poems/51877/to-mrs-k-on-her-sending-me-an-english-christmas-plum-cake-at-paris

 

A Fabulous Night... the incomplete title makes me want to sing the rest of the Moondance—"A fantabulous night for romance..." except the poet takes a quick turn from even "a gift from the cosmos" to a memory of war.  His conversational tone establishes a sense of trust to follow his balancing act  of things the reader might relate to such as the size and shape of the moon, misleading words, with his implied "private juxtapositions".   This might invite the reader to further delve into how we all hold our contradictions.  At the end, the highflown last lines seem to be straight from Shakespeare.  The  pathetic fallacy of heartbeats allowing the wind to stir the branches matches the incomplete title.  

 

After Our Daughter's Wedding:  This poem from 2002, Mules of Love brings up the strength of maternal instinct in unusual ways.  The title clues us in to place and occasion.  Remnants, half-empty glasses like lingering sunbathers.... only half-prepare the sense of loss, on line 7, where in her "flowered dress" the poet cries.  This is not a poem that will provide stanza breaks, but delivers a fell swoop of a meditation about the biologic imperative of being a mother. 

The unidentified "you" asking "do you feel like you've given her away", since  it is "our" daughter in the title , one assumes is the poet's partner.  What a contrast one participant said,

with the "Father of the Bride" !   The reference to "the" pills, could imply the possibility of an overdose and perhaps a legitimate worry along with an exaggerated list  of possibilities which also sneaks in the fact the poet got the time wrong on the rehearsal dinner.  

There's no break in the poem driving in the confirmation that we are not the ones in charge.    

 

West Wind in Winter:  Not every poem is for every reader.  Some might admire this poem,

the form and sound, the information about the poet born in 1847.  Some thought of Shelley's Ode written in a fit of romantic passion in 1819 in Florence towards the end of his short life. 

 

West Wind in Winter:  Not every poem is for every reader.  Some might admire this poem,

the form and sound, the information about the poet born in 1847.  Some thought of Shelley's Ode written in a fit of romantic passion in 1819 in Florence towards the end of his short life. 

The West Wind is a soft wind -- and appealingly drawn as comparison to "my poet" -- perhaps implying the poet inside of Alice Meynell, woman-suffragist. Judith kindly referred to this  [1]

Westron Wynde when wyll thow blow

The small rayne down can Rayne

Cryst yf my love were in my Armys

And I yn my bed Agayne

Judith continues: "The smoothed out version I know has “the small rain now doth rain,” and Christ that my love were in my arms”  which is not too far off.  It may have been in the very old Oxford anthology I used to have..." 

 

I stumbled on this lullaby by Tennyson -- with words and visual of moon which might either charm or repel.  As ever, should anyone find a treasure, please do share! 

 

 

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[1] Judith's note: It's been around since 1530, according to Wikipedia, which notes that it is quoted by Hemingway and Orwell, among others.  I recognized it in Hemingway when I encountered it in A Farewell to Arms, but do not remember it from Orwell’s Burmese Days. 

December 17

 Could That Be Me?  by Charles Simic[1]; McClures Beach by Sidney Hall Jr.,; Something about the Wind by Sidney Hall Jr.;  Genius of Stars and Love  by Richard Blanco https://richard-blanco.com/2013/11/tech-awards-gala/ -- Excerpts -- My Father's Diary by Sharon Olds; A Loud Death  by Richard Jackson;  How to Read Billy Collins  by Jeff Worley

Nutshell:

Although the first poem had been prompted by last week's discussion, this week, the title Could it be me?  was given space to come into its own.  4 lines, no information other than detail of what, lack of what and where.  It elicited a  funny story from Judith about a cat toy (mouse with a squeaking beep) found under her washing machine which needed fixing.  It continued to beep for 3 days in the trash.  I am sure we all could use these lines for Simic to elaborate on the Human Conditions!

2 poems by Sidney Hall:  They arrived as a pair in Writers Almanac and seem to be a good duo from Hall's book, Fumbling in the Light.  Whether or not you know McClure's Beach, the images deliver a cinematic effect — even if you have not seen the ocean, you can sense from the second stanza, not just a sense of "the end of the world", but the precious "sea silver" and all that comes to it -- either washed up on the shore, or wildflowers tumbling down to it. Those who have been there, provided beautiful descriptions and memories  https://www.nps.gov/places/point-reyes-mcclures-beach.htm

Mary read the second one, pausing after the second line, second stanza (and pointing it out to us). Although we did not discuss the title, indeed, reading about annoyance... about how human beings behave... "forgetful and unconcerned",  the  notion of wind bringing fresh air, how it works with waves washing the rocks brings a curative effect.   Axel brought up how a "sea cure" was like "prescription drug" in the 19th century.    Neil brought up his sleeping secret of 10 hours of  playing ocean waves. 

Richard Blanco: I gave excerpts, which have been used independently of each other, bolded to stand out from the entire very long poem.  Written in 2013, some detected perhaps a sense of civic duty as Blanco  National Poet Laureate unrolls the poem.  Is this poem an effective  tool for enlightenment, engagement?  Graeme pointed out the rather laborious use of metaphor.  Rick mentioned that his brother, an astronomer absolutely adored the entire poem.  Marna brought up the lovely kernel before the bolded last section with its emphasis on love as an action.  We noted the oxymoron, "shy wealth".  However each one absorbed it, hopefully each of us can reflect on the larger picture.  Polly offered a very humorous version of Twinkle, Twinkle Little Star, where "star" is totally disguised by latinate-sounding words.  On research I found quite a few variations of lyrics which instruct how to understand "the twinkling" and what a star is, perhaps unbeknownst to the 18th century originator of the lyrics! 

Sharon Olds: We enjoyed the capital printing, representing the  voice of the father which contrasted with  the non-capped, more lyrical  voice of the daughter.  When "Lois" appears, over and over, there was not only much occasion for comment, laughter, but also, the fact that Lois could be the compagnon of Superman!  The language supports in a subtle way the "blocks" of the father.  We can suppose many possibilities of the story behind both characters;  the emotional power increases with the last line with the universal wish to "be known", not only inviting empathy for the father, but also a heightened awareness of how important (and difficult)  this is for us all.   

A Loud Death  by Richard Jackson  -- Although we did not read or discuss the poem,  I wanted to bring the title and epigram.  Perhaps reading about this journalist, others might want to write an elegy for her.  Perhaps others might wish to examine whether  Jackson succeeds in his goal expressed below.  for full poem: https://poets.org/poem/loud-death

If I die, I want a loud death. I don’t want to be just 

breaking news, or a number in a group, I want a death

that the world will hear, an impact that will remain

through time, and a timeless image that cannot be

buried by time or place.

             —Fatima Hassouna, Gaza photo journalist on April 15, before her death on April 16, 2025 

The poet's comment: "My poem tries to be an echo for her warning, sounding from the far reaches of the cosmos to the smallest insect.” 

How to read Billy Collins:  This poem opened wide the doors of poetry and our expectations.  Is it impertinent?

Does it pay tribute to Billy, or trivialize him?  Certainly we recognize any poet's disposition to want to steal... but is that not a form of flattery to the one from whom one is stealing?  Or is one simply cloning oneself to an original and contributing to the boredom of a repeated trope?  The poem opened up the discussion about what expectations we have of poetry and how it changes with the times -- as well as our individual, subjective moods and circumstances.  

I read aloud Billy Collins, The Trouble with Poetry:  

https://allpoetry.com/poem/11281495-The-Trouble-with-Poetry-by-Billy-Collins

Bernie brought up Bukowski, So you want to be a writer: 

https://www.poetry.com/poem/58707/so-you-want-to-be-a-writer

Where is poetry headed?

No matter... if we read a poem, love it and want to share it, some sparkle of wit, pleasure, surprise is at work and this is to be celebrated.

We passed around Judith's delicious madeleines... and she recited King John's Christmas:

King John's Christmas Below one of Ernest Shepherd's inimitable drawings.  The you-tube is well-cadenced. 

 

 

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=K1SO4hLmeDQ

She also brought up Nemerov's biting poem about Santa Claus: https://sacompassion.net/poem-santa-claus-by-howard-nemerov/

I ended by reading Alberto Rios : https://poets.org/poem/christmas-border-1929

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[1] from a wonderful collection of "Brief Poems" by Simic.  Thank you Kathy for reciting this one 12/10/2025. 

Poems for Dec. 3

 The Problem with Gratitude by Abby Murray; Flying Over West Texas by Billy Collins; Speaking Tree  by Joy Harjo; Spirit Horse Voyagers by J. Paul Brennan;  Prodigy by Charles Simic

To quote the Slow-Down,  the "we" in question is the group of of people who come together over almost 18 years where, once a week,  "we take a breath together and look closely at this world – its beauty, its aches, its small, shining moments, even in uncertain times"  as we read aloud mostly contemporary poems and discuss how they touch us.

No, trees cannot "walk" in the conventional sense, but the walking palm (Socratea exorrhiza) is a species whose unique stilt-like roots give the appearance of movement

The Problem with Gratitude.  I received this poem  the day after Thanksgiving this year.  Then, two days later it was published by Rattle Magazine where Poet Abby Murray explains: “I wanted to write about the weirdness of Thanksgiving: the debunked myth of mutual care between European colonizers and Indians, juxtaposed with the practice of setting aside one Thursday in November to be grateful (rather than making radical gratitude a year-long perspective). I wanted to wrestle with the conflict between violent history and nonviolent morals, hollow performance and genuine feeling. What I ended up creating is this portrait of thankfulness as an individual I may love and want to keep close, even if I am constantly failing it, then finding it again, like the imperfect self-parent that I am.”

In these times, I feel poetry can help us focus on the power of meanings behind the use of our words, slow down the fast-paced news headlines, the spewing of words attached to contradictory facts and actions.  We find problems especially when we have expectations perhaps.  The word gratitude has a special place in the over-use department where so many would be hard-pressed to be grateful for the struggles they face.  How, I wonder, can I feel grateful when I see the consequences of irrational, cruel and destructive behavior of world leaders?  

In our discussion, we admired how one word, Gratitude, took us into the world, holding both heart and mind.  We agreed that gratitude is best when it arrives unbidden, and feels like an unexpected blessing.  In 25 short lines, the poem provides  a sketch of Gratitude as a young child,  perhaps stubborn, with a touch of rebellion, a power to transform, as we notice things as fundamental as a heartbeat, a glass of water, seasons.  We picked up on the vulnerability of Gratitude as well as  its insistence on being independent of someone else's expectations.  The two adjectives inconspicuous (as a heartbeat) /insistent (as a sob), underline how we often miss what we could be grateful for, and upon realizing it, feel a sense of regret.  Some thought of attitudes of the Indigenous people facing European colonizers -- not knowing when being lied to, or knowing how to be refused.  

 I'm not sure if one person recommended this book in the context of Gratitude, or the next poem: https://www.amazon.com/Year-Live-This-Were-Your/dp/0609801945

 Flying Over West Texas... We wonder at Billy Collins' ability to cast a spell on us -- his wry humor that is so tender, able to delivers a gentle poke at people without putting them down.  Neil cited an Ed Hirsch article that calls Collins the "metaphysical poet with a funny bone".  He reveals the same sort of vulnerability as Gratitude in the poem above.   The poem does not ever directly reference the name Jesus, but only skirts religion with a neutral mention of "Christmas" which could be Christmas day or season.   The question came up whether appreciation of the poem might be limited to only Christian audiences.   Well, Buddhist, Jewish, Agnostic people present said absolutely not, even if you don't understand each of the contextual clues, it is clear what Collins is doing.  Perhaps Evangelical Christians might even take offense.  The parallel between the parched Little Town of Bethlehem and the desolate details of W. Texas plumped up with "waffle-iron grid of streets", a ruler-line running through the anonymous cluster of houses and barns, is the birth of hope and desire for "small miracles".  The mundane with the sacred continues with the incongruous shake out of a cigarette from the pack for a stranger, for a contemporary version of a miracle.  From there, a turn to a subtle message of anti-idolatry.  The final stanza returns us to the everyday gesture of flowers propped up by a grave.

This brought up the story of the flowers one can see by the train tracks of a tragic accident over 20 years ago.  "Better to fly over .. with nothing/but the hope that someone visit the grave.  His is never capitalized, nor Her.  Billy delivers a universal message that flies beyond a single religion.

I like Graeme's summary: his inimitable brilliance in turning evocative and compelling observations into beautiful philosophy, recognizing the common woman and even man.

We skipped III by James Joyce, as Paul brought in a poem that related to the next one, Speaking Tree.

Indeed, we could have spent the rest of the afternoon discussing trees, the ones that "walk", the tree savers, the importance of trees, the sense of physical hurt when one is cut down... literature about trees, such as Cherry Wilder's Trilogy,  and the Talking Tree, or Tolkein literature, and seed stoing.  We also could have  discussed at length Indigenous customs and respect for Trees, animals as spirit guides.  I had given a reference to another short poem by an anonymous Sioux/Chippewa translated by Frances Densmore in 1917 of the Dream of Buffalo announcing its appearance.  

Joy Harjo insinuates her native culture, and surrounds the reader with all five senses, and whether male or female, my guess is that she touches something primal in each reader receptive to a deep heartache at the thought of our endangered  land which supports life.  Without needing to spell out facts, or point fingers of blame, she moves to italics, which accentuates the dreamlike form of the spirit.  Last word, first line, unspeakable, then a geneology of the broken... followed by two images of aloneness:  A shy wind threading leaves after a massacre,//the smell of coffee and no one there.  The  final word undrinkable   is preceded by the imagination of these speaking trees all together, drinking it deep. Perhaps this is the counterbalance.  The trees show us the way.

To understand more,  consider reading her 2015 volume "Conflict Resolution for Holy Beings" which explores transitions, transformations, and the power of ceremonies in times of change.

Paul's Poem:

Spirit   Horse   Voyagers

 

            Fish dance at sunrise

            In the sacred waters

            Of the buffalo moon,

                          A solemn vision

                          Of spirit horses,

   Dancing feathers of the wind.

               Young and slow,

         The maiden of the lake

         A texture of the virgin,

                  Wakan Tanka[1]'s gift

          To the vision seekers.

 

                        —J. Paul Brennan

 

Paul suggested that the title be considered as three separate entities...

 

The Poet, Paul, with his poem read to us this 12/3/2025

Prodigy:  A perfect metaphor for what happens to us as pieces of a greater game.

Astronomy... math that provides elegant explanations, pure and useful.

Paint chipped off black pieces:  Victor Emmanuel in the 2nd WW.

Men hung from telephone poles.  Mussolini, his girlfriend, collaborators....

Blindfold... whether those in power, or the Masters of Chess... those without regard for humanity, and those who understand the complex beauty of the game.  Only a prodigy with his/her surprising brilliance can understand how to play blindfold, several boards at a time.   

Graeme sums up the poem succinctly: meticulous observation meets touching anecdote.

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[1] Wakan Tanka:  It is a central concept in Lakota spirituality, meaning the Great Spirit or Great Mystery, representing the sacred power that encompasses all creation. It is the universal life force and the interconnectedness of all things, which is both a single entity and a council of spiritual powers

 

 

  

    

Poems for Nov. 19

 In the spirit of Thanksgiving:  The Sun's November issue  has a poignant  interview between Daniel McDermon and John Washington about open borders and photo essay  by Laurie Smith  about migrants seeking entry to the US from Mexico.  The poem below is a heartfelt companion to these. 

Los Vecinos  by Alison Luterman (the poem arrived too late to be part of the November issue, but will be included in a future issue.  The Sun sent it as a special supplement this week.)

Separate Quarters by Mary Pecaut

After the East Wing Renovation, 2025 (Italicized quotes from Donald Trump)

Tough Zinnias by Alice Fulton

Never-ending Birds by David Baker

Nutshell:

Many arrived early, and in the spirit of good-natured comraderie which characterizes "O Pen", we shared ideas about the poem, Whethering by A.E. Stallings. (We had not had enough time to discuss it last week.) Thank you to Kathy, Eddy, Polly for sharing more insights.  I am always curious to know how spending more time delving into a poem enhances the experience.  For sure, just the title introduces the idea of "alternatives" with the  homonym of weather, and what it is to "weather a storm", face the constant changes that are part and parcel of the nature of weather.  Whether or not, as choice, whether A or B as one ruminates on angles of understanding, the poem presents interlaced possibilities as sound patterns join double-meanings, overplays of poet "tapping" out as if the rain, which enhances a feel of merging the physical presence of rain with a subconscious emergence-- that "white noise" in her mind.

Los Vecinos (lohs-veh-SEE-nohs) :

There are a few Spanish terms in the poem, as it starts with a Mexican neighbor... but, as poems do, branches into the larger universals about being a human being, such as sharing music, food, wisdom handed down from generation to generation.  The Tias are the aunts, and by the 7th line, we feel the "golden circle of familia".  For those who need a visual for Nopales: https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Nopal;

 Paul gave us a description of the cowboy in a movie taking place in the American Western desert, dying of thirst, and saved by breaking open this cactus.  The poet goes on using the voice of Teresa, about how to prepare them, their medicinal value.  By line 27, there has been the mention of ICE, and the current practice of tearing families apart, akin to the mycelian nature of kinship.  This is a perfect term to describe underground, often invisible connections -- indeed, of mushrooms, transmission of their spores, but also our interconnectedness as humans and life on this planet.  

Graeme wondered if the poem would work presented as an essay.  Many thought because of the line breaks, the reader is forced to slow down, stop at every line, and really pay attention... If you look at the action of the enjambments below, would the effect be as powerful?

                                    They're tearing apart families like clumps

                                    of seedlings, uprooting whole delicate

                                    ecosystems, but what they don't

                                    understand is the mycelian nature

                                    of kinship, how love is a weed

                                    that travels across borders in a bird's belly

                                    and pops up waving its arms, no matter the law.

Clumps ... loses any derogatory association with the break, falling on seedlings;

delicate: -- and for a moment the reader is suspended to imagine what noun would follow.

Surprise... when would you see a coupling with ecosystems...  

what they don't ... allows a long list of actions: do, say, acknowledge, etc. 

but landing on understand stresses the key importance of striving for understanding.

We all enjoyed the image of love as a seed -- which rhymes with weed, and like a weed, will not stay in any confines, but emerge wherever it can.  We also enjoyed the reference to Pete Seeger's "This land is your land" and the "spangled" applied to mariachi, not the American "star-spangled banner".

The ending echoed some of the Inauguration of JFK and Robert Frost's poem, The Gift Outright. 

I paste it below, as it addresses the complexity of America, and who's land is who's land.

Separate Quarters by Mary Pecaut  I couldn't find much about the poet, but believe she is a multi-genre writer once living in Panama City, Panama but now in Brasilia. She addresses the current outrage of the destruction of the East Wing of the White House, traditionally the quarters of the First Lady.  The highlight for many of this clever comparison of marriage and architecture, avoiding "friction in proximity" was the couplet:  

Her sun-filled space—razed.   

Concrete dust, twisted rebar.                          

Although Melania is not mentioned directly, one does wonder how she feels as the current First Lady.  The dust, perhaps her husband... the space...  her marriage... the support,  twisted.   Interspersing the poem with italicized quotes from Donald Trump accentuates, forgive me if I offend, his odious narcissism which one can imagine permeates their relationship.

Tough Zinnias:  We all agreed, a new noun to replace beans, potatoes or whatever you substitute for luck. 

Zinnias are indeed tough, and thank you Elmer, Barb and other gardeners nodding at the virtues of these flowers able to "tough it out" into winter.  We enjoyed the ambiguity of  the pronoun "you":  is it the reader, or someone specific the poet is addressing?  One senses a story told by a mate whose mate has wandered off.  The following couplet could apply to a commentary of our relationship to our planet, to others, to ourselves.  What promises do we make?  have we made, but have broken?  

What will become of us? I think  

our attributes will be  engraved inside a promise //

ring in a script too small to read"

Judith was reminded of Edna St. Vincent Millay No. XI of the Fatal Interview sequence—it begins “Not in a silver casket cool with pearls…” and Eddy brought up Louise Glück (her poems such as Wild Iris  and “Snowdrops”:  https://www.reddit.com/r/Poetry/s/kgeBsKolNF 

We remarked the repeated " come" followed three times by an adverb, except at the end.

In the author's note, she says she is influenced by " Willa Cather, whose words about nature and emotion can be very moving. Under the spell of Cather’s quiet lyricism".  We were hard-pressed to find it in the poem. Perhaps the theme of  a woman's place in the world.  Some of the comments:

Poem points as the relationship of the change of season/change in her life-- - does she want it?

If you want ice water on marriage, this poem will do it. 

Never Ending Birds:  Interesting that we have words for flocks of birds... assemblies of animals, but “never-ending birds”—is a phrase coined not by the speaker of this poem, but by the speaker’s child.   We enjoyed this tender expression of a father for his daughter, this special moment shared with her and his wife.  

The Gift Outright

BY ROBERT FROST

The land was ours before we were the land’s.

She was our land more than a hundred years

Before we were her people. She was ours

In Massachusetts, in Virginia,

But we were England’s, still colonials,

Possessing what we still were unpossessed by,

Possessed by what we now no more possessed.

Something we were withholding made us weak

Until we found out that it was ourselves

We were withholding from our land of living,

And forthwith found salvation in surrender.

Such as we were we gave ourselves outright

(The deed of gift was many deeds of war)

To the land vaguely realizing westward,

But still unstoried, artless, unenhanced,

Such as she was, such as she would become.