-
Welcome to our Poetry Page.
Join our 2016 Shakespeare Sonnet-a-Day discussion starting at
http://seniorlearn.org/forum/index.php?topic=176.msg283685#msg283685 (http://seniorlearn.org/forum/index.php?topic=176.msg283685#msg283685)
FairAnna and Barbara will alternate creating a focus for us - In the past the poetry page was a haven for those of us who listen to words that open our hearts, and imagination, and allowed our feelings be known about the poems we share - We are looking forward to continuing that tradition.
(http://seniorlearn.org/bookclubs/poetry/poetryflower.JPG)
This month we will focus on the Sonnet.
Let's discover how a Sonnet is constructed and let's share the Sonnets that open our hearts. Since Valentine's Day is in February a Love Sonnet would be a lovely gift for us.
Here are a few links to help us understand the Sonnet and its history.
Sonnet Central (http://www.sonnets.org/)
About the Sonnet (http://www.english.uiuc.edu/maps/sonnet.htm)
Origins of the Sonnet (http://oldweb.uwp.edu/academic/english/canary/sonnet_origin.html)
How to Write a Sonnet (http://www.ehow.com/how_3335_write-sonnet.html)
Discussion Leaders: BarbStAubrey (augere@ix.netcom.com) & Fairanna (fairanna@verizon.net)
-
We are so glad to be back sharing poetry again -
For the next few days we can become re-aquainted and share some of our favorites.
This Emily Bronte poem is not a favorite but oh so appropriate:
'Love is like the wild rose briar."
Love is like th eiwld rose briar,
Friendship, like the holly tree,
The holly is dark when the rose briar blooms,
But which will bloom more constantly?
The wild rose briar is sweet in spring,
Its summer blossoms scent the air;
Yet wait till winter comes again
And who will call the wild-briar fair?
Then scorn the silly rose-wreath now
And deck thee with the holy's sheen,
That when December blights the brow
He still my leave thy garland green -
After the Seniornet with all its sweet wild rose briar stopped us in mid-stream that here the friendships from Books & Lit like the Holly tree shines as a green garland.
-
This post was sent to us from Anna a few days ago-
Hi I am having cataract surgery in FEb in my left eye...twenty years ago I had the same in my right eye ...since I was and am nearsighted the lens then was for distance...which enabled me to see closeup with my left eye and distance with my new right eye..so no glasses for twenty years except sunglasses...it has become hard for me to read since I have to rely on the left eye and I get a headache when I try...I think the surgery will be the ninth I am seeing the surgeon on WED this week and we will set the date and time...I planned on being able to start in Feb with Thomas Hardy but of course I cant do that until the surgery is over and I can see how it will work. My surgeon says he is going to use a lens identical to my real nearsighted eye so hopefully I wont need glasses again...I will keep you informed as to the progress I havent talked to Barbara yet so she is not aware of this situation..it formed rather quickly which the right eye did as well.
I am including a poem from one of the poets we studied ...Ted Kooser the US poet laureate for two years at one time...this was written after he had suffered from cancer and spent two years in depression and not writing a single line..when he was better he began walking each morning in Nebraska in the country ...when he returned home that morning he wrote a poem ..this is not the one just one I happen to like...although I truly love all ..the book is called Winter Morning Walks and here is the one I chose...fairanna Right now this is about as long as I can read ...unless I can find something on the internet or among my own poems which or on discs any way I hope you like it and OH YES I WISH TO ANNOUNCE I SAW THE FIRST ROBIN FEEDING IN MY YARD ON SUNDAY WOW THAT IS THE EARLIEST ONE HAS ARRIVED SINCE WE MOVED HERE IN 1972
January 27
Thirty-four degrees and clear
Fifty or sixty small gray birds with crests
in a bare hackberry tree this morning early,
not one of them making a sound
or even the neat black silhouette of a sound
against the rising sun. They let me
walk up close ,then one by one
they leapt from their perches and dropped
and caught the air and swung away
into the north ,becoming a ribbon first,
and then , in the distance ,confetti,
as they sprinkled their breathtaking silence
into another bare tree.
Ted Kooser Winter Morning Walks
-
Barbara isnt it great to be in POETRY ? I am so happy even if I have some eye problems now ..the surgeon assures me it will only take 10-15 mins which I find incredible since 20 years ago it was about six weeks before I was well and free to resume a normal life..HURRAH for science...later I have read too much this day and my eyes hurt . GOD BLESS ALL>..and WELCOME HOME TO POETRY>.fairanna
-
Yes, Welcome home to poetry - it is so good to know we have a place again - get well - we will be thinking about you -
I didn't catch the name of the poem read tonight on the Lehrer Newshour to honor Updike - if anyone remembers please share - I heard most of it and it was so moving with wonderful imagery. I would love to read it again.
-
I found it - I found it!
"A Rescue"
"Today I wrote some words that will see print. Maybe they will last forever and that someone will read them there, ink making a light scratch on his mind or hers."
"I think back with greater satisfaction upon a yellow bird, a gold finch that had flown into the garden shed and could not get out, battering its wings on the deceptive light of the dusty, warped, shut window."
"Without much reflection for once, I stepped to where its panicked heart was making commotion, the flared wings drumming, and with clumsy, soft hands pinned it against a pane, held loosely cupped this agitated essence of the air, and through the open door released it like a self-flung ball to all that lovely, perishing outdoors."
-
Anna, the surgery only takes 15 minutes, and the recuperation is very quick, with few restrictions, but it's several weeks before your vision settles down and you know just where your new sight will end up. Until then, it shifts around a bit, and gets better, worse, better, etc. So a bit of patience is needed.
-
BARB, I loved the story about the panicked goldfinch. I am ready to love the man who rescued it! I would have tried to do the same.
I will try to join in on the sonnets, tho' I warn you my very favorites are still those of Shakespeare.
-
Babi you are right on the button with Shakespeare's sonnets - so much time since they were written and yet, some of the best writing ever.
Babi the story is a John Updike poem that was read in his honor on the Jim Lehrer NewsHour on PBS - I think it is a lovely piece of work - the imagery is wonderful with just the right words bringing it to another level of art.
Pat sounds like you had the surgery yourself or know someone who had it - I understand Anna had a cataract removed some 20 years ago and that is her reference - she knows it has all improved but I am sure there are those memories that are worrisome. Thanks for peeking into the Poetry Page.
-
Pat thanks so much for your comment ...I will remember that if my vision seems to misbehave...the poem by Updike was in our newspaper and I am so glad you posted it ...I have always fed birds and now have proper feeders ..but my favorite was the window sill in the breakfast room....I can still see the birds waiting in a tree for me to open the window and put seed on sill...especially when it snowed...I removed the snow on the sill and put the seed there and no sooner had I closed the window birds would fly down and eat...once there was a cardinal waiting ..he had fluffed his feathers so they looked like a red feather pouf to keep him warm....if they could see me in the window they never seemed to mine ...I liked to believe they knew a friend ....always, anna
-
Anna and Barb, yes, I had cataract surgery in September--both eyes, a week apart, and my husband had it 20 years ago, so I've seen it both ways. Anna, make your doctor tell you what symptoms are things you should call him about and what are harmless.
-
So glad the poetry discussion is back. I certainly hope fairanna's cataract surgery goes well. I can relate a little, I am in the first year of macular degeneration in my left eye. I have to take super vitamins twice a day and have had one treatment, consisting of a dru g called Avastin injected into my eyeball. You better believe I swallowed a Valium before that little escapade! The Retina Guy says we are keeping it at bay.
I will love reading your choice of sonnets. I leave on Wednesday for Mexico for three weeks, but hope to make a contribution before I leave.
bellemere
p/s/
I am taking Derek Walcott along.
-
ah a Noble poet - here is a link to his site http://nobelprize.org/nobel_prizes/literature/laureates/1992/walcott-bio.html
I looked and I do not have in my collection a book of poetry by Walcott - need to see to that - thanks for the tip and have a grand time on your trip - 3 weeks in mid-winter - how lovely - by any chance is Michoacan, Mexico on your itinerary - I have always wanted to see the mass of Butterflies that jam themselves in that corner of the world during winter.
Here is a Butterfly poem by Victor Hugo
The Genesis of the Butterfly by Victor Hugo
The dawn is smiling on the dew that covers
The tearful roses; lo, the little lovers
That kiss the buds, and all the flutterings
In jasmine bloom, and privet, of white wings,
That go and come, and fly, and peep and hide,
With muffled music, murmured far and wide.
Ah, the Spring time, when we think of all the lays
That dreamy lovers send to dreamy mays,
Of the fond hearts within a billet bound,
Of all the soft silk paper that pens wound,
The messages of love that mortals write
Filled with intoxication of delight,
Written in April and before the May time
Shredded and flown, playthings for the wind's playtime,
We dream that all white butterflies above,
Who seek through clouds or waters souls to love,
And leave their lady mistress in despair,
To flit to flowers, as kinder and more fair,
Are but torn love-letters, that through the skies
Flutter, and float, and change to butterflies
Ah in honor of our upcoming month with Sonnets I found this blog where the Shakespeare Sonnet 87 is included - the background music she uses is so lovely I think you would enjoy linking to her blog and getting the affect.
http://stageandcakes.blogspot.com/2009/01/sonnet-87-farewell-thou-art-too-dear.html
We are in for one more cold night and then it warms up - ahhh - all I want to do when it is cold is curl up and sleep - then I can't sleep at night so I end up reading turning my nights into days and days into night. I must say that it is so nice to read in bed with the lamps on - somehow when I read during the day I feel I have wasted the day :D but it is OK to sleep during the day oh my... ::)
-
Fortunately, BARB, we are now old enough that we cannot be required to be logical. ::)
-
Barb, I am not going to Michoacan this time, but i was there for Day of the Dead a few years ago, and itwas not butterfly time. But even well-traveled Mexicans admit that Michoacan is their most beautiful state. I talked about Dia de los Muertos on the old poetry site and sent a poem about it..
The capital of the state, Morelia, is lovely, and has a branch of the University of Mexico, and it has the air of a college town. There is a wonderful conservatory for classical music students with free recitals . I attended one for piano students and faculty- it was outstanding! I must not get started on Mexico, though.
-
bellemere sounds like a lovely area - I am more familiar with the north east and north west - especially the northwest about 150 miles southwest of Creel - backcountry where I have done quite a bit of backpacking with someone who has a small adobe hut in a village of thatched roofed, dirt floor, single and two room adobe houses - a different look but so satisfying - we go by way of Chihuahua - on the northeast side it is the area around Monterrey and Saltillo which was easily reached from Laredo - I say was because the drug wars have changed all that. We do not drive through any longer.
Are you driving - where is your entry point? Oh yes, I have ordered a book of Derek Walcott's poetry thanks to your saying you were taking him along on your trip.
Babi - oh how we try to stay relevant don't we :D
-
Winter Dawn
by Kenneth Slessor
At five I wake, rise, rub on the smoking pane
A port to see—water breathing in the air,
Boughs broken. The sun comes up in a golden stain,
Floats like a glassy sea-fruit. There is mist everywhere,
White and humid, and the Harbour is like plated stone,
Dull flakes of ice. One light drips out alone,
One bead of winter-red, smouldering in the steam,
Quietly over the roof-tops—another window
Touched with a crystal fire in the sun’s gullies,
One lonely star of the morning, where no stars gleam.
Far away on the rim of this great misty cup,
The sun gilds the dead suburbs as he rises up,
Diamonds the wind-cocks, makes glitter the crusted spikes
On moss-drowned gables. Now the tiles drip scarlet-wet,
Swim like birds’ paving-stones, and sunlight strikes
Their watery mirrors with a moister rivulet,
Acid and cold. Here lie those mummied Kings,
Men sleeping in houses, embalmed in stony coffins,
Till the Last Trumpet calls their galleries up,
And the suburbs rise with distant murmurings.
O buried dolls, O men sleeping invisible there,
I stare above your mounds of stone, lean down,
Marooned and lonely in this bitter air,
And in one moment deny your frozen town,
Renounce your bodies—earth falls in clouds away,
Stones lose their meaning, substance is lost in clay,
Roofs fade, and that small smoking forgotten heap,
The city, dissolves to a shell of bricks and paper,
Empty, without purpose, a thing not comprehended,
A broken tomb, where ghosts unknown sleep.
And the least crystal weed, shaken with frost,
The furred herbs of silver, the daisies round-eyed and tart,
Painted in antic china, the smallest night-flower tossed
Like a bright penny on the lawn, stirs more my heart,
Strikes deeper this morning air, than mortal towers
Dried to a common blindness, fainter than flowers,
Fordone, extinguished, as the vapours break,
And dead in the dawn. O Sun that kills with life,
And brings to breath all silent things—O Dawn,
Waken me with old earth, keep me awake!
-
Welcome
We have arrived - Our first focus on Senior Learn - February 1, 2009
This month we will focus on the Sonnet.
Let's discover how a Sonnet is constructed and let's share the Sonnets that open our hearts. Since Valentine's Day is in February a Love Sonnet would be a lovely gift for us.
Here are a few links to help us understand the Sonnet and its history.
Sonnet Central (http://www.sonnets.org/)
About the Sonnet (http://www.english.uiuc.edu/maps/sonnet.htm)
Origins of the Sonnet (http://oldweb.uwp.edu/academic/english/canary/sonnet_origin.html)
How to Write a Sonnet (http://www.ehow.com/how_3335_write-sonnet.html)
-
February
by Bill Christophersen
The cold grows colder, even as the days
grow longer, February's mercury vapor light
buffing but not defrosting the bone-white
ground, crusty and treacherous underfoot.
This is the time of year that's apt to put
a hammerlock on a healthy appetite,
old anxieties back into the night,
insomnia and nightmares into play;
when things in need of doing go undone
and things that can't be undone come to call,
muttering recriminations at the door,
and buried ambitions rise up through the floor
and pin your wriggling shoulders to the wall;
and hope's a reptile waiting for the sun.
-
Winter
by Anne Hunter
Behold the gloomy tyrant’s awful form
Binding the captive earth in icy chains;
His chilling breath sweeps o’er the watery plains,
Howls in the blast, and swells the rising storm.
See from its centre bends the rifted tower,
Threat’ning the lowly vale with frowning pride,
O’er the scared flocks that seek its sheltering side,
A fearful ruin o’er their heads to pour.
While to the cheerful hearth and social board
Content and ease repair, the sons of want
Receive from niggard fate their pittance scant;
And where some shed bleak covert may afford,
Wan poverty, amidst her meagre host
Casts round her haggard eyes, and shivers at the frost.
-
old anxieties back into the night,
insomnia and nightmares into play;
when things in need of doing go undone
and things that can't be undone come to call,
muttering recriminations at the door,
Ah, so true. Nothing like a night of insomnia to set the old tapes to playing in one's mind. "muttering recriminations at the door". I love that line.
Poems, or prose for that matter, which speak of ice, bitter cold and dreary skies, leave me feeling chilled. I remember then to be grateful that I live in a warmer climate, even tho' I sometimes forget in the heat of mid-summer.
-
Oh yes, Babi that thought was so exact it made me feel better - now I know it is not just me but a common complaint - seems less daunting to take care of myself when it is nothing more than a seasonal sneeze.
-
Just checked in and enjoyed the poems posted, and the thoughts which are as important ...every poem speaks to me...reminds me of something...perhaps age has something to do with that......so many memoires awake when I read a poem....reminders of things I have seen or imagined ...I am having trouble reading and have to limit my time doing so today was a day I woke to bewildering bright son and wrote a poem sorry not a sonnet but will try to find some to post this month ....I can only speak for me ...but a single word, or a single sunrise. a single cloud makes me write ..demands I write and this morning was one of those days and here is what I wrote
This am I wrote a poem because it seemed it was just a few days ago when my dogs would wake me to go out the sky was still dark..and night arrived in mid afternoon ...I dont know whether a poem I write is good or bad ...I dont think I have a choice either way All I know something in me says WRITE so for better or worse here is today's
Just a month ago
December quickly moved through
the shortest day of the year
when early morn held a deep dark sky
and night arrived before dinner time
now on February 1 the sun arrives
before I am ready to open my eyes
no leaves to shade its golden light
it blasts its way through the winter limbs
and shatters my sleep
with a detonation of bright blonde dye
it seems to scream WAKE UP
you sleepy head....
while I would prefer to stay in bed
I cant ignore the summons
of a new day ...
and reluctantly obey
one does'nt want to waste
a minute of this day...
a minute of this life
anna alexander February 1, 2009®
-
Barb, this time of year my Mexico is the Yucatan, specifically isla Mujeres, off the coast of Cancun. for the first few years we went there, it was undiscovered, and very reasonable. Now, ten years later, it is becoming very well known with a lot of hotels and condos and more on the drawing board. Where I hope ;they will remain for a while.
do you speak Spanish? have you heard a poem called Volveran las oscuras golondrinas ? They will come back, the dark swallows. It is beautiful and I am trying to memorize it.
-
I have very little Spanish - enough to get by considering where I live - it was something I kept putting off and still keep putting off - I will look and find the poem - often a poem spoken in either Spanish or French is music in itself.
Interesting that you say the Yucatan was undiscovered because I have several friends who have recently purchased land on the tip of the Yucatan. Not to develop but for themselves to enjoy and later build a home.
Anna glad to see you and your poem is always an addition that we love reading. As I shared on Seniors & Friends it was spot on with the sun waking us after a dark time that is coming to an end. I am ready for Spring even if the weather has not caught the Spring bug yet - Think I will pick up some flowers for the house - yellow, white and purples with a bit of pink and blue is the fresh colors I crave - I am off to the flower sales at our local HEB... :)
-
Volveran las oscuras golondrinas
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=elJp7z3655k&feature=related
Volverán las oscuras golondrinas
Volverán las oscuras golondrinas
en tu balcón sus nidos a colgar,
y otra vez con el ala a sus cristales,
jugando llamarán;
pero aquellas que el vuelo refrenaban
tu hermosura y mi dicha al contemplar;
aquellas que aprendieron nuestros nombres,
esas... ¡no volverán!
Volverán las tupidas madreselvas
de tu jardín las tapias a escalar,
y otra vez a la tarde, aun mas hermosas,
sus flores abrirán;
pero aquellas cuajadas de rocío,
cuyas gotas mirábamos temblar
y caer, como lágrimas del día...
esas... ¡no volverán!
Volverán del amor en tus oídos
las palabras ardientes a sonar;
tu corazón, de su profundo sueño
tal vez despertará;
pero mudo y absorto y de rodillas
como se adora a Dios ante su altar,
como yo te he querido... desengáñate,
¡así no te querrán!
Gustavo Adolfo Becquer
Using Babel Fish here is an English translation
They will return the dark wanderers in your balcony its nests to hang,
and again with the wing to his crystals,
playing they will call;
but those that the flight checked
your beauty and my happiness when contemplating;
those that learned our names,
those… they will not return!
They will return dense madreselvas
of your garden the mud walls to climb,
and again to afternoon, even more beautiful,
their flowers will abrirán;
but those curds of dew,
whose drops we watched to shake and to fall,
like tears of the day…
those… they will not return!
They will return from the love
in your ears the ardent words to sounding;
your heart, of its deep dream perhaps it will wake up;
but dumb and engrossed and of knees as it is adored to God before his altar, as I have wanted…
desengáñate to you, thus they will not want to you!
-
I did take the trouble to look up sonnets and here is the one I found It is much easier to read on the computer ..in a book the letters are too small right now and gives me a pain in my eye ..oooh but this is by one of the first poets I studied and have loved her every since
Sonnet
Love is not all: It is not meat nor drink
Nor slumber nor a roof against the rain,
Nor yet a floating spar to men that sink
and rise and sink and rise and sink again.
Love cannot fill the thickened lung with breath
Nor clean the blood, nor set the fractured bone;
Yet many a man is making friends with death
even as I speak, for lack of love alone.
It well may be that in a difficult hour,
pinned down by need and moaning for release
or nagged by want past resolutions power,
I might be driven to sell you love for peace,
Or trade the memory of this night for food.
It may well be. I do not think I would.
--EsVM Edna st Vincent Millay
-
I enjoyed your poem, FAIRANNA, but then, I enjoy all your poems.
Would this be a sonnet? It's fourteen rhyming lines, but the format is different from the norm. It's by W.H. Davies.
What is life, if, full of care,
We have no time to stand and stare,
No time to stand beneath the boughs
And stare as long as sheep or cows.
No time to see, when woods we pass,
Where squirrels hide their nuts in grass.
No time to see, in broad daylight,
Streams full of stars, like skies at night.
No time to turn at Beauty's glance,
And watch her feet, how they can dance.
No time to wait till her mouth can
Enrich that smile her eyes began.
A poor life this if, full of care,
We have no time to stand and stare.
-
Hi Anna, Barbara and all poetry lovers,
I am so far behind. I haven't read any of the sonnets yet. I am looking forward to it. Will come back later.
-
Thanks Anna for sharing a Sonnet with us and glad to see your post Hats - we have so many famous Sonnets and from the material explaining the Sonnet there seems to be more than one form
Babi I like the poem - the concept of no time is poignant - and yes, you are right, it is 14 lines - but from what I understand the makeup of a Sonnet is more than the number of lines - the format is sort of an argument - so that if the first 8 or 10 lines spoke of no time than the last 4 or 6 would be either showing the consequences of no time or the way to see we have time or something that is an argument to the no time thesis in the first part of the poem.
Maybe we should think about sharing the well known sonnets for a bit till we can get the hang of it and then go a field and find the work of other poets. I wasn't going to take that approach but now I think I will - by reading some of the well known sonnets I think it will be a way to better understand this form of poetry. I believe Shakespeare is the one with some 150 Sonnets - someplace here in this house I have a delightful little book with lovely illustrations for each of his sonnets - I am going to spend some time today and see if I can find it.
In the meantime here is one of his sonnets I found on-line
Sonnet 97
How like a winter hath my absence been
How like a winter hath my absence been
From thee, the pleasure of the fleeting year!
What freezings have I felt, what dark days seen!
What old December's bareness every where!
And yet this time removed was summer's time,
The teeming autumn, big with rich increase,
Bearing the wanton burden of the prime,
Like widow'd wombs after their lords' decease:
Yet this abundant issue seem'd to me
But hope of orphans and unfather'd fruit;
For summer and his pleasures wait on thee,
And, thou away, the very birds are mute;
Or, if they sing, 'tis with so dull a cheer
That leaves look pale, dreading the winter's near.
Reading the poem sounds like one of separation - although the poem refers to winter it is really during summer and autumn the separation takes place - and it only feels like winter or like a barren womb and then Shakespeare talks about hope using the idea of summer, or becoming pregnant without a legal father like unfather'd fruit, and that waiting in hope even the birds are mute -
This is not an easy poem is it to figure out how a Sonnet is constructed - we will get there - looks like I need to do some reading!
Looking at the endings though and we can see ABAB CDCD EFEF BB - and now I forget but when Timothy Steele joined us on the old site we learned of rhyming endings where the word is not spelled with the same group of letters however, the word sounds the same - and that had a identifying label that I forgot what it was.
Anna do you remember - I'll look to see if I have his book because I remember buying the one where he teaches poetry rather than a book of his poems. Later - today is Monday and bunches to do...
-
Hats Welcome ...so glad you found us here ...you always wrote such unique and wonderful comments....you may not write it but you FEEL and UNDERSTAND it ...Barbara I have that book as well ...I did write a sonnet for the poetry class I took at a local university ...I will see if I can find it ..but I feel you are right there are different ways and still be called a sonnet but darn if I can remember them ....since my eye isn't good for reading small print I will allow you to do the research and share with us ,...I HOPE AT THE END OF THE MONTH I WILL UNDERSTAND IT BETTER MYSELF....
!!!!!!!
-
Thanks, Barb. I knew that Davies poem didn't look like any sonnet I had ever read, so I appreciate the further explanation of 'sonnet'. The one you posted, Sonnet #97, that is Shakespeare, isn't it?
I have a "Pocket Book of Modern Verse", but I'm not finding sonnets in it. The editor seems to prefer the longer works of the poets.
-
Barb, you found it! I only have the copy in my language book. But the acccompanying tape is beautiful/
Last stanza is difficult to translate.
The ardent words of love will again sound in your ears,
your heart, too, perhaps from its profound sleep will awaken;
but silent, in ecstacy, and on his knees, as one adores God before his altar, as I have loved you,
Disillusion yourself; they will not love you like that.
-
Reading over "Volveran" the rejected lover sounds pretty bitter, doesn't he?
I love the way the thought wanders in Shakespeare's sonnet. Eight lines that explore a thought. then 4 that find new meaning in it; then the kicker - a two-line summary of the whole thing. Is that typical of all sonnets?
It is in Edna St. vincent Millay (yes, I know she is out of favor now) when she wrote:
"I only know that summer sang in me
A little while that somehow sings no more."
But not in Wilfred Owen's Anthem for Doomed Youth. He splits it 8 and 6.
But that last line, "And each slow dusk a drawing-down of blinds" is so powerfulan expression of grief that lasts a lifetime. I see the parents of the dead soldier drawing their blinds at dusk and marking the passage of another long sorrowing day.
Gotta go weigh my loaded suitcase, but but Wilfred Own reminds me of Pat Barker's superb novel Regeneration where Siefgfried Sasa oon and Owen appear, sharing a convalescent ward for shell-shocked soldiers. they both return to the trenches. Sassoon lives; Owen dies right before the armistice. There is a scene where Sassoon, an established poet, gives advice to Owen who is trying to be one. Today more people have read Owen than Sassoon, i think.
Be well everyone. Back in three weeks. Will have loads of sonnets to read, right?
-
Thought I would contribute this one by Shakeseare; it's less well known than some of his others.
XXIX
When, in disgrace with fortune and men's eyes,
I all alone beweep my outcast state
And trouble deaf heaven with my bootless cries
And look upon myself and curse my fate,
Wishing me like to one more rich in hope,
Featured like him, like him with friends possess'd,
Desiring this man's art and that man's scope,
With what I most enjoy contented least;
Yet in those thoughts myself almost despising,
Haply I think on thee, and then my state,
Like to the lark at break of day arising
From sullen earth, sings hymns at heaven's gate;
For thy sweet love remember'd such wealth brings
That then I scorn to change my state with kings.
-
ahh and thanks for the reminder that it was Shakepeare's poem that included the famous phrase "the lark at break of day arising"- words so lovely and image as glorious - from shame and dispare to faith in love that allows us the courage to hope - love it - thanks Babi.
-
I always got a kick out of this John Keats Sonnet and it seems perfect for our winter evening.
On the Grasshopper and Cricket
The poetry of earth is never dead:
When all the birds are faint with the hot sun,
And hide in cooling trees, a voice will run
From hedge to hedge about the new-mown mead;
That is the Grasshopper's--he takes the lead
In summer luxury,--he has never done
With his delights; for when tired out with fun
He rests at ease beneath some pleasant weed.
The poetry of earth is ceasing never:
On a lone winter evening, when the frost
Has wrought a silence, from the stove there shrills
The Cricket's song, in warmth increasing ever,
And seems to one in drowsiness half lost,
The Grasshopper's among some grassy hills.
Interesting use of endings ABBA ABBA CDE CDE
I can see the turn though - with the line ending in a colon - and then the last two lines wraps it all together by brining back the Grasshopper.
So far with the links in the heading I have read about the Italian Sonnet and the Shakespeare Sonnet and the Spencer Sonnet - when I read the site about how to write a sonnet the author of the material on the site says, there is more freedom now in the twentyfirst century than ever with Sonnet endings not rhyming.
-
I liked the Keats sonnet, BARB. I've never read that one before, but I've always liked the idea of crickets on the hearth. Didn't know grasshoppers did a similar chirring 'song'.
-
It seems a lot of poems are sonnets I just enjoy poetry and have never worried what kind it is called ...in any case I have found via the internet a lot of poems I loved but had no idea they were a sonnet I guess my feeling a poem is a poem is a poem below is one I found a poem whose verse is familiar and I have a book by Donne so shall look and see if any are determined to be sonnets .. I guess it also proves you are NEVER too old to learn!
Death, be not proud (Holy Sonnet 10)
by John Donne
Death, be not proud, though some have called thee
Mighty and dreadful, for thou are not so;
For those whom thou think'st thou dost overthrow
Die not, poor Death, nor yet canst thou kill me.
From rest and sleep, which but thy pictures be,
Much pleasure; then from thee much more must flow,
And soonest our best men with thee do go,
Rest of their bones, and soul's delivery.
Thou'art slave to fate, chance, kings, and desperate men,
And dost with poison, war, and sickness dwell,
And poppy'or charms can make us sleep as well
And better than thy stroke; why swell'st thou then?
One short sleep past, we wake eternally,
And death shall be no more; Death, thou shalt die.
-
One short sleep past, we wake eternally,
And death shall be no more; Death, thou shalt die.
Wow - I have heard the saying Death be not proud but never have I read the poem - quite a message - thanks Anna - those last lines are really something to dwell on for a bit - sheesh but oh so true. I am still thinking on how upon death there are no more endings to endure - hmmm.
I wonder now the rational for various forms of poetry - we are so loose today with what we call a poem that I am getting lost in what is a poem and what is a thought and what is prose - with visual art there are elements to admire and evaluate - but I do not know of a simple list of elements that make a poem. Off to do some research - later - have my weekly dinner with a dear friend tonight - we get into all sorts of discussions - it is a joy in my life.
-
Welcome to our Poetry Page.
FairAnna and Barbara will alternate creating a focus for us - In the past the poetry page was a haven for those of us who listen to words that open our hearts, and imagination, and allowed our feelings be known about the poems we share - We are looking forward to continuing that tradition.
(http://seniorlearn.org/bookclubs/poetry/poetryflower.JPG)
This month we will focus on the Sonnet.
Let's discover how a Sonnet is constructed and let's share the Sonnets that open our hearts. Since Valentine's Day is in February a Love Sonnet would be a lovely gift for us.
Here are a few links to help us understand the Sonnet and its history.
Sonnet Central (http://www.sonnets.org/)
About the Sonnet (http://www.english.uiuc.edu/maps/sonnet.htm)
Origins of the Sonnet (http://oldweb.uwp.edu/academic/english/canary/sonnet_origin.html)
How to Write a Sonnet (http://www.ehow.com/how_3335_write-sonnet.html)
Discussion Leaders: BarbStAubrey (augere@ix.netcom.com) & Fairanna (fairanna@verizon.net)
-
This one is old and well-known, but it's a favorite of mine. From Elizabeth Barrett Browning:
"If Thou Must Love Me"
If thou must love me, let it be for nought
Except love's sake only. Do not say
"I love her for her smile - her look - her way
Of speaking gently, - her trick of thought
That falls in well with mine, and certes brought
A sense of pleasant ease on such a day" --
For these things in themselves, Beloved, may
Be changed, or change for thee, - and love, so wrought,
May be unwrought so. Neither love me for
Thine own dear pity's wiping my cheeks dry, -
A creature might forget to weep, who bore
Thy comfort long, and lose thy love thereby!
But love me for love's sake, that evermore
Thou mayst love on, throught love's eternity.
-
Barbara funny I have read this poem many times but I never really considered it well Being here made me do just that ..I have others who can say they think I am wrong or offer other ideas about its meaning,,,,,it seems the poet is telling death not to be proud because he is there for everyone in the end.,,,I see a smug death when dealing with fragile humanity ...but he reminds death he isnt the last thing that happens.,..we pass on to another life...and there in that new place death does not exist ever...and so in the end humanity goes on forever but death is no more...his life was brief but humanity remains... does anyone else have an opinion ????
-
It is wonderful to see you ladies leading the Poetry discussion, once again, for all of us.
Thank you fairAnna for your beautfully written poem. It speaks to me!!! In actuality, it screamed at me.
-
Here I am on a very cold day , the temp is 25 , the wind chill 19 which is unusual for this area..I was supposed to go out but decided my task can wait ,,so I am warmed my heavy robe and researching sonnets I found one and hope you lile it too..
Spenserian sonnet.
The first poet known to modify Petarch’s form, Sir Edmund Spenser kept the structure but introduced an abab-bcbc-cdcd-ee rhyme scheme.
From Amoretti
Edmund Spenser (c. 1552-1599)
What guile is this, that those her golden tresses
She doth attire under a net of gold;
And with sly skill so cunningly them dresses,
That which is gold or hair, may scarce be told?
Is it that men’s frail eyes, which gaze too bold,
She may entangle in that golden snare;
And being caught may craftily enfold
Their weaker hearts, which are not yet well aware?
Take heed therefore, mine eyes, how ye do stare
Henceforth too rashly on that guileful net,
In which if ever ye entrapped are,
Out of her bands ye by no means shall get.
Folly it were for any being free,
To covet fetters, though they golden be.
-
ah is that our sweet revenge do you think Anna - that death is avenged when humanity continues ;)
I like the idea however I also like the idea of embracing death as a friend since we will all meet death -
Reminds me of the old childhood story to learn how a person will react during danger - if a bear comes on your path while taking a walk what would you do and I remember my son saying he would give the bear a piece of candy -
I think that is where I am with death - rather then making death smug or haughty which says death has power over me - hmmm maybe so but I would rather we be friends, death and I, so that we can walk together towards my dropping my human form.
Last month I had the most astonishing revelation from a dying homeless man - my friend Charlotte and I were at our monthly visit to Mary House where the homeless can go to die so they do not have to die on the streets
Father Rick from St. Ed's says mass and afterwards we all partake of a pot luck supper - There are as many as 20 and as few as 10 present during these evenings.
During Mass, said around the big table, after the Gospel there is about 15 minutes of discussion with most everyone contributing and this young [about 35] year old with broken English, using a tone as if checking with Father Rick if he is on target says; we are all Spirit - that we know how to be spirit - we are on this earth in a physical form to learn how to become human - that it is only during a life on earth we have the opportunity to learn to be human.
I was blown away with this thought and it has held me in its grasp ever since - they young man died two weeks ago but he made a lasting impression on my thinking.
-
Alf - so glad to see you poke your nose in - thanks for your thoughts.
-
Virginibus Puerisque . . .
Alan Seeger (1888-1916)
I care not that one listen if he lives
For aught but life's romance, nor puts above
All life's necessities the need to love,
Nor counts his greatest wealth what Beauty gives.
But sometime on an afternoon in spring,
When dandelions dot the fields with gold,
And under rustling shade a few weeks old
'Tis sweet to stroll and hear the bluebirds sing,
Do you, blond head, whom beauty and the power
Of being young and winsome have prepared
For life's last privilege that really pays,
Make the companion of an idle hour
These relics of the time when I too fared
Across the sweet fifth lustrum of my days.
-
FAIRANNA, I also thought Donne's poem meant that death is not truly a victor, that the spirit lives on.
"I also like the idea of embracing death as a friend since we will all meet death-"
BARB, I once read a similar expression of this idea as being part of a Southwestern Indian's beliefs. (Don't remember the details, sorry) He said that a true warrior thinks of death as a friend standing always just behind his shoulder; that if one lives life as though death may come at any moment, it adds much to the way one lives. This is, of course, a paraphrase that reflects my memory of the idea.
I read this Masefield sonnet several times, and though I was caught by the images of his 'probing' and searching, I confess I do not understand the poem.
Any opinions on this?
SONNET
FLESH, I have knocked at many a dusty door,
Gone down full many a midnight lane,
Probed in old walls and felt along the floor,
Pressed in blind hope the lighted window-pane,
But useless all, though sometimes when the moon
Was full in heaven and the sea was full,
Along my body's alleys came a tune
Played in the tavern by the Beautiful.
Then for an instant I have felt at point
To find and seize her, whosoe'er she be,
Whether some saint whose glory doth anoint
Those whom she loves, or but a part of me,
Or something that the things not understood
Make for their uses out of flesh and blood.
-
Babi I understand the Indian belief as well. A few days before my husbands death we were trying to help him and he pushed us away and said LET ME GO HOME LET ME GO HOME now I knew he was speaking of his heavenly home and true we were trying to keep him here ..for us ...that night I held him as usual and said a prayer when I said amen to my outward prayer I added a silent prayer that we understood he needed to be with God and said we were ready and later that night he died quietly in his sleep,
I think that some poems are written at a time when death seems to reign...ie plagues, war, pestilence and perhaps Donne wrote his poem with that in mind..this made me think of another poem
it seems to be in the same thought wave
the poem you posted I understandAlexander Pope - The Dying Christian to His Soul
Vital spark of heav’nly flame!
Quit, O quit this mortal frame:
Trembling, hoping, ling’ring, flying,
O the pain, the bliss of dying!
Cease, fond Nature, cease thy strife,
And let me languish into life.
Hark! they whisper; angels say,
Sister Spirit, come away!
What is this absorbs me quite?
Steals my senses, shuts my sight,
Drowns my spirits, draws my breath?
Tell me, my soul, can this be death?
The world recedes; it disappears!
Heav’n opens on my eyes! my ears
With sounds seraphic ring!
Lend, lend your wings! I mount! I fly!
O Grave! where is thy victory?
O Death! where is thy sting?
,,,in fact I think we all do in various ways....we want to live life to the fullest ....we want to know and understand it all a lust for life , an eagerness to know it all .....not just the love of a person but of all things...and sometimes all that eludes us ..I am enjoying reading and trying to comprehend the poet and the poem something we miss when we read alone....
Added: on July 24th, 2005 at 4:58 AM | Viewed: 1851 times | Comments (1)
-
"Cease, fond Nature, cease thy strife,
And let me languish into life."
That does say it quite beautifully, doesn't it? However, FAIRANNA, if you understand the poem I posted, please explain it to me. :-\
-
Babi well I had split my comments and this was what I was saying about the poem you posted....some days I am a "bit" ditsie ...
,,,in fact I think we all do in various ways....we want to live life to the fullest ....we want to know and understand it all a lust for life , an eagerness to know it all .....not just the love of a person but of all things...and sometimes all that eludes us ..I am enjoying reading and trying to comprehend the poet and the poem something we miss when we read alone....
-
FAIRANNA, I read your remarks and re-read the poem, and feel I understand it a bit better now. He was looking for the Beautiful, of whatever kind, and from whatever source. That makes sense to me.
-
Remember - Christina Rossetti (1830-1894)
Remember me when I am gone away,
Gone far away into the silent land;
When you can no more hold me by the hand,
Nor I half turn to go yet turning stay.
Remember me when no more, day by day,
You tell me of our future that you plann'd:
Only remember me; you understand
It will be late to counsel then or pray.
Yet if you should forget me for a while
And afterwards remember, do not grieve:
For if the darkness and corruption leave
A vestige of the thoughts that once I had,
Better by far you should forget and smile
Than that you should remember and be sad
-
Barbara I have read Rossetti and I love the last lines of this poem....I have told my family if I should die here in my home I want no tears but for them to gather in the living and turn on lights on the Christmas tree I have left ready now for six years ...and tell all the funny stories...and I WILL BE GLAD
below is what is called a modern day sonnet ...it is freer in rhythm and I am glad to know that some poems I have read or written are sonnets too....
Swan Song by Gerald Stern
A bunch of old snakeheads down by the pond
carrying on the swan tradition -- hissing
inside their white bodies, raising and lowering their heads
like ostriches, regretting only the sad ritual
that forced them to waddle back into the water
after their life under the rocks, wishing they could lie again
in the sun
and dream of spreading their terrifying wings;
wishing, this time, they could sail through the sky like
horses,
their tails rigid, their white manes fluttering,
their mouths open, their sharp teeth flashing,
drops of mercy pouring from their eyes,
bolts of wisdom from their foreheads.
I think a lot of people reach that stage where they wish they had done things differently...
-
ah yes, but I have decided that after an experience is when we are smarter so of course if we had those smarts going into the experience we would have made a different decision - how we chastise ourselves don't we or we wish we had a different life -
My good friend turns 90 next month and while we were at the Conversation Cafe at Seaton Cove talking about What we are becoming she acknowledged that she now has limitations that keep her from doing the things that brought such satisfaction and joy into her life - I realized that we all have limitations regardless our age - and that our dreams are often greater then our reality will permit - I guess for those of us with large imaginations it is like being in the candy factory and having to limit our sampling so we do not end up ill - and then trying to choose one or two from such an array - life can be a tease can't it.
this is not a Sonnet but how pertinant although reading it you have to put your wry and ironic face on or else it sounds like a monster talking.
Frustration
If I had a shiny gun,
I could have a world of fun
Speeding bullets through the brains
Of the folk who give me pains;
Or had I some poison gas,
I could make the moments pass
Bumping off a number of
People whom I do not love.
But I have no lethal weapon-
Thus does Fate our pleasure step on!
So they still are quick and well
Who should be, by rights, in hell.
Dorothy Parker
And then a Sonnet by Milton from another more polite era
XVI
When I consider how my light is spent,
E're half my days, in this dark world and wide,
And that one Talent which is death to hide,
Lodg'd with me useless, though my Soul more bent
To serve therewith my Maker, and present
My true account, least he returning chide,
Doth God exact day-labour, light deny'd,
I fondly ask; But patience to prevent
That murmur, soon replies, God doth not need
Either man's work or his own gifts, who best
Bear his milde yoak, they serve him best, his State
Is Kingly. Thousands at his bidding speed
And post o're Land and Ocean without rest:
They also serve who only stand and waite
-
Parker was a rather disgruntled person I think ..she has sharp wit and I have always felt she was not really a happy person....Milton's last line must have been used in many speeches because I recognize it .....
my surgery is scheduled early Tues so I have no idea when or how quickly my new lens will work so many have given glowing words about their surgery but since I am having a nearsighted lens inserted to go with my farsighted one I am a bit concerned how quickly it will work if it does well I shall come in and say HURRAH !!!!
-
wishing you a HURRAH :-*
-
I was pleased to read the Milton sonnet and discover the source of "They also serve who only stand and wait". More than once I have heard that line quoted in a military setting, where soldiers are rushed to some place where they then just stand, or sit, and wait, and wait, and wait!
I read some of Thomas Hardy's sonnets. He uses a somewhat different form, but the content tends to be as gloomy as his prose. Here is one of them, somewhat lighter than others.
III
I will be faithful to thee; aye, I will!
And Death shall choose me with a wondering eye
That he did not discern and domicile
One his by right ever since that last Good-bye!
I have no care for friends, or kin, or prime
Of manhood who deal gently with me here;
Amid the happy people of my time
Who work their love's fulfilment, I appear
Numb as a vane that cankers on its point,
True to the wind that kissed ere canker came:
Despised by souls of Now, who would disjoint
The mind from memory, making Life all aim,
My old dexterities in witchery gone,
And nothing left for Love to look upon.
-
Wow that poem sounds like an old person who is accepting his age and the things left behind,....
There are times I feel the same way...and am so glad I have memories to cherish because sometimes that is all one ends with ...
I have a book of all of his poems waiting to share when whatever month we look into his works ....well I am busy with eye drops etc and the only thing I will have to get up at six am tomorrow to be at the hospital by 8 and no breakfast before I go,,,I am hungry already...warmer here than usual for this time of the year and the robins in my yard promise spring is near...hopefully...
-
Rest and sleep good tonight Anna to build up your nerves - you will be fine - really!
Spring is around the corner here as well...
Sonnet 98
by William Shakespeare (1609)
From you have I been absent in the spring
When proud-pied April, dress’d in all his trim,
Hath put a spirit of youth in every thing,
That heavy Saturn laugh’d and leap’d with him.
Yet nor the lays of birds, nor the sweet smell
Of different flowers in odour and in hue,
Could make me any summer’s story tell,
Or from their proud lap pluck them where they grew:
Nor did I wonder at the lily’s white,
Nor praise the deep vermilion in the rose;
They were but sweet, but figures of delight,
Drawn after you, you pattern of all those.
Yet seem’d it winter still, and you away,
As with your shadow I with these did play.
-
Which encourages me to post a favorite Shakespeare sonnet:
[u]XXX[/u]
When to the sessions of sweet silent thouight
I summon up remembrance of things past,
I sigh the lack of many a thing I sought,
And with old woes new wail my dear time's
waste:
Then can I drown an eye, unused to flow,
For precious friends hid in death's dateless night,
And weep afresh love's long since cancell'd woe,
And moan the expense of many a vanish'd sight:
Then can I grieve at grievances foregone,
And heavily from woe to woe tell o'er
The sad account of fore-bemoaned moan,
Which I new pay as if not paid before.
But if the while I think on thee, dear friend,
All losses are restored and sorrows end.
-
Oh Babi - I have not ever read this one and it is soooo perfect - thank you, thank you - I must read it over and over - so true - and yet, there are small reminders of loss that this poem suggests to me I would be better finding another reaction then to repeat the moans, tears, and unrequited longings of my past...
Hope Anna is doing well - she is on my mind this morning...
-
I like to read poetry ,mostly to myself,but sometimes out loud when others are around. I guess that goes back to high school days when the English teachers would either read aloud to the class or the students would read aloud. I especially liked the discussions that would follow. Does that sort of activity stiil happen today?
I read New Yorker Magazine for the poems and will sometimes cut them out to save in a file.
Poems seem to touch deeply in a way that defies description. I was just re-reading some poems of Kenneth Patchen from books that I collected in the 70's.
One of my favorite contemporary poets is Mary Oliver. I love the imagery in her nature poems.
-
So glad you posted Pike - I wonder as well if children hear poetry in school as we did when we were young. We were still of the generation where we memorized poems but not the long ones that my parents were memorizing when they where in grade school.
Pike, this month we are focusing on the Sonnet - so please if you find a Sonnet in your collection or online would you share it with us -
Each month we focused on either a poet or a type of Poetry - Next month, if Anna is up to it, her plan is to focus us on the work of Thomas Hardy.
Here is a Sonnet from another poet we focused on a couple of years ago
Glanmore Sonnets
by Seamus Heaney
Soft corrugations in the boortree's trunk,
Its green young shoots, its rods like freckled solder:
It was our bower as children, a greenish, dank
And snapping memory as I get older.
And elderberry I have learned to call it.
I love its blooms like saucers brimmed with meal,
Its berries a swart caviar of shot,
A buoyant spawn, a light bruised out of purple.
Elderberry? It is shires dreaming wine.
Boortree is bower tree, where I played 'touching tongues'
And felt another's texture quick on mine.
So, etymologist of roots and graftings,
I fall back to my tree-house and would crouch
Where small buds shoot and flourish in the hush.
-
PIKE, I enjoyed the occasional opportunity to read out loud, too. I remember finding a couple of sonnets..I thought they were by Shakespeare, but I can't find them now... that were wickedly funny. Some faithless female was getting the needle with all of Shakespeare's skill. I and my listeners got a good laugh from them.
BARB, one of my fond memories of school was the woman who would come in to teach poetry. She liked to read us those 'poems that tell a story', and I still remember portions of them.
I had never heard of a 'boortree', but the name caught my imagination.
I went searching, and found this...too good not to share.
But elder has always been a plant of mystery and controversy, clouded in superstition and folklore, associated with fairies and magic. In the countryside, mature cut-back elder is valued as a sturdy basis for hedging while small boys once used the soft-centred twigs as pea-shooters to direct shots at their companions.
This opportunist bush/tree and haunt of old graveyards, rubbish heaps, roadsides and drains has always swung between the poles of acceptability and usefulness, and distaste. The young leaves have a stale smell yet the flowers are fragrant. Its very anatomy is contradictory: too big to be a bush, too small to be a tree. The roots and heartwood are as hard as ebony, its branches soft and pithy.
There is folklore that places it as the wood of the Cross, or of the tree from which Judas hanged himself! There is an old Scottish verse that goes: "Boor-tree, boor-tree, crookit rung/ Never straight and never strong/ Ever bush and never tree/ Since Our Lord was nailed to ye."
Some country folk would have a bush near the door to ward off evil, although a more practical reason would be to keep flies away. Cattle will loiter under elders seeking rest from summer insects. Perhaps it has to do with the smell of the leaves.
-
A report to all is in the following poem HURRAH
I had forgotten how clear colors used to be
How special to stand in front of the mirror's
Glass , beneath a brilliant light and see
Behind me on the wall, paintings bright and clear
A small embroidered verse and read it's message
As if it were close and near, outside the window
Some wild vine had climbed the tree and now
Each leaf and tendril again appeared
No longer with a touch of gray but brilliant hues
How special it is to be my age and see
As if I am the twenty two I often claim to be
How medical science has reached a time
When instead of the thick and heavy lens
Used in the past , cataracts can be denied
And light and color and shape can
Bring the world once more into plain view......
a thank you for Dr Spellman and his crew....
anna alexander February 10, 2009, 10:26 PM
-
How wonderful, Fairanna! Both the poem and the splendid results. I know Dr. Spellman and 'his crew' will cherish that poem.
-
Great Anna - just Great - and yes, wonderful poem - I am so pleased for you...
interesting bit about the tree/bush Babi - I had not heard about the elder - so many folktails that we no longer take to heart and when was the last time you saw a young boy with a sling shot sticking out of his back pocket.
-
I found a link to a place where a Shakespearen sonnet is shown and then what they call an English Translation now what do you think of them
Shakespeare's Sonnet 83: I Never Saw That You Did Painting Need
--------------------------------------------------------------------------------
I never saw that you did painting need,
And therefore to your fair no painting set;
I found, or thought I found, you did exceed
The barren tender of a poet's debt:
And therefore have I slept in your report,
That you yourself, being extant, well might show
How far a modern quill doth come too short,
Speaking of worth, what worth in you doth grow.
This silence for my sin you did impute,
Which shall be most my glory being dumb;
For I impair not beauty being mute,
When others would give life, and bring a tomb.
There lives more life in one of your fair eyes
Than both your poets can in praise devise.
Sonnet 83: Translation to modern English
--------------------------------------------------------------------------------
I've never thought that representations of you need elaboration, so I haven't described your beauty in elaborate verse. I could see - or thought I could see - that you were above the skills of any poet. Therefore, I've made no effort to represent you so that you yourself, by virtue of your very existence, would be able to demonstrate how far short modern verse would come in representing quality - the real quality that you possess. You regarded my silence as a fault, but I'm proud of it because my silence doesn't detract from your beauty, whereas others destroy it by trying to bring it to life. There's more life in one of your beautiful eyes than all of your poets can invent in their praise of you.
-
Personally, I think the modern version of Sonnet 83 is more understandable, but hardly convincing as an excuse to the lady. ;)
A sonnet about sonnets, by the brilliant Christina Rosetti:
"Sonnets are full of love..."
Sonnets are full of love, and this my tome
Has many sonnets: so here now shall be
One sonnet more, a love sonnet, from me
To her whose heart is my heart's quiet home,
To my first Love, my Mother, on whose knee
I learnt love-lore that is not troublesome;
Whose service is my special dignity,
And she my loadstar while I go and come
And so because you love me, and because
I love you, Mother, I have woven a wreath
Of rhymes wherewith to crown your honored name:
In you not fourscore years can dim the flame
Of love, whose blessed glow transcends the laws
Of time and change and mortal life and death.
-
No sonnet but just a poem written in 1995 ---found this year while going through boxes of old papers. written on lined paper and the card near...Happy Valentine Day to everyone because I know each of you are remembered by someone special as well....
Valentines Day 1995
Last year your card addressed to my love on Sweethearts Day
Is cherished more this year
It was the omega of ones
That marked days back then
I am still your sweetheart
Just as you are mine-
NOTHING has changed
I am still blessed by the memory of your smile -
It warms my heart .
I know somewhere you still say
"You are my love on Sweetheart's Day"
written on the date above by
anna alexander for her Bob
who left her in March 1994
to return to "His Home"
-
Here is an old friend -- Pablo Neruda
Love Sonnet XI
I crave your mouth, your voice, your hair.
Silent and starving, I prowl through the streets.
Bread does not nourish me, dawn disrupts me, all day
I hunt for the liquid measure of your steps.
I hunger for your sleek laugh,
your hands the color of a savage harvest,
hunger for the pale stones of your fingernails,
I want to eat your skin like a whole almond.
I want to eat the sunbeam flaring in your lovely body,
the sovereign nose of your arrogant face,
I want to eat the fleeting shade of your lashes,
and I pace around hungry, sniffing the twilight,
hunting for you, for your hot heart,
like a puma in the barrens of Quitratue.
-
This is a photo of the lake and volcano not far from Quitratue in a place called Villarrica in Southern Chile - Quitrature is flatter with a stream flowing through from the snow melt
http://tiny.cc/o0ZO4
-
BARB, I find myself wondering just what a 'savage harvest' is, and what it's color would be?
-
Barbara thanks for the poem ..neruda has a special way of saying what he wants to convey...his poetry stirs me in unexpected ways...this is a passionate man in all ways..even his socks speak to him...he helps me to notice what life and the world offers ....
Babi a savage harvest.. what comes to my mind are the miles of corn stalks emptied of corn and the stalks browning in the sun...the miles of wheat across the prairies like an ocean waving its golden sunwarmed offering....I see the hands deep tanned and perhaps a bit worn from living ...but to the poet special because they were used to live not pale and manicured and kept in a hothouse ...I dont know each poet and each poem and each reader sees differently ..what it means to each is up to the person and I can only share what I see and feel when I read a poem What do you see ????? :)
PS an the color or an almond is very deep tan ....
-
Barbara I checked out the photo and had to laugh at the remark that a woman is like a volcano I am laughing at the idea right now and funny but that is the first thing I thought when I looked at the photo...a volcano often looks calm and serene but just dont set it off ...I am remembering when we visited Pompeii that the people there were buried under many feet of ash....it was such a stupendous thought as we walked the streets and saw the homes that had been uncovered.and that a lot of the surgical instruments are like ones we still use ...I often think NOTHING is truly new...by the way my eye is working so well .I must ask him when I go in for my next checkup what process he used ...there are more than one according to the literature they gave me ...God Bless all
-
Thanks for your reply, ANNA. 'Harvest' usually makes me think of corn and wheat fields, too. It is the 'savage harvest' that threw me. I'd like to ask him what he meant by that.
Here is a very modern sonnet, though it's subject goes back a long and painful way...
American Sonnet (10)
by Wanda Coleman
after Lowell
our mothers wrung hell and hardtack from row
and boll. fenced others'
gardens with bones of lovers. embarking
from Africa in chains
reluctant pilgrims stolen by Jehovah's light
planted here the bitter
seed of blight and here eternal torches mark
the shame of Moloch's mansions
built in slavery's name. our hungered eyes
do see/refuse the dark
illuminate the blood-soaked steps of each
historic gain. a yearning
yearning to avenge the raping of the womb
from which we spring
-
Babi regardless of how far you may have advanced I would think remembering how you came to America through slavery has to give one pain....I know when I read the story of the potato famine in Ireland that brought my ancestors here I can almost hate the English since they were the landlords and they refused to give help and allowed millions to starve to death because they didnt want them to become dependent on them ..I am truly glad we are becoming a melting pot ...well enough of my thinking but will just share a sonnet ,...oh yes it is hard to understand "savage" harvest but then neruda was Chilean and it meant something to him and his readers so perhaps it is understandable we dont understand ;-)
At a Lunar Eclipse
Thy shadow, Earth, from Pole to Central Sea,
Now steals along upon the Moon's meek shine
In even monochrome and curving line
Of imperturbable serenity.
How shall I link such sun-cast symmetry
With the torn troubled form I know as thine,
That profile, placid as a brow divine,
With continents of moil and misery?
And can immense Mortality but throw
So small a shade, and Heaven's high human scheme
Be hemmed within the coasts yon arc implies?
Is such the stellar gauge of earthly show,
Nation at war with nation, brains that teem,
Heroes, and women fairer than the skies?
Thomas Hardy
-
with Charles Lamb's name coming up in the current Fiction Discussion I looked and sure enough here is a Sonnet written by Charles Lamb.
A timid grace sits trembling in her eye
A timid grace sits trembling in her eye,
As loath to meet the rudeness of men's sight,
Yet shedding a delicious lunar light
That steeps in kind oblivious ecstasy
The care-crazed mind, like some still melody:
Speaking most plain the thoughts which do possess
Her gentle sprite: peace, and meek quietness,
And innocent loves, and maiden purity:
A look whereof might heal the cruel smart
Of changed friends, or fortune's wrongs unkind:
Might to sweet deeds of mercy move the heart
Of him who hates his brethren of mankind.
Turned are those lights from me, who fondly yet
Past joys, vain loves, and buried hopes regret.
-
Welcome to our Poetry Page.
In the past the poetry page was a haven for those of us who listen to words that open our hearts, and imagination, and allowed our feelings be known about the poems we share - We are looking forward to continuing that tradition.
(http://seniorlearn.org/bookclubs/poetry/poetryflower.JPG)
This month we will focus on the Sonnet.
Let's discover how a Sonnet is constructed and let's share the Sonnets that open our hearts.
Here are a few links to help us understand the Sonnet and its history.
Sonnet Central (http://www.sonnets.org/)
About the Sonnet (http://www.english.uiuc.edu/maps/sonnet.htm)
Origins of the Sonnet (http://oldweb.uwp.edu/academic/english/canary/sonnet_origin.html)
How to Write a Sonnet (http://www.ehow.com/how_3335_write-sonnet.html)
Discussion Leaders: BarbStAubrey (augere@ix.netcom.com) & Fairanna (fairanna@verizon.net)
-
The Charles Lamb sonnet is lovely, Barb. I couldn't halp but wonder if it was about his poor sister, who never knew a normal lif.
I must contribute one more Shakespearean sonner, a favorite:
CXVI
Let me not to the marriage of true minds
Admit impediments. Love is not love
Which alters when it alteration finds
Or bends with the remover to remove:
O, no! It is an ever-fixed mark
Which looks on tempests and is never shaken;
It is the star to every wandering bark,
Whose worth's unknown, although his height is taken.
Love's not Time's fool, though rosy lips and cheeks
With his bending sickle's compass come;
Love alters not with his brief hours and weeks,
But bears it out even to the edge of doom.
If this be error, and upon me proved,
I never writ, and no man ever loved.
-
Good morning Barbara, Anna and all,
Babi,
I loved the poem you posted by Elizabeth Barrett Browing, "If Thou Must Love." I suppose true love is when we love for love's sake and not some specific trait because as we grow older we change and change again becoming totally different from whom we were at first sight. I hope we grow better with age. Thank you for posting that poem.
But love me for love's sake, that evermore
Thou mayst love on, throught love's eternity.
-
It's a favorite of mine, HATS, and it is saying something very similar to the one I just posted by Shakespeare. "Love is not love that alters where it alteration finds." I believe that, so long as the alteration is a purely physical one. Wrinkles and gray hair can be beautiful, too.
There is an 'alteration' that can make difference, tho'. Have you ever seen, in a marriage, a spouse trying to re-make their partner into their idea of what a marriage partner should be, even though it would change those very things that made them fall in love in the first place. That kind of alteration can make a difference.
-
Well this is not a poem but the poem and the remarks made me smile...My husband had an idea I should change in some way ...I said I would think about it ...so I did and a few days later I told him I had thought about it ..he looked in a way to say Well what do you think and I told him that he had always told me all the things he loved about me ..now if I were to change you might stop loving me so I am not going change but just stay the way I have always been...he looked at me and then laughed and hugged me...I am not sure he really wanted ME to change but sometimes other people make remarks about a spouse IE like I dont know why you put up with that etc (because they dont) and I think he thought perhaps I should change as well...but that is what makes a good marriage considering what the other person would like and then say kindly how you feel ,,and the other person accepting your decision ...I love all the poems ..and I am reading so well now with my "new eyes" but also catching up on things I had not been able to do ...thank you for taking the time to post poems and comments ...they make my days....hugs all
-
Good, thoughtful answer, FAIRANNA. Please accept a hug from me, too. :-*
-
;) :D I love it - leave it to you Anna - :-*
-
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=cHWpoyUt9_A&feature=related
Yep it is Shakespear's Sonnet 116
-
Sonnet 116, ..also known as Sonnet CXVI. :)
Here's one from Lord Byron, a fine little item of political history and royal 'puffing'.
Sonnet to George the Fourth
ON THE REPEAL OF LORD EDWARD FITZGERALD'S FORFEITURE
To be the father of the fatherless,
To stretch the hand from the throne's height, and raise
His offspring, who expired in other days
To make thy sire's sway by a kingdom less,-
This is to be a monarch, and repress
Envy into unutterable praise.
Dismiss thy guard, and trust thee to such traits,
For who would lift a hand, except to bless?
Were it not easy, sir, and is't not sweet
To make thyself beloved? and to be
Omnipotent by mercy's means? for thus
Thy sovereignty would grow but more complete,
A despot thou, and yet thy people free,
And by the heart, not hand, enslaving us.
-
Oh my - what a lovely sentiment
A despot thou, and yet thy people free,
And by the heart, not hand, enslaving us.
Another You Tube that to me this is an amazing reading with after-thought of Shakespeare's Sonnet 94 - if nothing else, the setting chosen to recite the Sonnet gives us a feeling of the times when it was written.
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=PeAf9uxNmA8&feature=related
-
Oh, drat, BARB. That link looked so promising. Then to find it was audio, and I couldn't hear a word of it! (sigh)
-
First let me say I am glad you checked because you know I dont hear either....at least I have my wonderful vision.. the other night I finished a jacket I had started but found difficult to finish since I couldnt see to thread a needle WELL I had no problem threading a needle on my sewing machine It was still tiny clear and the thead just went right through each time as easy as pie ( and where does that phrase come from? )
I love that sonnet ...(for who would lift a hand except to bless) isnt it sad that it is often just the opposite.
I am sharing a poem because it is one of my favorites and has been for many years not a sonnet but a beautiful poem
Come live with me and be my love
Christopher Marlowe
Come live with me and be my love,
And we will all the pleasures prove
That valleys, groves, hills, and fields,
Woods or steepy mountain yields.
And we will sit upon the rocks,
Seeing the shepherds feed their flocks,
By shallow rivers to whose falls
Melodious birds sing madrigals.
And I will make thee beds of roses
And a thousand fragrant posies,
A cap of flowers, and a kirtle
Embroidered all with leaves of myrtle;
A gown made of the finest wool
Which from our pretty lambs we pull;
Fair lined slippers for the cold,
With buckles of the purest gold;
A belt of straw and ivy buds,
With coral clasps and amber studs:
And if these pleasures may thee move,
Come live with me and be my love.
The shepherds' swains shall dance and sing
For thy delight each May morning:
If these delights thy mind may move,
Then live with me and be my love.
The Passionate Shepherd to His Love
Christopher Marlowe
-
Ah - well I did not think did I - thanks for reminding me that some of us read but do not hear - sorry - but at least the You Tube setting I thought was helpful when we do read Shakespear's Sonnets.
Anna what wonderful words - the images are great but the choice of words
By shallow rivers to whose falls
Melodious birds sing madrigals.
fragrant posies [although and most probably an expression more common at the time]
a kirtle
Embroidered all with leaves of myrtle
Fair lined slippers for the cold,
With buckles of the purest gold;
A belt of straw and ivy buds,
With coral clasps and amber studs
If these delights thy mind may move,
Then live with me and be my love.
Lovely to think of a shepherd filled with such words and sentiment but alas I doubt a working shepherd in the day would be as versed. But the poem does take us to another place doesn't it.
I do not know if it is mid-winter blues or what but I sure need some sweet stirring up to get my head into the coming spring - we have trees in bloom - because of the severe draught the Jasmin is a bit slow this year - usually it blooms with the Red Bud that is almost finished as the Cherries have burst forth - but the allergies this year with all this wind are keeping me indoors and I bet the antihistamine is keeping me in the dumps - ah so - either it is dripping and picking up an infections or choosing to struggle with the blues.
-
FAIRANNA, I think 'easy as pie' goes back to the days when farm wives made pies daily feeding ravenous farm workers. They became so adept at it...crust, fruit and sugar...that 'easy as pie' became a byword. The Christopher Marlowe poem is one I've also loved for many years.
I found that Shelley also wrote a 'political commentary' sonnet, tho' quite the opposite in tone from Byrons.
ENGLAND IN 1819
An old, mad, blind, despised, and dying king
Princes, the dregs of their dull race, who flow
Through public scorn, mud from a mudde spring, -
Rulers who neither see, nor feel, nor know,
But leech-like to their fainting country cling,
Till they drop, blind in blood, without a blow,-
A people starved and stabbed in the untilled field,-
An army which liberticide and prey
Makes as a two-edged sword to all who wield, -
Golden and sanguine laws which tempt and slay;
Religion Christless, Godless, a book sealed,-
A Senate-Time's worst statute unrepealed,-
Are graves from which a glorious Phantom may
Burst to illumine our tempestuous day.
Wow! This guy was really upset!
-
Babi I agree he is in "HIGH DUNGEON" and I am not sure if the last word is correct for I have never seen it in print but have heard it about someone who WAS REALLY REALLY ANGRY
Barbara I am like you The robins at the feeders announce it is spring
The crocus displays its gold across the yard
Daffodils point upward to the sky
If all these things think it is spring
Why doesnt the weatherman say AYE
I have yet to feel that warm breeze that made my mother say spring is coming soon ....and have it not be a lie....ah well IT MUST ARRIVE and a grand welcome we can give it -------------when it arrives.... :-*
-
Yes Babi and easy to understand - the government and his father-in-law took away his kids after Harriet, who had walked out on him and had a child by another man, committed suicide - evidence is he loved his children - he and Harriet were young getting married and his father disapproved - They were remarried in Scotland after his two children were born just to appease the legalities important to his father.
Harriet's sister and a wet nurse lived with them - Shelly could not abide either and then Harriet left - there no where to be found for months she turns up on Bath living with the sister. The second child was probably not his but he took on the responsibility because in the meantime Shelly meets Mary, the daughter of Mary Wollstonecraft - they fall in love - He gets Harriet to come to London who is shocked by the news that he wants to disolve their marraige but he does arrange for her maintenance -
After, he and Mary leave for the Continent where he meets Byron who unbeknowing is having an affair and it was his mistress they were all boating with that summer. Shelly's father dies, he is screwed out of most of the estate but with his remaining thousand pounds a month he arranges that Harriet receive 200 a month.
In the meantime Mary lost their first child and has a second - when he returns to London Mary's half sister committed suicide by taking laudanum and Harriet had disappeared with no one knowing where she is - months later she is found floating in the Serpentine River. Her father uses the courts and Shelly's association with Byron to take Harriet's two children - there is every evidence that Shelly was a loving, gentle and caring father when he was with his children - he never got over their having been taken from him. Later the second child, a boy he and Mary had together also dies. They have one more child, Percy who lives and is a comfort to Mary after the boating accident that kills Shelley.
Probably one of his most famous Sonnets is:
Ozymandias
I met a traveller from an antique land
Who said: Two vast and trunkless legs of stone
Stand in the desert . . . Near them, on the sand,
Half sunk, a shattered visage lies, whose frown,
And wrinkled lip, and sneer of cold command,
Tell that its sculptor well those passions read
Which yet survive, stamped on these lifeless things,
The hand that mocked them, and the heart that fed:
And on the pedestal these words appear:
"My name is Ozymandias, king of kings:
Look on my works, ye Mighty, and despair!"
Nothing beside remains. Round the decay
Of that colossal wreck, boundless and bare
The lone and level sands stretch far away
But he was capable of writing love - When you think of it he did have quite a range of feelings that he was able to put into words.
Love’s Philosophy
The fountains mingle with the river
And the rivers with the ocean,
The winds of heaven mix for ever
With a sweet emotion;
Nothing in the world is single;
All things by a law divine
In one spirit meet and mingle.
Why not I with thine?—
See the mountains kiss high heaven
And the waves clasp one another;
No sister-flower would be forgiven
If it disdained its brother;
And the sunlight clasps the earth
And the moonbeams kiss the sea:
What is all this sweet work worth
If though kiss not me?
-
BARB, I wasn't aware of Shelley's history, though I had read that it was commonly believed he committed suicide. I hope the boat accident was the true version. He did indeed have an unhappy life.
I read Ozymandias when I was young and found it thought provoking but rather depressing. The second poem I've also read before, and found it lovely.
FAIRANNA, the phrase I heard, or read, was "high dudgeon". I have no idea what it means. "Dudgeon" is apparently a wood used to make the hilt of archaic daggers, but it's not at all clear to me how that came to mean irate.
-
FairAnna,
I enjoyed Come live with me and be my love
Christopher Marlowe. It's beautiful. What is a madrigal? Is it a dance or song?
Babi,
I can't decipher your sonnet. It seems very difficult for me.
-
In our neighborhood, I have seen yellow daffodils. I always think of William Wordsworth's poem. I wish I knew it by heart.
-
Hats I own a 1901 copy of the reprint of the 1892 Cambridge Edition of the Complete Works of Percy Bysshe Shelley - after the content page there is a 28 page Biography of Shelley - his death was even more tragic - while in Italy he and Mary lost two children - their youngest who was a daughter and William - Shelley had been and still suffered from depression and mood swings that Mary did not know how to help him through - he purchased a Sail boat that was the highpoint of his summer -
Shelley admired Byron's poetic skills but did not admire how he lived his life - earlier the William's joined the group - Trelawny, another friend and Williams had been students at Eton where Shelley attended the school - Mary, Jean Williams and the two men became very close - Mary wanted Shelley to move on with her to Pisa as agreed but he felt the need to meet Thorton and Leigh Hunt - father and son - the father was one of the Lawyers who helped him gain some visiting rights to his children with Harriet and who had been the executive dispursing Harriet's monthly check.
He was doing Byron a favor so that Byron could have an attorney to sort out his arrangement with his mistress, wife and his children by his mistress. Shelley traveled in his boat with Williams and a young sailor - Charles Vivian, to meet the Hunts - after greeting the Hunts and getting them settled they were anxious to return home - that night a terrible storm came up described in the bio by those in a large commercial vessel. There were many small boats that disappeared - Mary had gone on to Pisa with their one living child - therefore Trelawny, visited Byron to break the news that Shelley was not to be found - Trelawny orders a search along the coast. The bodies of all three were found a few days from each other among wreckage. Special permission was granted to allow them to be cremated there on the sand - only Hunt, Trelawny and Byron were present.
-
Hi Barbara,
I think you, Babi and AnnaFair are the ones truly talking about Shelley and Byron. Although, I'm always happy to be included. :D
-
Whooops - had to go back and it was You Babi who brought up what you have read of the death of Shelley - sorry - thanks Hats... regardless the information is posted - with all of that there are so many of his poems that are short page long - most of them go on and on and on and on - a poetic writing style we seldom see today.
-
I know. I might not have my thinking cap on, or I have it on backwards. Anyway, reading "England in 1819" again reminds me of our catastrophic financial state today here in America. I feel so sad. I know things will get better soon. We've just made mistakes. Now, we are paying for them.
ENGLAND IN 1819
An old, mad, blind, despised, and dying king
Princes, the dregs of their dull race, who flow
Through public scorn, mud from a mudde spring, -
Rulers who neither see, nor feel, nor know,
But leech-like to their fainting country cling,
Till they drop, blind in blood, without a blow,-
-
Interesting observation, HATS. I hadn't thought of comparing our present financial crisis with the 1819 poem, but I can see how it would fit. The greed of some of our financial 'rulers' was certainly 'leech-like'.
Rulers who neither see, nor feel, nor know,
But leech-like to their fainting country cling,
I like Wordsworth's 'Daffodils', too. I can remember the first four lines, but that's all.
-
This is a sonnet I was not familiar with so I did some research to have to make sense the title means a new way ..the poet is bemoaning the fact his love, Beatrice whom he fell in love with when he was nine..Remember life in terms of years was much shorter then so perhaps love came early I thought we always think what is happening in our lives is new but when we study history it is just repeating itself . which of course means we never learn and keep repeating past mistakes...here is the poem
From La Vita Nuova
Dante Alighieri (1265-1321)
And now (for I must rid my name of ruth)
Behooves me speak the truth
Touching thy cruelty and wickedness:
Not that they be not known; but ne'ertheless
I would give hate more stress
With them that feed on love in every sooth.
Out of this world thou hast driven courtesy,
And virtue, dearly prized in womanhood;
And out of youth’s gay mood
The lovely lightness is quite gone through thee.
(Trans. D.G. Rossetti)
-
Hi FairAnna,
Poor man, that's a lot of guilt for one person to bare. :'(
-
I need to find out more about D.G. Rossetti - I wonder if that is the poet - I noticed the name often along with Mrs. Shelley as having found or transcribed many of Shelley's poems after his death, mostly from his notebooks - I wonder if they were friends or if he worked for a publisher - here is the Wikipedia Bio - looks like his entire family were steeped in the arts - http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Dante_Gabriel_Rossetti
And with all this talk of Wordsworth's Daffodils we must include it here:
Daffodils
I WANDER'D lonely as a cloud
That floats on high o'er vales and hills,
When all at once I saw a crowd,
A host, of golden daffodils;
Beside the lake, beneath the trees,
Fluttering and dancing in the breeze.
Continuous as the stars that shine
And twinkle on the Milky Way,
They stretch'd in never-ending line
Along the margin of a bay:
Ten thousand saw I at a glance,
Tossing their heads in sprightly dance.
The waves beside them danced; but they
Out-did the sparkling waves in glee:
A poet could not but be gay,
In such a jocund company:
I gazed—and gazed—but little thought
What wealth the show to me had brought:
For oft, when on my couch I lie
In vacant or in pensive mood,
They flash upon that inward eye
Which is the bliss of solitude;
And then my heart with pleasure fills,
And dances with the daffodils.
Here is a page filled with photos of Daffodils - click on any of them to make them larger http://tiny.cc/lqoXK
this one is my favorite that for me goes with the poem
http://static.panoramio.com/photos/original/8958973.jpg
-
Barbara,
Thank you. Those daffodils have such happy faces. So pretty. ::)
-
Wow! look at these daffodils from your page, Barbara.
http://www.carolgilbert.biz/GraphicsCards/Daffodils.jpg (http://www.carolgilbert.biz/GraphicsCards/Daffodils.jpg)
-
It's like a daffodil party. Oooooh, I love that poem. I might try to learn it by heart. I'm going to print it out. It just makes me smile.
-
Such cheerful posts, and pictures. I had to smile.
On a more plaintive note, I found a sonnet by Poe. I don't think he wrote many of them, and this one is complaining about science spoiling a poet's art.
SONNET - TO SCIENCE
Science! True daughter of old Time thou art!
Who alterest all things with thy peering eyes,
Why preyest thou thus upon the poet's heart,
Vulture, whose wings are dull realities?
How should he love thee? or how deem thee wise,
Who wouldst not leave him in his wandering
To seek for treasure in the jewelled skies,
Albeit he soared with an undaunted wing?
Hast thou not dragged Diana from her car?
An driven the Hamadryad from the wood
To seek a shelter in some happier star?
Hast thou not torn the Naiad from her flood,
The Elfin from the green grass, and from me
The summer dream beneath the tamarind tree?
-
A Sonnet to Science for heavens sake - who would have guess - as he says one seems so at odds with the other - one is well straight and square and controlled and the other filled with feelings - but I guess when you think about it the form of a Sonnet is certainly mathematical.
-
while we are on Daffodils I found this --
Daffodil...(A French Sonnet)
If only I could magically make time stand still
I would bottle this beautifully star filled sky,
capture the sultry look of passion in your eye.
Eyelashes glistening with early Winter's chill,
While in my hair you gently place a daffodil.
Oblivious to the ills of all of mankind,
within your arms, melting, our hearts entwined.
Saying "I love you" standing on this frost laced hill.
The bright morning sun rises on a brand new day,
and upon this majestic hill, we cannot stay.
suddenly, a sad realization sets in,
Our beating hearts feel the breathtaking Winter's chill;
and an deep, intense longing to which I am kin,
I stand here with a memory, and a daffodil.....
-
Found another about a Daffodil - who would have believed...
To an Early Daffodil
By Amy Lowell
Thou yellow trumpeter of laggard Spring!
Thou herald of rich Summer's myriad flowers!
The climbing sun with new recovered powers
Does warm thee into being, through the ring
Of rich, brown earth he woos thee, makes thee fling
Thy green shoots up, inheriting the dowers
Of bending sky and sudden, sweeping showers,
Till ripe and blossoming thou art a thing
To make all nature glad, thou art so gay;
To fill the lonely with a joy untold;
Nodding at every gust of wind to-day,
To-morrow jewelled with raindrops. Always bold
To stand erect, full in the dazzling play
Of April's sun, for thou hast caught his gold.
-
Daffodil Haiku
The first snow,
Just enough to bend
The leaves of the daffodils.
low-lying village--
at the outhouse, too
daffodils
By Matsuo Basho
Daffodils wreathing
into the fence...
Mount Tsukuba
By Kobayashi Issa
-
Yep trying to get a few more posts so we can start off tomorrow with a new heading at the top of the page - March 1 with Thomas Hardy on I hope post 120
-
Let's do a bit of John Updike's wry humor
Ocular Hypertension
"Your optic nerve is small and slightly cupped,"
my drawling ophthalmologist observed,
having for minutes submitted that nerve,
or, rather, both those nerves, to baths of light--
to flashing, wheeling scrutiny in which
my retinas' red veins would, mirrored, loom
and fade. "And it appears, as yet, undamaged.
But your pressure reads too high. Glaucoma
will be the eventual result if you
go untreated. What you have now we call
'ocular hypertension.'" Wow! I liked
the swanky sound, the hint of jazz, the rainbow
edginess: malaise of high-class orbs,
screwed to taut bliss by what raw sight absorbs.
-
Another John Updike
Spring Song
the fiddlehead ferns down by our pond
stand like the stems of violins
the worms are playing beneath the moss.
Last autumn's leaves are pierced by shoots
that turn from sickly-pale to green.
All growth's a slave, and rot is boss.
-
Sunday Rain
The window screen
is trying to do
its crossword puzzle
but appears to know
only vertical words.
-
Winter Ocean
Many-maned scud-thumper, tub
of male whales, maker of worn wood, shrub-
ruster, sky-mocker, rave!
portly pusher of waves, wind-slave.
-
Welcome to our Poetry Page.
FairAnna and Barbara will alternate creating a focus for us - The poetry page is a haven for those of us who listen to words that open our hearts, and imagination, and allow our feelings be known about the poems we share - We are looking forward to continuing this tradition.
(http://seniorlearn.org/bookclubs/poetry/poetrymarch.jpg)
Please, joins us this month as Fairanna helps us look closer at the work of: THOMAS HARDY
Born 1840 the son of a stonemason in Dorsetshire, England he left fiction writing for poetry, and published eight collections, including Wessex Poems (1898) and Satires of Circumstance (1912). Thomas Hardy died in 1928.
A few links about Hardy and his poems.Thomas Hardy (http://www.poets.org/poet.php/prmPID/110)
Poems of Thomas Hardy (http://rpo.library.utoronto.ca/poet/148.html)
Thomas and Emma (http://www.brycchancarey.com/places/cornwall/hardy1.htm)
Thomas Hardy and His Wessex (http://www.btinternet.com/~wesspix/poetinx.htm)
Discussion Leaders: BarbStAubrey (augere@ix.netcom.com) & Fairanna (fairanna@verizon.net)
-
Did IT - Yeah!
To start us on our road of discovering Thomas Hardy here is a contribution...
The Difference
I
Sinking down by the gate I discern the thin moon,
And a blackbird tries over old airs in the pine,
But the moon is a sorry one, sad the bird's tune,
For this spot is unknown to that Heartmate of mine.
II
Did my Heartmate but haunt here at times such as now,
The song would be joyous and cheerful the moon;
But she will see never this gate, path, or bough,
Nor I find a joy in the scene or the tune.
-
BARB, after reading the French sonnet re. daffodils, I had to wonder if the French daffodils bloom longer. You don't see them that late in the year here. ???
Until I saw this proposed 'poet', I didn't even know Thomas Hardy wrote any poetry. Of his prose, some I liked and some I didn't. So, let's see about the poetry. I enjoyed the one Barb just posted. The few I've found so far seem much too long to post. I'll keep looking, and read what others are posting.
-
yes Babi - I read how she or he wants time to stand still but says nothing about time overlapping - I think the Daffodil and her winter time were metaphors to a happy love versus the winter that symbolized the end of their love relationship.
I am sure when Fairanna gets to come in she will have loads of Hardy poems from her books for us - it was Fairanna who suggested Thomas Hardy - I do know she had eye surgery a couple of weeks ago but we have heard all is well - in the meantime I am using the internet because I do not own a book of Thomas Hardy poems. From his bio it seems he wrote his novels first before switching to poetry. I didn't realize he was living until 1928.
-
Why didn't I know this site had opened up earlier? I guess because I go in checking "show new replies to my posts", and so miss "new" sites. Look forward to Hardy.
-
WOW Barbara what a marvelous finish to our first month ...daffolls galore and mine are up about 4=5 inches but since winter has delayed here until now when we are predicted to have 3 above zero tomorrow night .. I fear they will be frozen and not bloom this year...below is the first poem I chose ...and why and thanks for the heading....as usual you did a grand job ,,something I guess I should try to learn ..
I just spent an hour reading some of Hardy's poem and I can tell you it was difficult to decide which to share today //The one I chose spoke to me not only because it is true for now but once was true for me ..as I waited for a husband to return from military assignments overseas...for children whose dad was not always there for birthday , holidays and school affairs...perhaps some of you have known this yourself or know someone who waited hopefully for a husband to return from war ....whole and dear to thee,,,''
Song of the Soldiers' Wives and Sweethearts
I
At Last! In sight of home again ,
Of Home again;
No more to range and roam again
As that bygone time?
No more to go away from us
And stay from us?-
Dawn, hold not long the day from us ,
But quicken it to prime!
II
Now all the town shall ring to them,
Shall sing to them,
And we who love them cling to them
And clasp them joyfully;
And cry,"O much we'll do for you
Anew for you,
Dear Loves!-aye, draw and hew for you,
Come back from overseas."
III
Some told us we should meet no more,
Yes meet no more!-
Should wait , and wish , but greet no more
Your faces round our fires;
That in a while , uncharily
And drearily
Men gave their lives -even wearily,
Like those whom living tires.
IV
And now you are nearing home again ,
Dears, home again;
No more , may he roam again
As at that bygone time,
Which took your far away from us
To stay from us;
Dawn, hold not long the day from us,
But quicken it to prime!
Thomas Hardy
-
FairAnna,
I have heard you tell about your Military husband. I bet you can identify with this beautiful poem. It is so fitting this time in our lives again.
-
I found this Hardy poem, a little out of date, but with a wistful quality I liked.
THE OXEN
Christmas Eve, and twelve of the clock.
'Now they are all on their knees,'
An elder said as we sat in a flock
By the embers in hearthside ease.
We pictured the meek mild creatures where
They dwelt in their strawy pen,
Nor did it occur to one of us there
To doubt they were kneeling then.
So fair a fancy few would weave
In those years! Yet I feel,
If someone said on Christmas Eve,
'Come; see the oxen kneel,
'In the lonely barton by yonder coomb
Our childhood used to know,'
I should go with him in the gloom,
Hoping it might be so.
(A 'barton', I've found, is an archaic word for a meadow, and 'coomb' is a deep, narrow valley.)
-
Getting caugt up with the daffodil poems = on the very day that Smith College and Mt., Holyoke College, my Seven Sisters neighbors, announce their Spring Flower Shows coming up in March, with free admission to their fabulous greenhouse conservatories! Not to be missed! And six inches of new snow outside, drat. /but that is the March in New England.
Thomas Hardy! The only one of his poems I have read is Channel Firing and I never forgot it. Thank you for introducing him to me. Or is it me to him?
A stone-mason of a poet. Love his fearless compounding of words, hyphens be damned!
And the link to The University of Toronto site is excellent, thank you for putting that on.
His poems are all in a certain tone to me. Is the word "curmudgeon" unfair to him?
That one about the Titanic, wow!
It is great to read the Poetry people again.
-
Babi, thank you, I like The Oxen.
I like the way it takes me personally right into Nativity scene. It is never out of date, is it?
-
Oh Babi such a treat to read and thank you for finding the meaning of Barton and Coomb - without that translation the lines would sound great but bring no picture to your mind's eye. Lovely lines -
'In the lonely barton by yonder coomb
Our childhood used to know,'
Interesting, in Austin we have a Subdivision built back in the 1950s and 60s called Barton Hills - not sure if the developer knew what he was saying but it is an appropriate description of the area. Rather than our craggy hills heading up to a Mesa, Barton Hills is a gentle roll up from Lake Austin which a dam created on the Lower Colorado River that runs through Austin.
Ah yes Bellemere, Channel Firing - I have a CD that I keep in my vehicle with Richard Burton reading Channel Firing - you just cannot get any better - that man's voice is magical and he sends shivers down your back when he reads that poem.
Arose the howl of wakened hounds:
The mouse let fall the altar-crumb,
The worms drew back into the mounds,
The glebe cow drooled.
We need to include it - next post
Alf yes, I never thought of it but the poem does bring the reader right into the Nativity scene - thanks for pointing that out.
-
Channel Firing
That night your great guns, unawares,
Shook all our coffins as we lay,
And broke the chancel window-squares,
We thought it was the Judgment-day
And sat upright. While drearisome
Arose the howl of wakened hounds:
The mouse let fall the altar-crumb,
The worms drew back into the mounds,
The glebe cow drooled. Till God called, "No;
It's gunnery practice out at sea
Just as before you went below;
The world is as it used to be:
"All nations striving strong to make
Red war yet redder. Mad as hatters
They do no more for Christés sake
Than you who are helpless in such matters.
"That this is not the judgment-hour
For some of them's a blessed thing,
For if it were they'd have to scour
Hell's floor for so much threatening ....
"Ha, ha. It will be warmer when
I blow the trumpet (if indeed
I ever do; for you are men,
And rest eternal sorely need)."
So down we lay again. "I wonder,
Will the world ever saner be,"
Said one, "than when He sent us under
In our indifferent century!"
And many a skeleton shook his head.
"Instead of preaching forty year,"
My neighbour Parson Thirdly said,
"I wish I had stuck to pipes and beer."
Again the guns disturbed the hour,
Roaring their readiness to avenge,
As far inland as Stourton Tower,
And Camelot, and starlit Stonehenge.
-
Richard Burton! Can I tak e you back? Seven months pregnant, in I believe 1963 winter, I was standing in a line on Stuart St. in Boston for four hours, getting tickets to a pre=Broadway show,called Camelot. Richard Burton starred as King Arthur and a practically unknown Guinivere, Julie Andrews, and a completely unknown Robert Goulet as Lancelot. Oh, Burton was still the star, no doubt, with that magnificent voice but what an evening!
Oh - I had a daughter, my fifth.
-
OK, I may be way off base but today I took a "King Lear" part I course by a visiting professor. During his #A1 lecture he noted that certain lines made him weep, like when he "wept while reading Hardy's poem regarding his dead cat." Does anyone know which poem he is speaking about here? Is this our guy that we are reading about this month?
-
here you go Alf
The Roman Gravemounds
By Rome's dim relics there walks a man,
Eyes bent; and he carries a basket and spade;
I guess what impels him to scrape and scan;
Yea, his dreams of that Empire long decayed.
"Vast was Rome," he must muse, "in the world's regard,
Vast it looms there still, vast it ever will be;"
And he stoops as to dig and unmine some shard
Left by those who are held in such memory.
But no; in his basket, see, he has brought
A little white furred thing, stiff of limb,
Whose life never won from the world a thought;
It is this, and not Rome, that is moving him.
And to make it a grave he has come to the spot,
And he delves in the ancient dead's long home;
Their fames, their achievements, the man knows not;
The furred thing is all to him--nothing Rome!
"Here say you that Caesar's warriors lie? -
But my little white cat was my only friend!
Could she but live, might the record die
Of Caesar, his legions, his aims, his end!"
Well, Rome's long rule here is oft and again
A theme for the sages of history,
And the small furred life was worth no one's pen;
Yet its mourner's mood has a charm for me.
Bellemere you saw Camelot in Boston - we saw it in New York during a summer visit - I think it was in 1961 though - Did they have the try out in Boston - well couldn't - the dates don't work - ah so - it and he was magical and in those days the singing voice of Robert Goulet was 'the thing' - That was one play that I thought they did a fine job making into a movie - Richard Harris was a more pensive king than Richard Burton and Nero, with those 'piercing blue eyes' as the saying goes, was so much more romantic then Robert Goulet.
-
Thank you so much Barb, I am going to print it out and see if, next week, he teaches on this poem. He is scheduled for 3 sessions on poetry next week.
Does anyone have a comment about this one?
-
Interesting Alf - I could not feel any emotion and tossed it off to not being a cat person - truly, animals in the house are just not my thing - and not having a ranch or farm where cats live in the barn - I just cannot get heads up as others do about pets.
Then I came across this site and they are suggesting in his many elegies he treats them with little feelings - and so it was not just me it was the poem as well that made it a toss off for me
http://www.jstor.org/pss/40002078
There is probably a lot in that poem - isn't Rome where the cats run free - Cats are symbolic of Liberty and the Goddess Diana... and then the Basket is symbolic of either returning from the dead, rebirth or escaping death.
I think if you did not know Hardy's childhood memory it would be difficult to conjour up all that emotion just by reading the poem - but then that is my opinion...
-
I used to tour BrookGreen Gardens Barb in SCarolina and always loved the stories of the Goddess Diana, the hunter (ress). Do you know WHY cats symbolize Diana. I'm sorry ladies I got off on a different track here.
-
there are I am sure many myths why any object or animal is symbolized by a God or Goddess - the Cat's importance has been around for a long time - here is a pretty good link giving a run down on the symbolism, myths and traditions associated with the Cat.
http://tiny.cc/Q8cOZ
Interesting this site says that Cats were kept as mascots by the Roman army
http://www.geocities.com/Heartland/Estates/6913/rome.htm
Huh did not know - Goddess Diana the Huntress is mentioned in the Bible
http://www.absoluteastronomy.com/topics/Diana_(mythology)
-
I do love cats, but though I sympathized with the old man's loss of his companion, I find the poem rather awkward technically. The meter seems off on a number of lines; it would be hard to read aloud.
Nevertheless, I am finding more poems by Thomas Hardy that I really like. I'm glad FAIRANNA chose his poetry; it's a revelation to me. The following poem is somewhat long, but I like it so much I decided to post it anyway.
THE DARKLING THRUSH
by: Thomas Hardy (1840-1928)
I leant upon a coppice gate
When Frost was spectre-gray,
And Winter's dregs made desolate
The weakening eye of day.
The tangled bine-stems scored the sky
Like strings of broken lyres,
And all mankind that haunted nigh
Had sought their household fires.
The land's sharp features seem'd to be
The Century's corpse outleant,
His crypt the cloudy canopy,
The wind his death-lament.
The ancient pulse of germ and birth
Was shrunken hard and dry,
And every spirit upon earth
Seem'd fervourless as I.
At once a voice arose among
The bleak twigs overhead
In a full-hearted evensong
Of joy illimited;
An aged thrush, frail, gaunt, and small,
In blast-beruffled plume,
Had chosen thus to fling his soul
Upon the growing gloom.
So little cause for carollings
Of such ecstatic sound
Was written on terrestrial things
Afar or nigh around,
That I could think there trembled through
His happy good-night air
Some blessèd Hope, whereof he knew
And I was unaware.
-
That poem above reminds me of Emily Dickinson's "Hope is a thing with feathers" in his last line there where the thrush is singing his soul:
Some blessèd Hope, whereof he knew
And I was unaware.
Being a kitty addict, I like the poem where the narrator is finding a purposeful spot for the kitty's grave.
-
I am not, nor will I ever be a cat lover. I find them diabolical. Early childhood fear- blah, blah blah.
Barb, you never cease to amaze me with the marvelous URL's that you offer. That cats followed the Roman armies is unbelievable, but it makes perfect sense. Strays have one loyalty, to their dish. I know people like that too, unfortunately.
Marj- this Professor Keene that I spoke of earlier, loved Emily Dickenson and he wrote a book a couple of years ago about her, entitled "Emily Dickenson, appraising God."
-
Alf sounds like you are engaged in an interesting class - is this an adult eduction class or for credit? Is the class held on a college campus? Give us the skinny.
Babi I am so glad you posted The Darkling Thrush - all his references remind me of the British Countryside that movie directors are good about getting "right" when one of his novels are made into a movie - the British Countryside that is the quitisential view of England.
I love finding new words or finding the meaning for words that easily slip by and right off the bat my brain was asking what is a coppice gate - well here goes - http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Coppicing
Fascinating how poems conjour up different associations for us - Marj for you it was our dear friend Emily - remember when Scrawler found one Emily poem after the other all about bees...This went on for nearly 2 months last summer and early fall just before Seniornet went away. I miss Scrawler so much but do not have her email.
For me the poem is reminiscent of the Keats Ode to a Nightingale - maybe not so much the poem as him sitting in that straight wooden chair for hours out in the meadow listening to the Nightingale. Wait a minute didn't we learn when we focused on Keats that a Nightingale is a Thrush - hmmm something about there being all these different species of Thrushes - Well regardless it is a lovely poem.
I wonder if this line The Century's corpse outleant is the clue that the poem was written at the end of the nineteenth century.
I love the lines -
So little cause for carollings
Of such ecstatic sound
Was written on terrestrial things
Those lines and the Oxen poem you would never think this man early in his life according to various Bio's suffered a crisis of faith that he never recovered from. I wonder if he suffered a crisis of Religion rather than Faith and folks assumed based on appearance he no longer had an association with Christianity.
-
BARB- the programs that have been designed for us are many. The education department in our "On Top of The World" community strives to be on the cutting edge of life-long learning and as such is a focal point of our active community.
These exciting educational programs provide hundreds of opportunities throughout the year to learn and grow. Our outstanding faculty is involved in designing classes that build on our active adults’ knowledge and experiences and stimulate and challenge us to become more engaged in education.
They offer 300+ dfiferent classes each year.
Topics of interest include:
- Legal series
- Health related topics
- Arts & Crafts
- painting, photography
- Culinary Series
- Veternary Medicine
- Image Editing
- Plants and flora of Florida
They have visiting professors such as Dr. Keene and Ann Ryan who is doing a 2 part series on Mark Twain. The director of the education department asks for new ideas & topics on a regular basis. It is wonderful and I enjoy it so much. I have always loved school and studying. That is why I love our site so much. There are always people to help and guide me while I am learning.
Dr. Keene is doing a 2 part series on King Lear, followed with a two part series on Poetry.
Current Events is a biggie but our insturctor has limited that to a 1 hour course twice/month. We barely get started and it is time to close. She suffers from MS and just can no do it any more.
We have people living here from all over the country and the world, for that matter, and they each contribute to our education dept.
Sometimes there is a fee, sometime there is not. If you are not a resident there is always a fee.
Thanks for asking, you can tell I am psyched.
-
Thanks one and all for the poems you have added...one thing Hardy wrote so many we can never run out ....Odd I did choose between the poem I posted and The Oxen and Darkling Thrush Being a cat lover , my last one died about 14 years ago at 19 years old and I still miss him as well as others that shared my life Have written poems about most of my pets when they left me..The cat Napoleon I wrote Napoleons Farewell Address ...Back to Hardy I have to read at least 5-6 poems before I decide which to post..the one I chose today is because I am so grateful to lifetime of memories ...people and places that are no longer in my life I can visit again and again so memories bring them back again ...
Joys of Memory
When the spring comes round, and a certain day
Looks out from the brume by the eastern copsetrees
And says , Remember,
I begin again , as if it were new,
A day of like date I once lived through,
Whiling it hour by hour away;
So shall I do till my December,
When spring comes round.
I take my holiday then and my rest
Away from the dun life here about me,
Old hours re-greeting
With the quiet sense that bring they must
Such throbs as at first, till I house with dust,
As in the numbness my heartsome zest
For things that were, be past repeating
When spring comes round.
-
PS Alf it sounds as if they are in the LIFE LONG LEARNING program The local university offers it and I was part of that program , thankfully, until my hearing loss became too great to hear or participate...Many cities and places offer this program and it is wonderful ...we have retired professors, published authors, experts in many fields that offer classes or lectures and just add so much to living..they also offered trips to members to places we were studying, and I was able to join them again until my hearing made it difficult ...
When my husband died it offered a way to keep on living and learning and being part of life...I miss it a great deal but am thankful for having been part of this program once...the original SN also helped and that makes me so GRATEFUL for those who have given this place and others so age doesn't mean the end but the continuing of our life...
-
Well, what do you know, BARB. Apparently, I have a coppice stool in my front yard. Originally, the tree had three trunks. (I don't know why; it was like that when I moved in.) Then years later a crew turned up and said they had to cut the tree down because the roots were endangering a gas line. I pointed out that simply cutting the tree down would not kill the roots, but the spokesman just shrugged and said they were following their orders. Sure enough, the tree came back with extra shoots and a coppice stool.
As I recall, the poem I posted was in a book published a couple of years after the turn of the century, so I also thought it was probably writtenat that time.
ALF, your list of courses offered does sound stimulating. Our local college offers
courses for seniors, but the tuition doesn't fit my budget. Still, I can learn quite
a lot searching the net and watching TV...and of course, from my buddies on Seniorlearn.
Now, see, FAIRANNA. Here I didn't even know Thomas Hardy wrote poetry, and now I have learned he wrote a great deal of poetry, and I'm liking it very much. His poems so far do have a note of sad yearning. I'm wondering if they are all like that.
-
ALF - the programs you describe are wonderful sounding! Where are
you?
And thanks for the book title, Alf.
I have to do my lifef-lonjg learning via the computer ;; that;w precisely
why I invested in them for 10 years now.
-
Babi I just reread Hardy's bio to make sure I was right if you follow Barbara's link and read the whole bio I am sure you will agree his life was not perfect and held a lot of disappointments ...I think even while writing something positive he also felt a tinge of sadness that life has so many moments of sorrow.. of beauty that is fleeting ...he wrote what he was feeling ..and that is what a poet should do ...and each poem is only a small part of what he is feeling.....like life not always perfect or simple I am glad by the way you are finding you like him Strange for me I read some of his books but never associated him with his poetry until I bought a book and read his bio.....
-
And thanks for the cat symbolism link, Barb.
-
PS Brume is mist and copsetrees are a small number of trees clustered together ...ps always learning , never ceases , or decreases ..
-
Re the Darkling Thrush
darkling? darkling? Heard that word twice before:
Matthew Arnold, Dover Beach: and we are met as on a darkling plain where ignorant armies clash by night.
And I remember a book from the 60' s Up the Down Staircase about hight school. A student wrote a love letter to her English teacher, calling him "darkling" and the soulless clod corrected the letter with red ink telling her that darkling was not a word. In the book, she took her own life. The jerk of an English teacher never read Matthew Arnold? Or Thomas Hardy?
-
According to the dictionary "darkling" means "in the dark".
When I hear it, I think of dark falling, that is the time of day when our American thrushes are most likely to sing. The nightengale is not found here in the US, but I assume it sings at night.
All of the thrushes are very musical singers. (robins arethe exception: they have traded singing ability for that pretty breast, and have a rather boring song. Bluebirds manage to be both beautiful and good singers, but the other thrushes are rather plain looking).
We had a Wood Thrush that nested in the woods back of my house in Maryland. After dinner, I would sit on my patio with a cup of coffee and he would seranade me with his bell-like song. Beautiful.
-
It's been so long since I saw "Up the Down Staircase", Bellmarie, that I don't really remember it, except as a very good and moving movie. Perhaps the English teacher felt it best to discourage this student 'crush' by simply keeping his 'place' as a teacher.
I dug out an old college text and found a series of three poems by Hardy called "Three Satires of Circumstace". They strike a somewhat different note from the others I've read. I'm posting the first of the three today.
1. AT TEA
The kettle descants in a cozy drone,
And the young wife looks in her husband's face,
And then at her guest's, and shows in her own
Her sense that she fills an envied place;
And the visiting lady is all abloom,
And says there was never so sweet a room.
And the happy young housewife does not know
That the woman beside her was first his choice,
Till the fates ordained it could not be so...
Betraying nothing in look or voice
The guest sits smiling and sips her tea,
And he throws her a stray glance yearningly.
-
What a story in that poem "At Tea"! The mind can go countless places with imagining.
I like it.
-
Wow - talk about saying something so subtle that the politeness overshadows the beating heart. Can you imagine the state of his feelings - oh my... Babi I can't wait for tomorrow's installment...
What a lovely word Darkling is - one of those words we seldom hear anylonger and would be nice to introduce back into our vocabulary. I remember when my children were little I read a book that used the word 'Hush' and from that day onward I determined rather than telling children to be quiet or rudely tell them as some did to shut up I would ask them to hush - it worked - something to be said for a Victorian vocabulary..
This poem of Thomas Hardy I thought was interesting - Not sure of the message but something about the value of hiding his feelings - or maybe hiding what he does with his life so that others do not gossip - is what I am getting out of it. But then the Title does not support that interpretation - the Title seems to point to the lady loosing interest putting his project on hold.
Postponement
SNOW-BOUND in woodland, a mournful word,
Dropt now and then from the bill of a bird,
Reached me on wind-wafts; and thus I heard,
Wearily waiting:—
“I planned her a nest in a leafless tree,
But the passers eyed and twitted me,
And said: ‘How reckless a bird is he,
Cheerily mating!’
“Fear-filled, I stayed me till summer-tide,
In lewth of leaves to throne her bride;
But alas! her love for me waned and died,
Wearily waiting.
“Ah, had I been like some I see,
Born to an evergreen nesting-tree,
None had eyed and twitted me,
Cheerily mating!”
1866.
-
Sometimes it is hard to determine what a poet is really saying ..they will use words or some other thing to tell what they are really thinking When I read the poem you posted I felt he had been wooing some lady who had refused him and others had noticed and teased him ..but had he been a bird he could have wooed in the open and built a nest again in the open and no one had paid attention. One of the best thing about poetry the poet can use words meant to lead the reader astray but clearly tells what he is feeling ..
At Tea hmmm seems like a whole story in those two verses but wonder what the rest will be....when I read the darkling bird I saw a bird at evening , its feathers darkened by the time of day...poetry always paints pictures in my mind now to look up a Hardy poem to share.....
-
A short one since I have to type one out Have'nt tried to look Hardy on net...this one perhaps will remind us we do change as we age......:-)
The Tresses
'When the air was damp
It made my curls hang slack
As they kissed my neck and back
While I footed the salt-aired track
I loved to tramp.
'When it was dry
They would roll up tight
As I went on in the light
Of the sun,which my own sprite
Seemed to outvie.
'Now I am old,
And have not one gay curl
As I had when a girl
For dampness to unfurl
Or sun uphold!'
Wonder if they had curling irons like my mother used heated on the gas stove...to make my straight hair at least slightly curl.
-
"At Tea" gave me a Robert Frost vibe. What is it/ The hidden story? The homey setting? The meaning packed into a few words? Let's hear the rest!
-
Straight hair! My mother's determination to give me curls ran to paper curlers, bobby pins, rubber spoolies, head-banging plastic rollers and eventually the dreaded Tonette. I wonder if Hardy's mom ever dressed him in dresses as so many little toddler boys were dressed in those days. With long curls too. Do boys with naturally curly hair grow naturally curly beards and mustaches?
)That woman also pinched my cheeks pretty hard, on the way to birthday parties, to make them pink! I guess today she would be cited for child abuse.
-
BARB, "Postponement" is intriguing. What I read was a bird building a nest in a 'leafless tree" and being twitted about his recklessness. However, if he had been born to an 'evergreen' tree...that is, well-provided for, the marriage would have been approved. One does suspect that the poet is speaking of himself.
Here it the second of the "Three Satires of Circumstance".
2. By Her Aunt's Grave
"Sixpence a week", says the girl to her lover,
"Aunt used to bring me, for she could confide
In me alone, she vowed. "Twas tocover
The cost of er headstone when she died.
And that was year ago last June;
I've not yet fixed it. But I must soon."
"And where is the money now, my dear?"
"Oh, snug in my purse....Aunt was so slow
In saving it--eighty weeks, or near." ...
"Let's spend it," he hints. "For she won't know.
There's a dance tonight at the Load of Hay."
She passively nods. And they go that way.
I can only be glad the Aunt died believing she could trust in this
'passive' niece. But I wonder just what message Hardy intended by it. So many are possible here.
-
babi the first one that comes to my mind YOU CAN'T TRUST ANYONE! Which is sad but also sadly true.. or we wouldn't be in the mess we are now.....My children who had invested with a RELIABLE company will find themselves working long after retirement time.....We kept a car for twenty years until our last child graduated from college...It would seem from Hardy's poem most children have never been raised to believe Honesty is the best policy and do unto others as you would have them do to you...ah well will hope the third one is a happier one...
PS my oldest son had (has) naturally curly hair his short beard is without curl and since he keeps his hair short ala today's style for men I have no idea if it is curly still....however his sixteen years old daughter , my oldest grandchild has beautiful naturally curly hair...
-
Wasn't there a shampoo called Tressamie - something about Tress Amie is ringing a bell and I cannot place it - but I must say the word Tresses sounds so ethereal - like the Waterhouse painting of the Lady of Shalott.
Babi - I howled laughing at By Her Aunt's Grave what a great little story in a poem no less :D
Poor Aunt - the height of powerlessness - being dead...
Anna that was the realization that hit me - we are taught as children all about be trustworthy and that is the ideal that we should function when we meet and deal with others till I read somewhere that if that was the ideal it was not societies idea of reality - or else we would not have first on the agenda in all societies some form of a legal system and a system of punishment often given added weight by being tied to religious beliefs.
-
"For she won't know." That's the key, isn't it? If you believe too strongly in a literal afterlife, you can picture yourself lookin down at your funeral or grave and saying, "Not like that! That;s not what I wanted, dammit! "
When someone in my family asks me"What kind of funeral do you want?" I just say funerals are for the living; you;ll think of something."
'
-
Bellemere I like your answer My father when asked what kind of funeral he wanted he said "Just tie me in a toe sack (potato sack) and throw me in the Mississippi River...We were Irish and lived in an Irish /Catholic community ...children used to go to funerals when someone died...no babysitter for them..and it was a fun time to be there...young children as I was played hide and seek among the caskets in the rooms and NO ONE every said NO Once the funeral director was going down the hall and saw of playing and joyfully asked if we were having a good time..Even if the wake was at home which it often was ..there was food to eat , something to drink and everyone telling funny stories about the departed ..Now if it was a case of a young person or a person who was killed in an accident or some way that didn't seem natural but even it was like Oh I am so sorry "Robbie had to go that way" but in the long run it was a celebration of their life ...and that is what I have asked my family to do ...my Christmas tree has been up and decorated now for six yeas ,.this will be the seventh ...I celebrate Christmas when I feel like.. all year long and I have told them to gather in the living room , turn the lights on and tell all the crazy things I have done and then say Mom knew how to enjoy life...I want no tears but laughter and thank God for blessing me so ....odd anna
-
Hi I am new here so especially excited to be joining this group. The singling out of liking the word "darkling" caught my attention. I like words, always have been interested in where they came from and all the shades of meaning. Before retiring I was a teacher, mostly fifth grade, my favorite. It was a job I loved. William Wordsworth is my favorite poet. I especially like the one about daffodils. Anything spring looks good right now.
*Sandy*
-
Welcome Sandy if you love poetry you have found the right place..while we do a single poet for a month once in awhile everyone is welcome to post whatever poem they like by whatever poet they desire ,..that also includes your own...this month we are sharing some of Thomas Hardy's poems ..
I have loved poetry since I was a child and read Mpther Goose and Robert Louis Stevenson and of course your favorite ..how can any forget his Daffodils., I never see them blooming that I dont recite the first few lines. feel free to post a poem from your favorite poet ..you wont go wrong here ...
I have the book with all of Hardy's poems and have been reading them trying to decide WHICH ONE ..this one I checked and it was on line so it makes it easier to share I had to really ponder after the title what he was saying .this man imagined everything ...I write poetry and I know sometimes I do get an odd idea and am often surprised where it takes me..while I believe we can interpret a poem in many ways I know my odd ones just came to me and had nothing special or deep ..just where I ended up with my thought ..after reading PAGES of his poetry I am beginning to believe he and I have a lot in common ...a strange thinker , pondering things few others do..what do you think of this poem?
The Ivy-Wife
I LONGED to love a full-boughed beech
And be as high as he:
I stretched an arm within his reach,
And signalled unity.
But with his drip he forced a breach,
And tried to poison me.
I gave the grasp of partnership
To one of other race—
A plane: he barked him strip by strip
From upper bough to base;
And me therewith; for gone my grip,
My arms could not enlace.
In new affection next I strove
To coll an ash I saw,
And he in trust received my love;
Till with my soft green claw
I cramped and bound him as I wove…
Such was my love: ha-ha!
By this I gained his strength and height
Without his rivalry.
But in my triumph I lost sight
Of afterhaps. Soon he,
Being bark-bound, flagged, snapped, fell outright,
And in his fall felled me!
-
fairanna, I liked the poem. It took me several readings to be sure I understood its meaning.
At first I found it strange, then looking at it from the viewpoint of the ivy looking for its own tree it made a great deal of sense. Am I interpreting it as you do? The sad ending is inevitable but a surprise to me nonetheless. It is very different but then I have always enjoyed things that are unusual from books to poems, to odd variations of flowers and plants. Pondering is something I enjoy. Taking time, a whole month, for the study of one poet is nice. One advantage of being retired is having the luxury of time to focus on whatever we chose.
We have a whole mass of daffodils that came years and years ago from what had been the family's farm. I'm not sure which came first those daffodils or my love of Wordsworth's poem. Probably the poem. Spring is my favorite time of the year so I seek out spring poetry.
Sandy
-
The Ivy Wife
Says to me on first thoughts - sometimes we can plan and strive and still not get the result we forsaw
Here's a link to an online Google book that talks about the sympolism of Ivy. You can go on to the
next page/
Ivy Wife commentary (http://books.google.com/books?id=NUAcgecUDfwC&pg=PA177&lpg=PA177&dq=the+ivy+wife&source=bl&ots=rO_RHh0Jtf&sig=0Gi_Nv1VMAQXiZV4ZQurmSBhDdg&hl=en&ei=7m6ySbHqH4OftwfnkLDEBw&sa=X&oi=book_result&resnum=3&ct=result)
-
The 'ivy-wife' was the clinging type. The first two she tried to latch onto were able to evade her; they weren't the type to tolerate her ivy claws. Having found a 'tree' she could cling to and grow to its height, she sapped its strength until it fell, taking her down as well. Hardy does so well as finding analogies to human nature in 'Mother nature'.
FAIRANNA, you could say the third poem of the set is happier, in the sense that
a worse fate was averted.
3. AT THE ALTAR RAIL
"My bride is not coming, alas!" says the groom,
And the telegram shakes in his hand. "I own
It was hurried! We met at a dancing room
When I went to the Cattle-Show alone,
And then, next night, where the Fountain leaps,
And the Street of the Quarter-Circle sweeps.
"Aye, she won me to ask her to be my wife--
'Twas foolish perhaps!---to forsake the ways
Of the flaring town for a farmer's life.
She agreed. And we fixed it. Now she says:
"It's sweet of you, dear, to prepare me a nest,
But a swift, short, gay life suits me best.
What I really am you have never gleaned;
I had eaten the apple ere you were weaned."
-
I guess this early poem of Hardy would not be considered a great one, but if you have ever tried to write poetry you can see the poor guy sweating to keep that triple rhyme scheme going once he started with it. And it does have some of his coined words that I like. Guns, "upmouthed" for example.
I
t must have been the Boer War; the publication date is 1899. Right? Or were the Brits up to something else then?
THE GOING OF THE BATTERY
WIVES' LAMENT
(November 2, 1899)
I
O it was sad enough, weak enough, mad enough -
Light in their loving as soldiers can be -
First to risk choosing them, leave alone losing them
Now, in far battle, beyond the South Sea! . . .
II
- Rain came down drenchingly; but we unblenchingly
Trudged on beside them through mirk and through mire,
They stepping steadily--only too readily! -
Scarce as if stepping brought parting-time nigher.
III
Great guns were gleaming there, living things seeming there,
Cloaked in their tar-cloths, upmouthed to the night;
Wheels wet and yellow from axle to felloe,
Throats blank of sound, but prophetic to sight.
IV
Gas-glimmers drearily, blearily, eerily
Lit our pale faces outstretched for one kiss,
While we stood prest to them, with a last quest to them
Not to court perils that honour could miss.
V
Sharp were those sighs of ours, blinded these eyes of ours,
When at last moved away under the arch
All we loved. Aid for them each woman prayed for them,
Treading back slowly the track of their march.
VI
Someone said: "Nevermore will they come: evermore
Are they now lost to us." O it was wrong!
Though may be hard their ways, some Hand will guard their ways,
Bear them through safely, in brief time or long.
VII
- Yet, voices haunting us, daunting us, taunting us,
Hint in the night-time when life beats are low
Other and graver things . . . Hold we to braver things,
Wait we, in trust, what Time's fulness shall show.
-
The Ivy Wife
Says to me on first thoughts - sometimes we can plan and strive and still not get the result we forsaw
Here's a link to an online Google book that talks about the sympolism of Ivy. You can go on to the
next page/
Ivy Wife commentary
(http://books.google.com/books?id=NUAcgecUDfwC&pg=PA177&lpg=PA177&dq=the+ivy+wife&source=bl&ots=rO_RHh0Jtf&sig=0Gi_Nv1VMAQXiZV4ZQurmSBhDdg&hl=en&ei=7m6ySbHqH4OftwfnkLDEBw&sa=X&oi=book_result&resnum=3&ct=result)
-
thanks do much for the poems posted and the comments ., that is what I love about sharing poetry ....how others see it ..it often opens new ways to look at something....I write poetry and often write from the point of view of something else...I have been a dog in one, a cat, a spider etc ...for the time I am writing I AM the speaker ...so when reading Hardy some of his poems could be like mine or his observation of a real situation and his description of a real person...His poetry intrigues me .. written at a time I only know through history it challenges me to decipher what he wrote ..I enjoy reading everyone's views because it also opens me to other ways of looking at his poetry.
He writes a lot about the military , in some of his poems he seems to speak harshly about Englands desire to add the rest of the world to its empire...at the expense of the people who serve and their families..as military wife I experienced those absences for 28 years...my husband was a pilot and was often sent to another country on a few hours notice..no time to do anything but say goodbye with a prayer he would return...most of his poems about the military seems to understand not only what the man must face but what the wife and children ,the families face alone...
Thanks to everyone for really helping us study a poet who wrote so many poems ...there are a lot poems referring to death but this was also a time when typhoid fever was rampant, TB etc and then you add war To me it explains a lot of his sadness and references to death.. He wrote because he could not not write ...I know that feeling..
Thanks Marj for the link I thought I loved ivy when I planted a bit in 1972 and have ever since fought it as it seeks to take over my home and my trees and yard.....ivy is a siren ...who promises to add beauty but really destroys....and almost impossible to maintain ....augh
-
Welcome Sandy - glad to have your voice among us.
I wonder if the ivy was introduced into the area rather than indigenous like the Kudzu was brought into the Southeast - there are so many jokes about the invading kudzu - http://www.jackanthonyphotography.com/yahoola/kudzu/
If a house is vacant over a summer I have seen it be covered by late fall - and all those abandoned vehicles left in fields and front lawns are nicely camouflaged - my funny bone is saying if the ivy was brought into the area and later takes over it could tie the two poems together since the alter-rail wife addresses trying to transplant a girl who would wiether and die since she is obviously not the clinging type
Never put it together before till you questioned the war Bellemere but the Boer War from 1899 to 1902 takes place a year after the Spanish American war when we were fighting FOR Cuba.
Back later - running late...
-
Margv, you analysis was ever so much more in depth than mine. I need to learn to read poetry while searching for symbolism and peel away the superficial layers to get to the core of the poet's meaning. Maybe this will come with practice. I hope so. Any helps or suggestions would be appreciated.
Thank you for sharing your interpretation and the reference to the source about IVY.
Sandy
-
"It's sweet of you, dear, to prepare me a nest,
But a swift, short, gay life suits me best.
What I really am you have never gleaned;
I had eaten the apple ere you were weaned."
I love these lines from above poem.
Made me chuckle out loud.
Hardy sure did like using his nest/bird/tree symbols.
I am wondering what his feelings were toward women as he
penned these lines.
-
hehehe love it - " had eaten the apple ere you were weaned." isn't that what we could call a double entendre...
Not to beat an old horse but Marj you put us on the trail - the Ivy poem has more symbolic meaning than we realized - this is a great site that gives the myths and symbolisms for trees as well it includes Ivy - we have the Beech, Ash and the Ivy - facinating stuff...
http://www.magick-whispers.com/trees.htm
-
"The going of the battery"
Lovely rhythm. Or should I use "meter". I don't think it matters if our terminology is appropo exactly - what is important is that we can describe our feelings.
A couple words in that poem were new to me:
unblenchingly
upmouthed
Here's a webpage that has commentary on The Going of the Battery. I came across it when I Googled "upmouthed"
http://www.teachit.co.uk/armoore/poetry/hardy.htm
-
off topic: Twice now I've lost post when I clicked "post". Tells me I am not allowed to post here. Bah!
-
ooowww Marj what a fabulous site you found - just wonderful - and yes, I know, somedays it is like that - I never know if it is me or the web site or the computer but there you have it - If I have trouble I usually copy everything onto a word document because one bit of trouble often is the prelude to a whole host of shut downs and by saving what I want to say I do not have to rack my brains trying to re-write exactly what and how I said it. {{Hugs}} it is so frustrating - we are with you...
-
Marj I agree with Barbara about the site link...it is really wonderful ...the five years I studied poetry was great but some of the comments expressed really opens my mind..I don't know whether Hardy was introduced in those years but somewhere I read him and loved his poetry...and it is exciting to be with everyone here who finds it interesting and the same...Lets hope we dint have a breakdown here ..I am just so grateful to have a place to discuss poetry ..and the best thing I don't have to be "dolled up" to do it PJ"s messy from working in the yard etc what freedom...!
-
Yes, I have mixed feelings - my grand wants to get me a camera for on-line telephone conversations - he has one so that when he uses the internet to call I can see him - but he could be wearing a t-shirt and at 17 still looks grand regardless if he just got out of bed - I just cannot imagine others seeing how I often look sitting in front of this equipment. Ah so - is it pride or self respect. And if I am hiding behind self respect then why would I not dress all the time before communicating with others on-line - oh dear, and pride goeth before the man - maybe I will plead being a woman on this one...
-
I agree - that website is great.
Barb - you can always point the camera at something else instead of you - like a plant or a flower. Under no conditions do I want to do cam online ! Just because .
-
Marj I have to smile at the idea of pointing the camera at something else . my computer is in what was my bedroom and it is a MESS I don't want anyone to see me as I am ..which is usually VERY casual and if they saw my room here they would think GEE WHIZ did anna have a fire ?? a disaster ? The truth is I can live with it as I don't really care ..I don't want to and don't have to keep my home spic and span as I did when my husband was alive and we entertained..I can just be me@sloppy and carefree.... ;D ;D ;D
-
Amen, ladies! It's enough trouble to put on make-up, etc., in order to look nice when going out anywhere. I'm not about to start doing all that because I have an 'in-house' camera! Comfort, first!!
-
Yes, the Thomas Hardy study site is great. Like being in a classroom with a professor! But doesnt leave much for the rest of us to add except "liked" or "dont like"
Reminds me of one of my college professors for poetry, an saintly little nun from Boston, who, at this time of year, loved to quote Frost: "Come with rain, thou loud southwestah! Bring the singah! Bring the nestah!"
Eeeeeuw! Camera on computer! I once had a boss who was deaf and used a camera service that translated his sign language for correspondence. He loved It! but he was always in nice business attire when he used it.
-
Bellemere I like to think of it a poetry club..meeting on line in our homes , We need the thoughts and ideas from everyone ...what do we see in each poem, we often see things differently and for me that makes me think differently ..sometimes it means I change my mind on the interpretation and sometimes not...One of my poetry professor said poets bring their feelings to their poetry but to the reader because their experience is different often sees a different message..We never had to agree with her assessment or someone who read it and wrote a book about ,,in the end we get to decide what it means to us...She would give an assessment on our poems but in the end she would always say it is your poem ....and I apprecited that she didn't expect to just take her word or an EXPERT'S word but we get to decide what we think ...
-
Bellemere - I agree with Fairanna - we still have feelings or likes or dislikes even tho we read a website with commentary. On some of the other poems discussed on that website the professor gives alternative commentary. And this is a learning discussion in addition to being fun.
We can always add to what someone says.
-
I don't think we've had this one posted. Rather tongue in cheek I'd say - what do you have to comment?
THE RUINED MAID
by: Thomas Hardy (1840-1928)
" 'Melia, my dear, this does everything crown!
Who could have supposed I should meet you in Town?
And whence such fair garments, such prosperi-ty?"--
"O didn't you know I'd been ruined?" said she.
"You left us in tatters, without shoes or socks,
Tired of digging potatoes, and spudding up docks;
And now you've gay bracelets and bright feathers three!"--
"Yes: that's how we dress when we're ruined," said she.
-- "At home in the barton you said `thee' and `thou,'
And `thik oon,' and `theäs oon,' and `t'other'; but now
Your talking quite fits 'ee for high compa-ny!"--
"Some polish is gained with one's ruin," said she.
-- "Your hands were like paws then, your face blue and bleak
But now I'm bewitched by your delicate cheek,
And your little gloves fit as on any la-dy!"--
"We never do work when we're ruined," said she.
-- "You used to call home-life a hag-ridden dream,
And you'd sigh, and you'd sock; but at present you seem
To know not of megrims or melancho-ly!"--
"True. One's pretty lively when ruined," said she.
-- "I wish I had feathers, a fine sweeping gown,
And a delicate face, and could strut about Town!"--
"My dear -- a raw country girl, such as you be,
Cannot quite expect that. You ain't ruined," said she.
"The Ruined Maid" is reprinted from Poems of the Past and Present. Thomas Hardy. New York: Harper & Brothers, 1902.
From 5th verse: Megrims : Etymology: Middle English migreime, from Middle French migraine —
The responder voice certainly is happy as a "ruined" woman!
-
The sadness of so many girls mistreated during the nineteenth century - in town they are for sale and in the country for the taking - I get so depressed reading and knowing there is nothing we can do now or then to change what is done in secret - my outrage over what is happening today to the family and helpers of the 9 year old in Brazil is such a bitter pill I am stunned as if poisoned.
This may help change the subject -
Life Laughs Onward
by Thomas Hardy
Rambling I looked for an old abode
Where, years back, one had lived I knew;
Its site a dwelling duly showed,
But it was new.
I went where, not so long ago,
The sod had riven two breasts asunder;
Daisies throve gaily there, as though
No grave were under.
I walked along a terrace where
Loud children gambolled in the sun;
The figure that had once sat there
Was missed by none.
Life laughed and moved on unsubdued,
I saw that Old succumbed to Young:
'Twas well. My too regretful mood
Died on my tongue.
No explanation as to who are the two breasts riven assunder - are they friends, neighbors, family members - No hint - only folks from his past - or...
Trying to dope this out I turned to my book on symbolism and looked at the number Two - one of the many points of departure it suggests is to consider man body and soul - and so in his old abode in a place where grass is growing [sod] where the speaker in this poem had his soul or spirit - or maybe his heart - maybe his concept of love since he says breasts - riven [split with force or violence, to devide into pieces] from his body.
Backing up abode/house a world center, the sheltering aspect of the Great Mother, protection, the universal, our decent into darkness before rebirth and regeneration.
Sod is soil with grass - the soil symbolizes mother earth, the matrix - grass symbolizes useful submission, ones native land - OK to me this one is not deep it is probably only suggesting the natural place of the beginning of his time as a primordial child. This could be an inward ramble looking back, after a regeneration or a rebirth, to the person the speaker had been.
Breasts symbolize love, motherhood, nourishment, the great mother
Gravethe womb of the earth and the Earth Mother, the body imprisoning the soul, both death dealing and sheltering, dying to the world.
I am thinking grave is symbolic in the poem of where he was separated from himself - his faith in human kindness maybe - or maybe just the fact of growing up you are riven from childish things and childish comforts and childish thinking.
The Daisy symbolizes innocence and purity, emblem of the nymph Belides who caught the eye of Vertumnus, the god of orchards. This happened when she was dancing with other nymphs at the edge of a forest. Belides didn't want to be the center of attention, so morphed into the flower bellis. This is the daisy's botanical name.
But why a regretful mood - sad, I could understand but regretful
Tongue is powerful, both preaching and as a serpent - In Greek art, the tongue is a divine attribute, then later, a fearful device of the Gorgon. A two sided symbol finishing the poem with another version of two.
I still do not get regretful - maybe regretful not personally but more like, it is a regretful thing that we do in order to age. OK any ideas - I maybe kicking this can too hard.
-
Barbara your care in interpreting always gives me something to think about,..When I read it I felt he had returned to a graveyard that once was new---to visit someone he knew ,.perhaps I think when she was alive...the breasts to me are the mounds that a grave makes and they are no longer smooth and neat but aged and daisies fill the hollows that are now there. He finds and then accepts that fact that life goes on...children were playing there and she was known to no one except himself ...he accepts that life has gone on and so has he...
the poem posted by Marj is a clever thing to say that being RUINED was not always such a bad thing...this was at time when women were considered chattel ( and have we really left that behind?) and had she stayed in the country she would have been a farmers wife no doubt ...with none of the fancy things or easy life she now has... after all we had one English King in our time ( perhaps just mine ? ) abdicate for the woman he loved who was a "ruined woman" and Prince Charles had a long affair with a married woman and continued after he married and then married her after was divorced and his wife died.. Frankly so many movies now show more than I care to see and the news and magazines seem to praise couples who live together before marriage, have children born out of wedlock ( why dint they marry as soon as they find they will be parents.) some of my friends her are great grandmothers as their granddaughters are getting pregnant sans marriage and while we all delighted they had the baby and taken responsibilities for the child, having a job, their own place ( not the father of the child) and a baby sitter who cares for the child. If there were that many "AFFAIRS" when I was that young I never knew about it ..but young women ought to told as my mother told me and I told my children THERE ARE WORST THINGS IN LIFE THAN NEVER MARRYING...she didn't tell us nor did I tell my children that to suggest they never marry but allow yourself to be old enough and picky enough to marry someone whom you feel is the right person ...I dint know my children did well but now I worry about my four granddaughters ..thank goodness the oldest one is over 21 and with a good government job ...but the next two will be 16 this year and I worry about them They are being raised in loving ,caring homes , go to church etc but nothing seemed to make a difference to one who are now young mothers.. Ah I know I have gone far afield and I have a poem I have lost in edit and now will have to return and recopy and paste later today...I guess life is not going to change...sadly ...
-
BARB, you certainly put a lot of work into that poem! Some symbols are so natural and common that they are used, and understood, without a second thought. Others you really have to work for. Have you ever applied that study of symbology to a dream? Quite informative, actually.
Here's a Hardy poem that, to me, is quite revealing of the poet himself.
I LOOK INTO MY GLASS
by: Thomas Hardy (1840-1928)
I look into my glass,
And view my wasting skin,
And say, “Would God it came to pass
My heart had shrunk as thin!”
For then, I, undistrest
By hearts grown cold to me,
Could lonely wait my endless rest
With equanimity.
But Time, to make me grieve,
Part steals, lets part abide;
And shakes this fragile frame at eve
With throbbings of noontide.
There is a strong element of self-pity here, and one has to wonder about those "hearts grown cold to me". What was there in the character or personality of Hardy that hearts (plural, you note) grow cold toward him?
From his writings, I suspect that he was so gloomy a soul that he was depressing to be around.
-
Thomas Hardy written in 1927 a year before he died
To me when I read his poetry I see a man who was observant ,who noted the small things and was compelled to put his feelings and thoughts in to poetry,, I had to laugh at his observance of the RUINED ONE...to me he felt she didn't feel very ruined but rather fortunate to be who she was.. He has a sense of humor I noted in my uncles and even my aunts who were already seniors when I was still a child. It is rather a dry sense of humor ...one I loved because it was a HA HA sense but a rather sly one ...
Many of the poems I am reading before he died bemoaned those he knew and lost and I feel a sadness undertone in what he says. There is also a feeling he felt he had lived and loved and in that he had been blessed. Does any one else see that ?
Here is the poem ....
Seeing the Moon Rise
We used to go to Froom-hill Barrow
To see the round moon rise
Into the heath-rimmed skies ,
Trudging thither by plough and harrow
Up the pathway, steep and narrow,
Singing a song.
Now we do not go there. Why?
Zest burns not so high!
Latterly we've only conned her
With a passing glance
From window or door by chance,
Hoping to go again , high yonder,
As we used, and gaze , and ponder,
Singing a song.
Thitherward we do not go :
Feet once quick are slow!
According to my figures he was 88 when he died , the same age as my mother...since I am 81 I know how many I have known and loved and are no longer here...fifteen years ago the 24th of this month I lost my dearest friend, my lover and my husband I have made the best of it and for the most part am positive and thankful I was blessed in a thousand ways Out yesterday to buy some groceries I decided to put on a CD ( it was already in the case) my hearing is just about gone I dont do this often,,,I cant hear the melody and few of the words but enough I recognized the songs ..they were older songs from my past, and all of a sudden I felt the enormous sadness of loss....I have always made an effort to be positiive but when a day like yesterday arrives if I were writing a poem I can tell you it would be sad...
-
Fairanna Whoops another post - this is in response to your and Babi's earlier post
Fairanna yes, he seems a gloomy soul doesn’t he - even his novels - they for sure are not cheerful. Babi sees self-pity – maybe so – then I have to look at how we get to self-pity
My refrigerator door cheat-sheet that reminds me of how to go emotionally from here to there quotes from books read over the last 25 years says – Envy [putting value in wanting acceptance = self pity] His first marriage we are told was a disaster and yet he stayed until she died – maybe some of his poetry was releasing his regret that he could not act the cad and leave as many of the characters in his stories.
I know - that was an exhaustive rummage – but it is that word regretful that I could not get my head around and so started to dissect the poem hoping for a clue – and then to me I like to examine what is under the obvious in a poem. Sometimes it is easy but sometimes I end up compelled to work at it.
I agree with your treatise on the state of marriage as it involves children but did you notice your sad commentary shadowed the sadness we read from Hardy - [side note: for some reason calling him Tom just does not seem fitting, even in fun.]
I wonder if gloom comes from a feeling of helplessness to see the morality we were taught be either ignored or degraded so that sadness is the only response. Either that or laugh –
I do not think my laugh was genuine yesterday when I read the Pope thinks the change in values was NOT because women had the pill but because they had dishwashers...!!??!!
That, after being outraged that the mother, doctor and those who helped a 9 year old were excommunicated - a 9 year old - abort twins conceived by a step Dad and the only way they found out she was pregnant was when she went to the Doctor with a Stomach ache. The sanctity of life for whom - Certainly not the child who risks birth death at the minimum. She conceived in rape these children who would remind her for the rest of her life of that rape. Few people still do not seem to appreciate what rape and incest does to a woman that she carries with her to her death. Nor does anyone seem to understand what giving up a baby for adoption does to a woman; again, she carries that for the rest of her life. It is bad enough I know of no woman who ever had an abortion that does not also carry emotional scares - With that, gloom is also my reaction because as much as I have shared, to read and hear of this ignorance overwhelms me.
Ah Babi, looking in the mirror at our wasted skin – ah so…and oh my as we continue to read – OK – ::)
And shakes this fragile frame at eve
With throbbings of noontide.
As my grandmother used to say – that is all they think of… ;)
-
Seeing the moon Rise to me is a commentary on aging - I read a note of ironic wit in his poetry - but then we all bring to a poem what we will - I also notice according to how the day is for me I gain a different perspective often reading the same poem.
Somewhere I have a wonderful Irish Novel about the Rising of the Moon filled with valour by the Irish as they set about righting justice with the use of arms. Maybe hehehe that is it - if guys had to risk a good punch in the eye that leaves them marked with black and blue and maybe even a broken arm - or at least a finger, when they 'ruin' a girl we would either have a lot of discolored guys with broken bones walking the streets or, girls having the power to knock-'em-out may put a crimp in how some guys take what they want from a girl/woman. ;)
-
Why coiuldn't Hardy just stop when he "glimpsed" the moon through a window, and just look?
Am I being unfeeling? I spend plenty of time feeling sorry for myself, but at the end of the day, it gets pretty boring. I've lost a lot of things in my life, but I've also gained, I think, in my ability to appreciate what I do have.
-
OK, I'm in a snotty mood today. The other day, we went to my favorite spot at the ocean. The sky was blue, and the sea, which reflects the sky was a deep azure. The California poppies were in bloom. And two whales swam by!! I sat there transfixed. Next to me was a woman, turned away from the sea to talk constantly to her companion about some interior decorating. When the whales spouted, I would say "Thar she blows", but the woman wouldn't bother to turn around and look.
Hardy was a man who knew how to look. Such a person is always rich!
-
Joan that was a funny remark You are just honest and I understand how you feel ..well sort of ..I spent a few days on Amelia Island off the northern coast of Florida ..it is a special place ...I spent my time on the beach , uncluttered and peaceful ..watching the ocean move from sea to shore, watching as a mist rose since the day was warm and the sea water cool ...I have always thought it was romantic the way the sea came in and kissed the shore, bringing it gifts sometimes , when the sun was out bringing in golden tinged waves..the sandpipers which always tickle me the way they seem to skip, the clouds the horizon,,,but off to one side was a lady reading a book,, I never saw her stop and look at the scene before us..and I wrote a poem asking her was it more important to read the tales of men when nature was telling her so much ...Perhaps she was killing two birds with one stone,..enjoying the shore and reading ..I am just not that ambidextrous If I ever took a book it would lay there unopened and unread...
and pooh on that lady who thought interior decorating was more interesting that watching whales spouting ....you have to catch the action when it happens ...!
-
"I wonder if gloom comes from a feeling of helplessness to see the morality we were taught be either ignored or degraded so that sadness is the only response."
I think you are right,BARB. I hadn't thought of it that way, but your observaton fits well with my own feelings on the subject.
Also, I've often seen old people, wrinkled skin and all, who looked beautiful to me. Now, if I could just convince my mirror that applied to me as well!
JOANK, I had to smile at your post. There have been occasions when I would try to throw myself a grand 'pity party', but like you I found myself so boring I had to leave! ;) :D
ANNA, I loved your image of the sea 'kissing' the shore and sometimes leaving gifts. It read like a poem, and I hope it made its way into one.
-
I promised Anna a picture of a California poppy:
http://media.photobucket.com/image/california%20poppy/strawberry714/poppy.jpg?o=6 (http://media.photobucket.com/image/california%20poppy/strawberry714/poppy.jpg?o=6)
-
Welcome to our Poetry Page.
FairAnna and Barbara will alternate creating a focus for us - The poetry page is a haven for those of us who listen to words that open our hearts, and imagination, and allow our feelings be known about the poems we share - We are looking forward to continuing this tradition.
(http://seniorlearn.org/bookclubs/poetry/poetrymarch.jpg)
Please, joins us this month as Fairanna helps us look closer at the work of: THOMAS HARDY
Born 1840 the son of a stonemason in Dorsetshire, England he left fiction writing for poetry, and published eight collections, including Wessex Poems (1898) and Satires of Circumstance (1912). Thomas Hardy died in 1928.
A few links about Hardy and his poems.Thomas Hardy (http://www.poets.org/poet.php/prmPID/110)
Poems of Thomas Hardy (http://rpo.library.utoronto.ca/poet/148.html)
Thomas and Emma (http://www.brycchancarey.com/places/cornwall/hardy1.htm)
Thomas Hardy and His Wessex (http://www.btinternet.com/~wesspix/poetinx.htm)
Discussion Leaders: BarbStAubrey (augere@ix.netcom.com) & Fairanna (fairanna@verizon.net)
Joan they are spectacular I finally viewed about 50 but accidently clicked on a wrong groups of two young women .. I came before two piece bathing suits and now WOW there is more skin then I like to see...gee...thanks for the poppies they are really lovely can you press one in a book and mail to me ????? :) :) :)
-
I'm sure it's illegal to pick them in the park where I was. If I find a pickable one, I will, but I don't know if they keep that gorgeous color.
-
A couple asides.
I ordered poppy seeds from seedman.com - they have great pics ther of their offerings.
And this poem was from Panhala today - just sort of blew my mind away.
Gift (http://www.panhala.net/Archive/A_Gift.html)
-
Marg: that was lovely!
-
Did anyone think that "I look into my glass" ends with a regret that age has not taken away his sexual desires, but left them to torment him in his old age when he can no longer have a sexual relationship? Read the last lines again. Hardy was frank about sex in his novels and it was one of the reasons they were controversial; his publishers were always trying to tone them down. So he turned to poetry. But he was the same man.
The natural waning of sexual desire seems much harder for a man than a woman. He married again after Emma died, a younger woman. He lived only a few years after that, but perhaps they were happy years for him. What do you think?
-
A significant observation, bellemere.
I was only thinking of it as a lament on general aging from a person with no other outlooks than image of self.
-
MARJ, "Gift" left me pondering. My reaction was, how can I handle the questions of others when I can't find answers to my own? A beautiful and thought-provoking poem.
BELLEMARIE, Oh, yes, I saw the same thing in those lines. I suspect Hardy expressed for us a feeling that is more common than we realize. I remember a sad story of an elderly man who broke down and wept on the first anniversary of his wife's death, because in that entire year no one had so much as placed an arm around him and hugged him. We wither away, don't we, if there is no human contact at all.
-
From somewhere I remember:
Stay near me! Speak my name!
Spirit, perishable as bone
In no such winter can survive alone.
-
being alone at any age is terrible but at an advanced age is the pits ...which is one reason people who have lost loved ones don't always do well. I am not sure Hardy remarried to advance his carnal needs but to just find someone to share his life with and sometimes I think younger women are attracted not so much by how masculine men are but by the same need to share a life...even if for a little while//
I found a small one that made me smile it is sort of a what might have been poem ....
A Thunderstorm in Town
A Reminiscence 1893
She wore a new "terra cotta "dress,
And we stayed , because of the pelting storm,
Within the hansom's dry recess,
Though the horse had stopped; yea motionless
We sat on, snug and warm.
Then the downpour ceased, to my sharp sad pain ,
And the glass that had screened our forms before
Flew up , an out she sprang to her door:
I should have kissed her if the rain
Had lasted a minute more.
Sort of reminds me of memories from other days, years, that come and sort of make you smile...I can almost see him smile as he remembered and wrote the words...I see him looking on when he penned the last two lines..and thinking ..that was a special day even so...
-
Here is another nostalgic one...
"We sat at the window"
(Bournemouth, 1875)
We sat at the window looking out,
And the rain came down like silken strings
That Swithin's day. Each gutter and spout
Babbled unchecked in the busy way
Of witless things:
Nothing to read, nothing to see
Seemed in that room for her and me
On Swithin's day.
We were irked by the scene, by our own selves; yes
For I did not know, nor did she infer
How much there was to read and guess
By her in me, and to see and crown
By me in her.
Wasted were two souls in their prime,
And great was the waste, that July time
When the rain came down.
I especially liked the line "Babbled unchecked in the busy way
Of witless things:" I've heard those babbling gutters and spouts. For that matter, I've heard people do the same. ;)
-
The Thunderstorm
My - a remembrance of an opportunity not taken. And how many have we had thru our lives. Sadness in that poem to have missed the kiss.
We Sat at the Window Looking Out
Similar feeling of nostalgia as Babi says. Another lost opportunity - people are so full of richness when we
can take time to know them.
The 3 line poem bellemere quoted is sure something to remember.
Stay near me! Speak my name!
Spirit, perishable as bone
In no such winter can survive alone.
I remember just recently with my awful tooth/face infection how soothing it was when the dentist in my 7 trips there would put his hand lightly on my shoulder - a healing touch if you will. It helped. I know he didn't like
the pain he had to inflict in some of the treatment. Touch seems so absent these days. I make sure to touch at my fitness class when I talk to someone even if just to lightly touch their shoulder or arm. It's a connection.
-
HER DILEMMA
by: Thomas Hardy (1840-1928)
THE TWO were silent in a sunless church,
Whose mildewed walls, uneven paving-stones,
And wasted carvings passed antique research;
And nothing broke the clock’s dull monotones.
Leaning against a wormy poppy-head,
So wan and worn that he could scarcely stand,
--For he was soon to die,--he softly said,
“Tell me you love me!”--holding hard her hand.
She would have given a world to breathe “yes” truly,
So much his life seemed hanging on her mind,
And hence she lied, her heart persuaded throughly,
’Twas worth her soul to be a moment kind.
But the sad need thereof, his nearing death,
So mocked humanity that she shamed to prize
A world conditioned thus, or care for breath
Where Nature such dilemmas could devise
Oh my, such another poignant tale!
What a dilemma challenge. How often does the truth have to be concealed to keep from hurting a person. Is it always right to conceal? A gray area I believe. Very gray.
And is Hardy good at expressing a woman's perspective?
Then I Googled and found this about Antigone -
Antigone's dilemma (http://www.associatedcontent.com/article/115782/antigone_how_does_her_dilemma_compare.html?cat=38)
-
I think we face a dilemma often...and I think we should do the kind thing...and give an answer that is kind and it would be hard to deny a loved one a burial even if the person was a terrible person...We often never know why someone does some awful deed...There have been some so awful I feel I could pull the switch but having said that I would like them to be buried,,,and my prayer would be if God can forgive them then I will accept that ...
I could not refuse to say something kind and would not consider it a dilemma I think I would have hugged this person and say something comforting very easily ..love has a thousand meanings and surely there must be one suitable for a thousand needs ...
In any case Marj thanks for posting "OUR" dilemma will be interested in what others think Now I must check the poems I have been reading and decide which to share...we have had 4 days of rain and wind and for some reason I felt overwhelmed by all Of course my windshield wipers HAVE to be changed and were not clearing the windshield so I had to stay...indoors
-
I did not know the story of Antigone - wow - if she buries her brother who is it sounds like was a jerk and a threat then she is buried in a wall which I understand is what immured means - found the story on-line - thanks Marj - another one of those Greek stories that are used to say something in Literature that goes over our heads if we are not familiar with the Greek tale.
More and more of the homeschool moms are teaching their kids Latin and Greek - interesting - a classical eduction but you have to get it at home rather than in the classroom.
-
found this interesting poem from Thomas Hardy
Tolerance
'It is a foolish thing,' said I,
'To bear with such, and pass it by;
Yet so I do, I know not why!'
And at each clash I would surmise
That if I had acted otherwise
I might have saved me many sighs.
But now the only happiness
In looking back that I possess —
Whose lack would leave me comfortless —
Is to remember I refrained
From masteries I might have gained,
And for my tolerance was disdained;
For see, a tomb. And if it were
I had bent and broke, I should not dare
To linger in the shadows there.
-
I often wonder when I read Hardy's poems or any poets words (myself included) whether they are writing about something that happened to them . or something they read about and imagined a poem about it I know there are times I write about something I have not experienced ..but it seems when I sit at my computer , a word, a thought will come to me and then it seems as if my computer is waiting for me to put it into a poem..there are times when the poem is finished I wonder why I wrote ..and I wonder if not only Hardy writes that way but perhaps all poets...here is one I read today Tell me what you think
The Torn Letter
I tore your letter into strips
No bigger than the airy feathers
That ducks preen out in changing weathers
Upon the shifting ripple-tips.
In darkness on my bed alone
I seemed to see you in a vision.
And hear you say:"Why this derision
Of one drawn to you, though unknown?"
Yes, eve's quick mood has run its course,
The night had cooled my hasty madness;
I suffered a regretful sadness
Which deepened into real remorse.
I thought what pensive patient days
A soul must know of grain so tender,
How much of good must grace the sender
Of such sweet words in such bright phrase.
Uprising then,as things unpriced
I sought each fragment, patched and mended;
The midnight whitened ere I had ended
And gathered words I had sacrificed.
But some, alas, of those I threw
Were past my search, destroyed forever:
They were your name and place:and never
Did I regain those clues to you.
I learnt I had missed , by rash unheed,
My track; that, so the Will decided,
In life, death, we should be divided,
And at the sense I ached indeed.
That ache for you , born long ago,
Throbs on: I could never outgrow it ,
What a revenge, did you but know it!
But that, thank God , you do not know.
-
A poem that tells a story, ANNA. Surely something must have triggered that little detail about a letter from a stranger. While I could understand the initial scorn, and the following regret for her (see how I assume it is a 'her')..hasty action, it should have ended there. The idea that the poet continued to ache and regret the loss for the rest of her life is too extreme.
I found another Hardy poem to share. Haven't we all spent some 'waiting' time looking at the people around us, and imagining who they are and where they are going?
An Autumn Rain-Scene
by Thomas Hardy
There trudges one to a merry-making
With sturdy swing,
On whom the rain comes down.
To fetch the saving medicament
Is another bent,
On whom the rain comes down.
One slowly drives his herd to the stall
Ere ill befall,
On whom the rain comes down.
This bears his missives of life and death
With quickening breath,
On whom the rain comes down.
One watches for signals of wreck or war
From the hill afar,
On whom the rain comes down.
No care if he gain a shelter or none,
Unhired moves on,
On whom the rain comes down.
And another knows nought of its chilling fall
Upon him at all,
On whom the rain comes down.
-
Babi it has rained here for four days and is raining again this morning I know everyone must be like me ...asking WHERE ARE YOU SUN?
I was looking for a rain poem and it seems serendipitous you found one ...and yes I am that curious I often wonder about people about me ...neighbors who are not friendly at all., what made them so suspicious ? did some one do them harm so they avoid all others,...any number of times I have wondered about those who have peopled my life...this is a poem that asks the questions .and where are you sun?
-
This being St Patricks Day and I being a Hannigan and a Delahanty Irish songs were remembered when I was a child and this was one of my favorites
The Kerry Dance
Chorus:
Oh, the days of the Kerry dancing
Oh, the ring of the piper's tune
Oh, for one of those hours of gladness
Gone, alas, like our youth, too soon!
When the boys began to gather
In the glen of a summer's night
And the Kerry piper's tuning
Made us long with wild delight!
Oh, to think of it
Oh, to dream of it
Fills my heart with tears!
Chorus:
Was there ever a sweeter Colleen
In the dance than Eily More
Or a prouder lad than Thady
As he boldly took the floor.
Lads and lasses to your places
Up the middle and down again
Ah, the merry hearted laughter
Ringing through the happy glen!
Oh, to think of it
Oh, to dream of it
Fills my heart with tears!
Chorus:
Time goes on, and the happy years are dead
And one by one the merry hearts are fled
Silent now is the wild and lonely glen
Where the bright glad laugh will echo ne'er again
Only dreaming of days gone by in my heart I hear.
Loving voices of old companions
Stealing out of the past once more
And the sound of the dear old music
Soft and sweet as in days of yore.
When the boys began to gather
In the glen of a summer's night
And the Kerry piper's tuning
Made us long with wild delight!
Oh, to think of it
Oh, to dream of it
Fills my heart with tears!
Chorus:
-
Fairanna it looks like we have to take a break from Thomas Hardy today in order to celebrate the Irish - Have not found any of Hardy's poetry that is about Ireland or the Irish - However, here is one that is being touted as a new find but it actually has been around since Victorian Times and written by an Englishman. Could account for the discription of the cottage, man and children.
J. Stanyan Bigg - JOHN STANYAN BIGG English poet and journalist (1828 - 1865) wrote "An Irish Picture" - A Victorian Poetry, found in the Fall of 2001 by Kerry McSweeney
An Irish Picture
A smoking swamp before a cottage door;
A drowned dog bobbing to a soleless shoe;
A broken wash-tub, with its ragged staves
Swimming and ducking to a battered hat,
Whenever the wind stirs the reedy slime;
A tumbled peat-stack, dripping in the rain;
A long, lank pig, with dissipated eyes,
Leading a vagrant life among the moors;
A rotting paling, and a plot of ground,
With fifteen cabbage-stalks among lush weeds;
A moss-grown pathway, and a worn-out gate,
Its broken bars down-dangling from the nails;
A windy cottage, with a leaky thatch,
And two dim windows set like eyes asquint;
A bulging doorway, with a drunken lean;
Two half-nude children dabbling in the mire,
And scrambling eagerly for bottle-necks;
A man akimbo at the open door,
His battered hat slouched o'er his sottish eyes,
Smoking contented in the falling rain.
-
Oh, dear! I much prefer FairAnna's poem, Barb. Such a terrible picture from Mr. Biggs. I think I will read again about Eily More and Thady, to take that picture into my day.
-
Ah yes - the thing is that the English rules and lack of assistance during the great hunger was in large measure responsible for what is described and yet there is much written that shows not only this picture of poverty but a tone of the"un-washed" with lines like "Leading a vagrant life among the moors;" - Reminds me of how we accepted and could read a similar view of blacks up until the Civil Rights Movement - IN both instances their circumstances were down and out but so little respect was shown much less seeing and commenting on their courage to live through their harsh life.
From all the news out of Ireland it is only the past 30 years or so that Ireland is no longer the place of bone chilling poverty - I remember seeing a PBS special of the author who wrote Angelia's Ashes returning to Ireland and not only could he not find the Ireland of his childhood but when he spoke with the young school and working adults they had no reference to the Ireland of his childhood.
Like all of us we prefer to celebrate the best memories so that even a fantasized version of life becomes more real than reality. However, I too prefer the sunny outlook and joy expressed in "The Kerry Dance."
-
I enjoy his poetry. It seems to set a mood that speaks to me whether I am feeling happy or sad. It seems so true and so human. Maybe it is because I am a visual person who loves rainy days.
Sandy
-
Glad you find something in these pages Sandy - welcome - we look forward to your comments or your sharing of a poem - this month the focus is on Thomas Hardy but as you can see we're OK with breaking into another's poems if the spirit moves us... ;) :)
-
I cracked up when I r/c this in my Poetry class. It reminded me of us, trying to decipher a poem here, toghether.
I ask them to take a poem
and hold it up to the light
like a color slide
or press an ear against its hive.
I say drop a mouse into a poem
and watch him probe his way out,
or walk inside the poem's room
and feel the walls for a light switch.
I want them to waterski
across the surface of a poem
waving at the author's name on the shore.
But all they want to do
is tie the poem to a chair with rope
and torure a confession out of it.
The begin beating it with a hose
to find out what it really means.
-by Billy Collins
-
Hi Alf - you bring back memories - we focused on Billy Collins back on SeniorNet - unfortunately and sadly all those discussions for the last year and a half are lost. We even had a few poets join us - still a bitter pill. Ah So...
-
Oh it's great to read the Kerry Dancers on St. Patrick's Day but Irish poetry needs amonth of its own. Yeats, Oscar Wilde, Brendan Behan, Sean o'Casey, James Joyce, Patrick Kavanagh, Becket, Seamus Heany, but ;maybe this will hold us until we get to that point.
When You Are Old
When you are old and gray and full of sleep,
And nodding by the fire, take down this book,
And slowly read, and dream of the soft look
Your eyes had once, and of their shadows deep;
How many loved your moments of glad grace,
And loved your beauty, with love false or true,
But one man loved the pilgrm soul in you,
And loved the sorrows of your changing face.
And bending down beside the glowing bars,
Murmur a little sadly how Love fled,
And paced upon the mountains overhead,
And hid his face amid a crowd of stars.
----Yeats
-
Yes, Bellemere great Irish poets abound - but then the Irish have a way when it comes to writing and speaking don't they - I've yet to read a bad story written by an Irish author - I sware part of Obama's magic when he makes a speech is overlapping his Black heritage on his Irish heritage.
-
Of course I am enjoying every poem and especially the Irish poems...:-)I have a dear friend who has given me something Irish each year since my husband died in 1994,,,because it was the only day he never forgot in 43 (nearly 44) years ...and she wanted to remember me as a way of remembering him as well,,,I am wearing today a lovely necklace , a gift from yesterday. a gold chain and a circle peopled with rhinestones and in the center green stones in the shape of a shamrock....but the best gift is a small book called Irish Wit and WIsdom I am going to post one because this is they way it was ...he never forgot me and I feel him near even now...
Dry be that tear
Ask'st thou how long my love shall stay,
When all that's new is past?
How long? Ah! Delia, can I say,
How long my life shall last ?
Dry be that tear, be hushed that sigh;
At least I'll love thee till I die-
Hushed be that sigh.
Richard Brinsley Sheridan
-
Oh, one more Irish poem before bed.
The Fiddler of Dooney
When I play on my fiddle in Dooney,
Folk dance like a wave of the sea.
My cousin is priest in Kilvarnet,
My brother in Mocharabuiee.
I passed my brother and cousin:
They read in their books of prayer;
I read in my book of songs
I bought at the Sligo fair.
When we come at the end of time
To St. Peter sitting is state,
He will smile at the three old spirits,
But call me first through the gate.
For the good are always the merry,
Save by an evil chance,
And the merry love the fiddle,
And the merry love to dance.
And when the folk there spy me,
They will all come up to me,
With "Here is the fiddler of 'Dooney!"
And dance like a wave of the sea.
-
No, just one more: The Parting Glass
Of all the money that ere I had, I spent it in good company.
And of all the harm that ere I've done, alas was done to none but me.
And all I've done for want of wit, to memory now I cannot recall.
So fill me to the parting glass. Goodnight and joy be with you all.
Of all the comrades that ere I had, they're sorry for my going away,
And of all the sweethearts that ere I had , they wish me one more day to stay,
But since it falls unto my lot that I should rise while you should not,
I will gently rise and I'll softly call, "Goodnight and joy be with you all!"
GOOD NIGHT AND JOY BE WITH YOU ALL!
-
I've always liked that Yeats poem, BELLEMARIE; it was a pleasure to read it again.
An accurate analogy there, BARB. Society does tend to assuage it's collective conscience blaming the underdog for his problems.
Here's another poem of Hardy's that I like. The descriptions are lovely,
and the ever-present nostalgia is gentler than in some other poems.
BEENY CLIFF
by: Thomas Hardy (1840-1928)
I. THE opal and the sapphire of that wandering western sea,
And the woman riding high above with bright hair flapping free--
The woman whom I loved so, and who loyally loved me.
II. The pale mews plained below us, and the waves seemed far away
In a nether sky, engrossed in saying their ceaseless babbling say,
As we laughed light-heartedly aloft in that clear-sunned March day.
III. A little cloud then cloaked us, and there flew an irised rain,
And the Atlantic dyed its levels with a dull misfeatured stain,
And then the sun burst out again, and purples prinked the main.
IV. --Still in all its chasmal beauty bulks old Beeny to the sky,
And shall she and I not go there once again now March is nigh,
And the sweet things said in that March say anew there by and by?
V. What if still in chasmal beauty looms that wild weird western shore,
The woman now is--elsewhere--whom the ambling pony bore,
And nor knows nor cares for Beeny, and will laugh there nevermore.
-
Bellmere and Babi thanks for the poems you posted ...after six days of rain I see a bright light and believe the sun has survived the cloak of dark skies and will shine again until night...as I read the poems I found as I always do a people and a place I never knew...I see what the poets see and feel what the poets feel....I don't find that odd but tells me no matter when a poet lived or where or how ,..across the years they take me and I am with them now,,,poetry feeds a need in me that has been fed since I was a child...now I must go and open up my Hardy book and find a poem to share.....
-
Ahhh Here is one I found ..I was attracted by the title and then by the poem itself ..having moved over a dozen times the poem than attracted me .. the only difference is .. like the Johnny Mercer song "any place I hang my hat is home" we took home with us...
Starlings on the Roof
'No smoke spreads out of this chimney -pot,
The people who lived here have left the spot,
And others are coming who knew them not.
"If you listen anon, with an ear intent,
The voices, you'll find , will be different
From the well-known ones of those who went.'
'Why did they go? Their tones so bland
Were quite familiar it out band;
The comers we shall not understand.'
'They look for a new life, rich and strange;
They do not know that, let them range
Wherever they may ,they will get no change.
'They will drag their house-gear ever so far
In search for a home no miseries mar,
They will find that as they were they are,
'That every hearth has a ghost , alack,
And be but the scene of a bivouac
Till they move their last-no care to pack!'
-
I was so sad when we left William Wordsworth, but how else would we ever have come to Thomas Hardy? Thank you. He is one I never appreciated when I was young.
Sandy
-
I have mentioned to a couple of people that we are reading the poetry of Thomas Hardy, and they say."Poetry? I never knew he wrote any." These were people who knew his novels, "Tess", Jude' etc. but never heard of his poetry. It is a puzzling question. The novels have become part of the canon, read over the world. but he stopped writing them and turned to poetry which few people read. How come? One reason given was that the novels were controversial and the publishers were always trying to tone them down. That never stopped D.H. lawrence. Or, a decade later, James Joyce. I am not real familiar with the novels but I read Tess in college and Jude later. The certainly were realistic but only the betrayal of Tess by Angel what's his name was remotely shocking. Why the switch?
The poetry is good, but I think the work shows. Like the work of a stone mason. It is full of great images, intersting word coinages, little worldly morality lessons, but to me, it just doesn't sing. Is it me?
-
What was shocking in one era will not raise an eyebrow in a later time, Bellemarie. For instance, the "Decameron' of Boccaccio was described as highly scandalous and lewd. When I finally read it, (at a safely mature age 8) ),
I found it quite modest by today'standards. I think Boccaccio would faint if he read some of our modern books, much less saw some of the show-all-and-spare-no-details movies.
-
I reread some of the poems and loved this line...I will remember it when next we get a gentle rain ....And the rain came down like silken strings
Bellemere there are many who read novels and fewer who enjoy poetry I didnt know when I read Tess and Far from a Maddening crowd that Hardy wrote poetry ..but I love poetry more than a novel and I have read hundreds .. in fact just donated some of the old ones to my church and they are selling them on ebay...they expect to get at least 400 dollars for them...and I have purchased so many books over the sixty years of my adult life I must have spent thousands and still have books everywhere and keep buying them ..I was not a smoker or a drinker so I think reading and buying books was my addiction...everyone is entitled to at least one !!
When we began a monthly study of a single poet it was and to me rather exciting ..I had not read all of the poets studied but we not only read what the poet wrote but the era in which they lived, why they wrote and what the poetry meant to us.. Most wrote about what they knew ...and some was tragic....others were like me ..whether my own is good or bad doesnt mean anything because I write because I cannot not write.. if others enjoy that is fine but in the end I do it first for me...and as I said I HAVE TO WRITE>
AND READ and learn why and what other poets wrote, I dont like everything a poet writes but I do take into consideration when they lived and what might have influenced them...it is a rare opportunity to look into someones mind...and here is the one I read this afternoon and will post it now..because spring is nearly here ..the Bradford Pears are in all their glory, my plum tree is its lacy gown, the iris are pushing the swords above the ground preparing for the Empresses to arrive .. my lilac bushes and rose bush show signs that it wont be long before they too will shout SPRING IS HERE and the hydrangea all have tiny green nubs that let;s me know I will have beauty in my yard until autumn says its here...
Joys of Memory
When the spring comes round, and a certain day
Looks out from the brume by the eastern copsetrees
And says , Remember ,
I begin again , as if it were new,
A day of like date I once lived through.
Whiling it hour by hour away;
So shall I do till my December ,
When spring comes round.
I take my holiday then and my rest
Away from the dun life here about me ,
Old hours re-greeting
With the quiet sense that bring they must
Such throbs as at first , till I house with dust,
And in the numbness my heartsome zest
For things that were , be past repeating
When spring comes round.
This one is special in many ways but mostly because 15 years ago Mar 24 my dear husband went HOME ..and my memory is as clear as it was then and will be so until my December
-
Fairanna, how much I enjoyed what you posted. I like to read your thoughts about poetry and life in general. This poetry page is one of my joys. There are poems that have lines I want to memorize as they touch me so deeply. Never happened when I was young. Maybe the love of poetry is one of the surprise joys of being old. And there are more than I expected.
Sandra
-
Merry Vernal Equinox everyone!
I was catching up on reading and the last poem above me about Spring
was a reminder that today is the first day. Even tho we have a wintry temp this morning the poem and the date give a wee bit o' lightness to myself.
I like these lines from above:
And in the numbness my heartsome zest
For things that were , be past repeating
When spring comes round.
We all get feelings of "numbness" now and again.
-
Welcome to our Poetry Page.
FairAnna and Barbara will alternate creating a focus for us - The poetry page is a haven for those of us who listen to words that open our hearts, and imagination, and allow our feelings be known about the poems we share - We are looking forward to continuing this tradition.
(http://seniorlearn.org/bookclubs/poetry/poetrymarch.jpg)
Please, joins us this month as Fairanna helps us look closer at the work of: THOMAS HARDY
Born 1840 the son of a stonemason in Dorsetshire, England he left fiction writing for poetry, and published eight collections, including Wessex Poems (1898) and Satires of Circumstance (1912). Thomas Hardy died in 1928.
A few links about Hardy and his poems.Thomas Hardy (http://www.poets.org/poet.php/prmPID/110)
Poems of Thomas Hardy (http://rpo.library.utoronto.ca/poet/148.html)
Thomas and Emma (http://www.brycchancarey.com/places/cornwall/hardy1.htm)
Thomas Hardy and His Wessex (http://www.btinternet.com/~wesspix/poetinx.htm)
Discussion Leaders: BarbStAubrey (augere@ix.netcom.com) & Fairanna (fairanna@verizon.net)
FAIRANNA, I loved your description of your garden, and I wish I could see it. Perhaps you could take some pictures of the blooming trees, and the Empress iris when it appears. My 'garden' is limited now, due both to space and my inability to do all I once could. (Not that I was ever a great gardener.) I had a lovely area of Wandering Jew under a tree, but last Spring a new group I hired to do the mowing cut most of it down out of sheer ignorance. Although WJ grows fast, the weeds have been faster and are proving hard to dislodge.
-
Babi what I have is thanks to God since some of His creatures MOLES are decimating it..but the plum tree is in full bloom and I think of it as a SHE since the blossoms look like a debutants dress ( at least from the past) and I have fewer iris since it seems moles enjoy them...and in May some morning I will awake and a fragrance will fill the air and it is my apple tree..too high now for me to gather its fruit ...the squirrels love it and the birds and my tall neighbor retrieved enough last year for his wife to bake some pies....the dogwood will bloom soon and that is special..I once wrote a poem about its blossoms..still closed they looked like a thousand communion cups..IF I can figure out how to get my pictures on my computer I can email some ...I still have azaleas, and they will soon cheer me, the moles seem to enjoy rooting in my iris beds so I am not sure how many will be here but they have given me a great deal of pleasure over the years ...My oldest son is trying to help me renovate my yard and I keep planting hoping that some of my choices will offend the moles and they will depart...
AND Marj thanks for reminding me it is SPRING ..the temp doesnt feel like it and the day promises clouds and rain ....I dont FEEL spring this year...in the past I KNEW it well and could feel the air ...beneath the still cool breeze a warm one would touch my face and I KNEW it was Spring...Virginia summers are usually TOO hot so come summer I will most likely complain!! We are never satisfied .. but would we like only our choices...? I prefer surprises
-
Choosing a book to take to a doctors appointment I picked up a small collection of Hardys poems...and read the following Hardy was 58 years old when his first book of poetry was written.. Which explains a lot of the sadness and looking back and even understanding his concern with death.... the author made this comment ...He had the unique ability to infuse even the most mundane subject with lyrical resonance and penetrating emotion... The biography in this book is fuller than I have read before ...even when he was young he thought of himself as a poet but his earlier works did not sell and he decided to try writing which did sell and provided him with enough money to devote himself to being what he always considered himself a poet...I find it interesting that his books now are considered excellent examples of his time like Hardy though it is his poetry that charms me ...off to the doctor have a great day all....
-
FAIRANNA, you may have voles rather than moles. I found this comment in an article on pests: Moles eat insects and worms. Their damage to plants is inadvertent and only occurs if they separate the roots of the plant from the surrounding soil. They don't eat plants. However, voles eat plants .. Of course, your plant loss may be due to 'inadvertent' damager from the moles. I understand fritillaria is a plant the pests don't like, and their are a quite a lot of pretty flowers in that group.
I am finding so many of Hardy's poems sound bitter as well as said, at least to me. Here is another example...
NEUTRAL TONES
by: Thomas Hardy (1840-1928)
E stood by a pond that winter day,
And the sun was white, as though chidden of God,
And a few leaves lay on the starving sod,
--They had fallen from an ash, and were gray.
Your eyes on me were as eyes that rove
Over tedious riddles solved years ago;
And some words played between us to and fro--
On which lost the more by our love.
The smile on your mouth was the deadest thing
Alive enough to have strength to die;
And a grin of bitterness swept thereby
Like an ominous bird a-wing….
Since then, keen lessons that love deceives,
And wrings with wrong, have shaped to me
Your face, and the God-curst sun, and a tree,
And a pond edged with grayish leaves.
-
Ah Babi you are right....perhaps when one feels he is a poet first and has to do other things until he is almost 60 might give him a few bitter days...and I was thinking that might have been a poem about a real event ...he stayed with his wife until her death and it sure sounds like they exchanged some bitter comments...and I believe men really hate to go over a problem they think has been solved (their way) when someone reminds them that they have failed...who knows ....I read that poem as well and I am sharing what I thought when I read it ...anyone else?
and thanks for suggestion re voles perhaps I am blaming the wrong creature .now I will check and see what they dont like and FILL my yard with that!!!!
-
Good luck with your research and your garden, ANNA.
After having read some of Hardy's books and now, his poetry, a thought has occurred to me more than once. Is he sad and bitter because of people who 'betrayed' him, or did people drift away because he was so gloomy and depressing?
-
Babi I don't know the answer...he was and is admired by many so it would seem he doesn't have any reason to be anything but cheerful ...We have no idea what his real life was like...on a day to day basis ,..the small book I have shows pictures of the place where he wrote his poetry and it is a lovely lovely home .in the country I would say,...HOWEVER there was no medicine and I don't believe depression was recognized as a disease to be treated at that time..and since I have had two neighbors who lost their daughters who were being treated for depression from suicide so I am not sure about the treatment..
Even if it seems sad I find a lot of his descriptions and the way he personifies things interesting and makes me see them in a different light..I see what I want to see in his poetry .. his way with the lines and how he finds words that rhyme-- I am taking medicine right now and don't have time to share another poem ,,,by tomorrow I hope I am feeling more like me.. LOL which may not be a good idea..
-
Interesting - I found this by Thomas Hardy - just his title is the sign of a master as compared to my poem of a similar time in my friend's experience -
SHE, AT HIS FUNERAL
by: Thomas Hardy (1840-1928)
HEY bear him to his resting-place--
In slow procession sweeping by;
I follow at a stranger’s space;
His kindred they, his sweetheart I.
Unchanged my gown of garish dye,
Though sable-sad is their attire;
But they stand round with griefless eye,
Whilst my regret consumes like fire!
Brilliant as he paints a gray and achingly sad picture then turns the table with the last word 'fire' so the scene in our eyes and heart turns red and orange in a snap. He also includes his feelings - 'regret'
RECEIVING AT HIS WAKE
By Barbara St. Aubrey [2007]
Her eyes, (tutelary spirits)
Guard drifting sky webs,
Drink mist drops of memory.
Her threaded face ebbs
Inward; pale lips mime
The speaking, her reality,
The murmurs of breathed
Eulogies that generously
Float while she sits erect
Pretending to reflect
Their ache, as her worried
Heart hunts a lost butterfly.
-
Aren't these lines exquisite in "Wake":
Their ache, as her worried
Heart hunts a lost butterfly.
The feeling there in "Wake" as she mouths responses to eulogies while
her real self is remarkable in your poem, Barbara.
-----------------------------------------
And Hardy's "She" - you can definitely feel how it is to be an outsider for the narrator. And one who loved while no one knew.
-
I agree with your comment about some of Hardy's lines, ANNA.
The words "that God-cursed sun" I found so startling. One would
think that the sun would be most welcome in a country that gets
so much rain and short summers.
From the 'Wake', these lines caught me; I can see that face so clearly.
"Her threaded face ebbs
Inward; pale lips mime
The speaking,"
-
Barbara thanks so much for sharing your poem and posting one of Hardy's they are both so special and in Hardy's I have been to ones where the family just seemed glad it was over...while some friends were stricken by loss...
Your poem I am sure was appreciated and remembered ...the whole poem was so special ..and exquisite especially
"Their ache, as her worried
Heart hunts a lost butterfly."
-
Yesterday I took my Hardy book and found a humorous poem I thought the wagtail was a bird and here is the description
Gray wagtail (Motacilla cinerea). (credit: H. Reinhard-Bruce Coleman Inc.)Any of 7 – 10 passerine species in the genus Motacilla and the forest wagtail (Dendronanthus indicus) of Asia. Wagtails continually pump their long tail up and down; the forest wagtail wags its entire body from side to side. They inhabit beaches, meadows, and streamsides, nesting on the ground and roosting in trees. Males of the white, or pied, wagtail (M. alba), common across Eurasia, are white and gray or white and black. The only New World species, the yellow wagtail (M. flava), breeds in Alaska and migrates to Asia.and here is the poem
Wagtail and Baby
A baby watched a ford, whereto
A wagtail came for drinking ;
A blaring bull went wading through ,
The wagtail showed no shrinking.
A stallion splashed his way across,
The birdie nealy sinking ;
He gave his plumes a twitch and toss,
And held his own unblinking.
Next saw baby around the spot
A mongrel slowly slinking;
The wagtail gazed , but faltered not
In dip and sip and prinking.
A perfect gentleman than neared;
The wagtail, in a winking,
With terror rose and disappeared;
The baby fell a-thinking.
Now that made me smile! and shows Hardy observing and writing...I just think so much of his poems seem sad because he and all around are seeing and feeling the pain of loss, of a country busy adding to the empire ...and of course the ever present diseases of that time..ie TB Typhoid fever ...even having a baby was a serious business ...I think we have become so use to the improvements in medicine, shots to protect us from devasting illnesses , surgery , antibiotics and the care that medical people have by using gloves , disenfects etc When my latest cataract surgery was only 15 min and I could do anything I wanted except take a shower etc to the one 20 years ago when I wasnt allowed to read or watch TV for 6 weeks and was in the hospital for at least a half day...this time my daughter brought me home as soon as it was over and I COULD SEE immediately It is so amazing ...We are surviving or not even having to worry about illnesses that have almost disappeared in my lifetime no measles that often caused the patient to lose thier hearing wasnt it Helen Keller who both sight and hearing from measles ? And why do modern poets who seem lucky in many ways write sad poems and observe the worst in life and man?
So what shall we do next month? Barbara? anyone? does someone have a favorite poet they would like to read the poems and see what we can find?
-
Definitely a smile-worthy poem, Anna.
I Googled to find something about Spring in Hardy's poems.
Here is one I found that has been evidently set to music. And once again mentions a lady love. I saw that mentioned about it on different websites about the musicality.
Title: "If it's ever spring again"
Author: Thomas Hardy
If it's ever spring again,
Spring again,
I shall go where went I when
Down the moor-cock splashed, and hen,
Seeing me not, amid their flounder,
Standing with my arm around her;
If it's ever spring again,
Spring again,
I shall go where went I then.
If it's ever summer-time,
Summer-time,
With the hay crop at the prime,
And the cuckoos--two--in rhyme,
As they used to be, or seemed to,
We shall do as long we've dreamed to,
If it's ever summer-time,
Summer-time,
With the hay, and bees achime.
For instance this site is for a composer Milford and lists his compositions including the above. I didn't find an mp3 of it.
http://www.recmusic.org/lieder/get_text.html?TextId=7266
-
PS - I'd love to see a wagtail wagging.
Here is a gray wagtail. Such fun to say the word.
http://www.zestforbirds.co.za/Gray%20Wagtail-b.jpg
-
Marj thanks for the picture and it is FUN just to say WAGTAIL isnt it ????My medicine is kicking in and I am feeling better ..and would feel a LOT better if only spring would arrive...once spring came earlier and then left and I wrote a poem about HER loitering on southern beaches while winter was staying WAY too long PS in the small book I have the author suggested that Hardy most likely had a lot of women in his life ..at least in his mind!!!:-)
-
What a lovely looking bird - thanks Marj for the link
Oh hope you start feeling better Fairanna - my very best friend was down all last week - she took her dog for a walk and he pulled and pulled to catch up with some neighbor dogs and that yanked Charlotte's arm at the socket - like you she has been uncomfortable with pain meds to make the day and night all into one.
Charlotte will turn 90 next week - would you believe - she is marvelous - drives - is active in a few community activist organizations - attends Feldenkrist classes each week - visits an old friend in a nursing home every week - welcomes a young man who is going through chemo to stay overnight when he comes to town for his weekly treatment - and then we get together for dinner every Wednesday night - once a month we drive down to Mary House for Mass and a visit [where the homeless who are dying are taken in so they do not have to die on the street] and then once a month we attend the conversation cafe at Seton cove - along with weekend visits from her two out of town daughters each month - whew - I am out of breath just sharing all that but she is a role model for me as to how to age and still matter.
-
Barb: I'd like to adopt Charlotte. She's a jewel. Thanks for sharing her with us.
-
Barb I am 81 and I hope IF I make it to 90 ///cant believe I am even saying that ! I will be as active as Charlotte ...I dont think I would mind at all..She is a jewel isnt she..?
Here is another poem and I love the descriptions
The Sun on the Bookcase
(Student's Love-Song 1870)
Once more the cauldron of the sun
Smears my bookcase with winy red,
And here my page is, and there's my bed,
And the apple-tree shadows travel along,
Soon their intangible track will be run,
And dusk grow strong
And they have fled.
Yes now the boiling ball is gone,
And I have wasted another day ....
But wasted-wasted do I say?
Is it a waste to have imagined one
Beyond the hills there, who, anon,
My great deeds done,
Will be mine alway?
I love the boiling ball for describing the sun ! A wonderful description of the end of the day ....and his hope that when his studies are over ,, he will be with his sweetheart ....
-
So glad y'all can also see Charlotte for something special
Fairanna I love the first two lines - interesting how we each find beauty in different lines and words - for me these are the special lines...
Once more the cauldron of the sun
Smears my bookcase with winy red,
-
Barbara it is hard to choose isnt it ? Since SPRING should be here ..the birds have arrived need feeding at least every other day I chose the next poem because like Hardy HOW DO THEY KNOW when it is time to return and how does the flowers know it is time to bloom? I have often thought that myself
The Year's Awakening
How do they know that the pilgrim track
Along the belting zodiac
Swept by the sun in his seeming rounds
Is traced by now to the Fishes' bounds
And into the Ram, when weeks of cloud
Have wrapt the sky in a clammy shroud,
And never as yet a tinct of spring
Has shown in the Earth's apparelling;
O vespering bird , how do you know,
How do you know?
How do you know, deep underground,
Hid in your bed from sight and sound,
Without a turn in temperature,
With weather life can scare endure'
That light has won a fractions's strength,
And day put on some moments' length,
Whereof in merest rote will come,
Weeks hence, mild airs that do not numb;
O crocus root, how do you know,
How do you know?
February 1910
-
Yes, that poem brings to words our ponderable questions about season change, especially spring.
These lines:
And never as yet a tinct of spring
Has shown in the Earth's apparelling
Robin comes even when there is no "tinct". So we know there will be. Isn't apparelling a great word, as is tinct.
-
Anna & Marj, thanks for posting those lighter Hardy poems. Birds do appear
rather often in his poems, don't you think? I think he must have been a
bird-watcher.
The gray wag-tail is beautiful, MARJ. In the picture, he appears more blue
than gray.
ANNA, I smiled at the student's poem. I would tell him that he may not get
many great deeds done if he doesn't buckle down to his studies! ;)
I found this poem, one of Hardy's later poems I understand, and wonder if
it reflects his own feelings.
The Singing Woman
Thomas Hardy » Late Lyrics and Earlier
There was a singing woman
Came riding across the mead
At the time of the mild May weather,
Tameless, tireless;
This song she sung: "I am fair, I am young!"
And many turned to heed.
And the same singing woman
Sat crooning in her need
At the time of the winter weather;
Friendless, fireless,
She sang this song: "Life, thou'rt too long!"
And there was none to heed.
-
Babi in my opinion poets are observers ..they see what many ignore and because they are poets they cant ignore and write about them ..the following is one I think that demonstrates that
The Lizard
If on any warm day when you ramble around
Among the moss and dead leaves, you should happen to see
A quick trembling thing dart and hide on the ground,
And you search in the leaves, you would uncover me.
Now from one who writes as bird , a moth, dog, cat and a slug ...I appreciate this poem..for the time it takes to see yourself as each ( which isnt long ) and for thinking it important enough to give it a voice by using ones own I really admire Hardy ...I walk with him ....
By the way I want to recognize the editor of my book of Hardy's poems James Gibson.., there are 984 pages in this book and so many poems I cant imagine how many hours and days he spent researching and assembling all the poems therein...
-
ah the mead to heed and the need to heed - and from "I am fair, I am young!" to "Life, thou'rt too long!" - my daughter lived or a year in a house that only had fireplaces for heat - here in Texas that would not be as difficult as other locations but she was always cold and the house had accumulated so much dust from the fires all winter long - and so I can understand how hard a long life must have been putting up with the work that had to be done to keep warm and fed every winter without much break in the work.
-
Anna observers yes and also they have to be free to jot down and work on the thoughts and lines that come - I did it again where yesterday I had the nucleus of two poems started in my head - but I had to get on with appointments for work and did not write down my thoughts - and sure enough today I have no memory or even the topic much less the words I was batting around - and so I can see it is difficult if someone has a job that they cannot stop and switch to writing because without being able to do that so much is lost.
I am so glad you found Hardy - I had no idea the collection of poems he wrote - I want to take some time and get some of these authors straight in my head as to when they were writing - I think Hardy was writing around the time of the Brontes but I need to look - I think it would be interesting to see how much the poems of writers from the same period have in common. Hardy's poems do remind me of the poems of the Bronte sisters - remember when we looked at their work last fall and it was filled with an underlying sadness. We figured out that there were so many early deaths in that family it was a wonder they did any writing other than Eulogies.
I only found a DVD of The Mayor of Casterbridge that I watched - my oh my was he ever a reprobate that for some reason you ended up feeling sorry for him - maybe because the daughter, that wasn't, felt for him and the husband she chose seemed to be interested more in money than in honest feelings toward any woman. Strange sad story - stranger and ultimately sadder to me than even Tess of d'Urberville.
A lot of dark stories at that time in history and so it would follow the poems would be mostly dark as well...
-
Oh Barbara I know how sad you must feel to lose a poem written only in your head..there have been times I would be driving somewhere and a whole poem would write itself but by the time I was home it was gone...some I did write on old envelopes or scrap paper in my car in my driveway when I was home..I dared not go inside until I had put it on paper.. I tried using a tape recorder in the car but what I ended with was traffic noise ..augh one of the first poems as a teenager I committed to memory was
Oh world I cannot get you close enough
I could go on but am no longer sure I have the right words ...I do recall the author Edna St Vincent Millay
because she described how I felt and still feel a keen observer and a sharing of what she felt...I am sure all poets whether they work or not have lost poems only in thier mind...who knows maybe other poets will write it someday.
-
this is not a Thomas Hardy poem but I just have to share it - the poem is a two part poem written by Nina Nyhart and is in the book of prose poems entitled, The Party Train.
THE BEECH TREE
My childhood has left me, stomped out like a sullen child into the back
yard. I'm left here in the modern kitchen wondering what I did wrong.
But a child like that! Who can bare her moods!
It's late afternoon, dusk has wrapped itself around the beech tree, and
the child, too, is walking around the trunk, shoulder to the bark, as if
she needed to be touched, touched continuously.
THE CATCH
Last night my mother appeared on Walnut Street wearing a skimpy
white hospital gown, clutching a bunch of spring flowers--tulips and
daffodils, white lilacs. She said it only hurts when I cough. I wanted to
take home all the pieced of her, put her in a warm bed, bring her beef
broth, put the flowers in a vase filled with fresh water. I said Get in the
car, you'll catch your death. But she'd already caught it, light as a beach-
ball, red and yellow, white and green.
-
in my opinion poets are observers ..they see what many ignore and because they are poets they cant ignore and write about them
..
ANNA, I have always felt that we love poetry because the poets express for us all the things we feel so strongly, and cannot express for ourselves. It is a relief, as well as a joy, to find a poem that says something for you.
BARB, I loved those two Nina Nyhart poems. They're beautiful, and I have never heard of Nyhart before. Thank you so much.
-
Barbara they are perfect poems and I thank you for posting ...I hope all who stop by feel free to post ANY poem they love .this is a poetry DISCUSSION ...which means it is open to anyone to share what they feel about a poem and why if they wish ...I just feel a month of sort of concentrating on a single poet allows us time to discuss a poem but learn something else, learn about the poets life, the times they lived and how that affected their poetry...It feels like studying history through a poets eyes and heart SO if any who stop by want to share a poem PLEASE DO it can be one you wrote even...and it can be in any form ...we are not picky here
Back to the poems you posted Barbara .each one spoke to me ..they are so pure and plain and so deep and real ..Like Babi I have never heard of the poet but would like to read more of her ...All my life poetry has helped me deal with life..if I felt sad for no reason and needed to cry I would read poems that gave me that relief and in joy poems enhanced that joy...
Babi your statement is so true .. to find a poem that says something to you....as the leader of my poetry group says Poetry is life, Life is poetry ...and since he is somewhat a character he ends with HEE HAW and we all laugh and cheer..
-
When a poem fits it is as if it finds within me that same feeling, something Ive felt but only subliminally. Now, suddenly, here it is, exposed, something vastly old but new found. When an experience in real life creates a sympathetic vibration (frisson) with the words of a poet, it is like a script, something that was destined to be. What puzzles me is that not everyone feels that way. They lack one of the essential senses.
-
Ouch
Nicholas Hughes was a baby, asleep in the next room, when his mother Sylvia Plath gassed herself in her London kitchen in the winter of 1963. He was only seven when his step-mother Assia Wevill (for whom his father Ted Hughes had left Sylvia) killed herself and her four-year-old daughter by the same method. Now his elder sister Frieda has announced that Nicholas, who grew up to pursue an academic career as a marine biologist, has ended his own life at his home in Alaska, after long suffering from depression.
the father had died of cancer in 1998 and it is said that Nicholas went into depression after the death of his father.
-
We have had some profound statements here . first with Babi poem which I understand perfectly as a woman and a senior ...somehow some people ask WHY DONT I GET A HEARING AID ..thinking it would make it easier for them I have to say I resent that I don't feel I should have to explain it is a hereditary disease and hearing aids etc do not help everyone. to me it would amount to someone saying to a blind person WHY don't you get new eyes ..sorry that really ticks me off, and then the statement by Jackie and Barbara,s comment ...it is all right to be sad about something , certainly enough things to be sad about ..unfortunately ...but none are alone with sad things everyone in life has to face whatever it deals you , the best you can...
I find most poetry helpful , I hear the poet's voice and it helps me regardless of what the poet says ,, many poems are painful to read because you know someone has experienced a tragic event and they are expressing how they feel ..we can sympathize because I don't know anyone who hasn't had a tragic event themselves and just reading the news it is so full of terrible events and I don't see how anyone can read it and not be moved...
I am so sorry to read about Sylvia Plath's son...I suspect from the time of his mother;s suicide and his stepmother as well he has been depressed....depression is an illness and we do have help for it ...and I think it would be difficult not to be depressed with life sometimes I try to remind myself how lucky I am and my heart goes out the those who are affected with terrible events in their lives...my heart goes out to them and I don't say that as just a simple sentence ..it is deeper than that ..but my heart also goes out the survivors who I think will always ask WHAT DID I DO WRONG or What could I have done....
I guess some of the sadness we see in Hardy's poems and the Bronte poems or other poets poems allows us to feel what they might have been through and asks the question Would we have handled it differently now I am going to find a cheerful poem ...God Love you all
-
I had to look up the place in this poem because I had idea what it was ...To my surprise off the coast of England are a series of small islands ..once there was a larger one ,inhabited..so the "story" goes it was the location of Camelot and Merlin caused a huge wave to destroy it..supposedly if you go there at low tide you can see where it had been ,,and Hardy's poem tells about going there
When I Set Out for Lyonnesse (1870)
When I set out for Lyonnesse,
A hundred miles away,
The rime was on the spray.
And starlight lit my lonesomeness
When I set out for Lyonnesse
A hundred miles away.
What would bechance at Lyonnesse
While I should sojourn there
No prophet durst declare,
Nor did the wisest wizard guess
What would bechance at Lyonnessee
While I should sojourn there.
When I came back from Lyonnesse
With magic in my eyes,
All marked with mute surmise
My radiance rare and fathomless,
When I came back from Lyonnessee
With magic in my eyes!
For some reason this poem delights me ...Imagine if you were a reader who had read of Camelot and King Arthur and Merlin and Guinevere and visited the place where people believed it had existed ...I think my mind at least would find magic there as well /
-
oh yes, Anna a poem full of wonderment, mystery, adventure and day dreams...the kind of poem that makes my soul soar. I love mythology with its touch of mystery, metaphors and secret treasures.
-
I love the phrase, "starlight lit my lonesomeness".
Then to close with the happy "I came back from Lyonnessee
With magic in my eyes!"
This is indeed a poem to make one smile.
-
FairAnna,
Thank you for posting "Sun on The Bookcase." I love the call to let our imaginations go, imagining all that is lovely.
-
Marj,
That Wagtail is beautiful, blue and yellow. Thank you.
-
What is that song from the musical Camelot where it only rains at night? One elegant definition of a place of Magic to me.
-
Jackie just for you and I loved all the songs from Camelot
ARTHUR:
It's true! It's true! The crown has made it clear.
The climate must be perfect all the year.
A law was made a distant moon ago here:
July and August cannot be too hot.
And there's a legal limit to the snow here
In Camelot.
The winter is forbidden till December
And exits March the second on the dot.
By order, summer lingers through September
In Camelot.
Camelot! Camelot!
I know it sounds a bit bizarre,
But in Camelot, Camelot
That's how conditions are.
The rain may never fall till after sundown.
By eight, the morning fog must disappear.
In short, there's simply not
A more congenial spot
For happily-ever-aftering than here
In Camelot.
Camelot! Camelot!
I know it gives a person pause,
But in Camelot, Camelot
Those are the legal laws.
The snow may never slush upon the hillside.
By nine p.m. the moonlight must appear.
In short, there's simply not
A more congenial spot
For happily-ever-aftering than here
In Camelot.
[Thanks to uvajohn@yahoo.com for lyrics]
-
Thank you. I can hear the voices in my head. Robert Goulet's wonderful voice. I'm putting that on my Netflix list.
-
Welcome to our Poetry Page.
FairAnna and Barbara will alternate creating a focus for us - The poetry page is a haven for those of us who listen to words that open our hearts, and imagination, and allow our feelings be known about the poems we share - We are looking forward to continuing this tradition.
(http://seniorlearn.org/bookclubs/poetry/poetrymarch.jpg)
Please, joins us this month as Fairanna helps us look closer at the work of: THOMAS HARDY
Born 1840 the son of a stonemason in Dorsetshire, England he left fiction writing for poetry, and published eight collections, including Wessex Poems (1898) and Satires of Circumstance (1912). Thomas Hardy died in 1928.
A few links about Hardy and his poems.Thomas Hardy (http://www.poets.org/poet.php/prmPID/110)
Poems of Thomas Hardy (http://rpo.library.utoronto.ca/poet/148.html)
Thomas and Emma (http://www.brycchancarey.com/places/cornwall/hardy1.htm)
Thomas Hardy and His Wessex (http://www.btinternet.com/~wesspix/poetinx.htm)
Discussion Leaders: BarbStAubrey (augere@ix.netcom.com) & Fairanna (fairanna@verizon.net)
Looks like I'll have to get the original cast album if I want to hear Goulet's If Ever I would Leave You. See this: http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Camelot_(musical)
-
I like the magical feeling in the Lyonesse poem. With all the weather & economic tragedy in the USA currently going on it is a nice brain diversion.
~Marj
AND, on the Camelot talk - on Amazon you can buy the mp3 of each song to download to your computer for 99c. AND - it is the original cast recordings.
http://www.amazon.com/Camelot/dp/B001BHVSNO
-
I am pleased everyone found in Lyonesse what I did .. I t just delighted me ...and Marj you are so right it is nice to have some brain diversion ..I found the following memory of Hardy's and found it charming in many ways...reminding us the Romans once invaded Britain and left behind some memories of another time in their history so let us walk with Hardy along ...........
The Roman Road
The Roman Road runs straight and bare
As the pale parting -line in hair
Across the heath. And thoughtful men
Contrast its days of Now and Then
And delve, and measure, and compare;
Visioning on the vacant air
Helmed legionairies , who proudly rear
The Eagle, as they pace again
The Roman Road.
But no tall brass-helmed legionnaire
Haunts it for me. Uprises there
A mother's form upon my ken,
Guiding my infant steps, as when
We walked that ancient thoroughfare,
The Roman Road
-
I can 'hear' that song, too. It was, I think my favorite from Camelot. Isn't it nice that we can recall old songs and 'hear' them in our minds...especially those of us who can't really hear the music anymore. Except, maybe, a basso or rich baritone. :)
Visioning on the vacant air
Anna, this is something I always loved to do when visiting ancient sites. Simply sit and imagine the place as it would have been long ago. Everyday people doing their everyday things in that old setting.
-
Driving up 280 from San Jose to San Francisco there is an area where the landscape must have been the same for hundreds of years. On the right is the big, big, big dish antenna. A few yards ahead the highway passes over the Stanford l
Linear Accelerator (SLAC). But to the left a vast swath of pale gold stretches to the edge of the blue hills. Here and there are ancient live oak trees with their contorted limbs black against the sky. In the shade of one of those trees rests a young teen. the son of the hidalgo whose ranch stretches from the bay to the coast. He is accompanied by his Indian companion, lhis Pancho Sanza. They are off on a quest, to climb the mountains and descend to the sea. This is the first time he's been allowed on his own to travel so far. Ahead are pumas, bears, coyotes, who knows what dangers. He can do it. He is nearly a man.
This has been a fantasy of mine for years. One day I looked out the window and it flashed into my mind, complete. Should make a great poem, shouldn't it? Maybe so put the words never came. So it lives only in my imagination, a fantasy of the way California was before the white man came and began his reordering of that world. It is almost an escape for me, that sleepy time of day, two friends stretched out under the tree, resting their horses, on the brink of . . .who knows?
-
But it was Richard Burton, not Goulet, who sang that song. Actually, he spoke/sang it as I remember, in that unforgettable voice. He was trying to convince Guinivere to go along with the plan to marry her to King Arthur, and she didnt know it was he who had found her as she ran away in the forest.
Goulet sang "If Ever I Would Leave You" .
Two great shows are in revival on Broadway. "Guys and Dolls" and "West Side Story" I am trying todecide which one I should stretch my budget for. Both were wonderful movies, but I would love to see them live.
-
Jackie your thoughts expressed are almost a prose poem...you made it so real I could see it too...and like you I have been many places where I see the place as it was once...even here where I live used to be forest and when it was developed the developer left the trees only taking down what was needed to build and in 72 when we moved here it was in the country and I mean in the country , we didn't have street lights, , two lane roads in not too good a condition led you to this area...and a town was ten miles away....oaks a hundred years old towered over us...on one of the roads nearby were farms with cows, horses , pigs etc and the area was so quiet at night or morning you could hear the roosters crow....but now the city moved out and the owners of the farms sold the land for malls etc and the city built highways to arrive here and street lights ..but to me it is still country where I would imagine how it used to be,,,Colonial Williamsburg is only 25 miles away and when we would go there time changed ...we were back in Colonial times and Indians still were seen....there are those who live in the here and now and others like you and the people who visit this discussion ...have the ability to "see" and "feel" other places and other times. It is a gift and I am SO GLAD the gift is mine...and I suspect each person who stops by are glad as well ,,,for their gift ...
-
Bellemere I hope you get to see at least one and perhaps even both ..St Louis where I grew up had both The American Theater where mostly ( or at least all I saw) stage plays without music but in summer was the Muny Light Opera at an open air theater and .those were musicals ..funny it has been over 70 years since my parents took me with them to the plays etc it was so magical and even when I would see the same in the movie theater it just wasn't the same ..whatever you choose please share it with us wont you>???crossing my fingers and wishing you can enjoy both......
-
FAIRANNA, you brought back a memory for me as well. You remind me of the traveling actin troupes I knew as a child. A group called the 'Madcap Players' (I think that's right) would come thru' every summer, usually offering comedies in what was then a small town. They were my introduction to live stage productions, and I enjoyed them so much even when I couldn't understand the jokes. Then they stopped coming and I could only wonder what had happened to them.
-
Little theater has been one of my loves. Not the same as Broadway travelling shows, but people who do it for love. Such a rush I get from the live performances. Nothing can compare. But the traveling shows are magic. When I saw Chorus Line I was hypnotized. When it ended I couldn't believe it was over. Guys and Dolls vs. West Side Story, what a choice. Toss a coin?
-
I saw both as movies, and both were great. Since "West Side Story" ends tragically, while "Guys and Dolls" was funny and had a happy ending, I think I am more in the mood for "Guys and Dolls". Purely personal viewpoint.
-
Oh My------ memories seem to flow when I read what you have posted.. LIttle Theater my husband and I supported and our children acted in ..and I was backstage with younger children and made costumes wow now as I am remembering it seems like yesterday ...well it is Sunday and I woke to bluing skies and whipped cream puffs clouds COULD IT BE? SPRING HAS ARRIVED>>>crossing fingers and saying a prayer .. back later I am going to enjoy the sun and 77 degree temps Hooray...
-
Here's The Bridge of Lodi.
Similar in essence to The Roman Road where Hardy talks about what happened back in history. In this case remembering a song he heard of the same name as the bridge brings back history memories.
I
When of tender mind and body
I was moved by minstrelsy,
And that strain "The Bridge of Lodi"
Brought a strange delight to me.
II
In the battle-breathing jingle
Of its forward-footing tune
I could see the armies mingle,
And the columns cleft and hewn
III
On that far-famed spot by Lodi
Where Napoleon clove his way
To his fame, when like a god he
Bent the nations to his sway.
IV
Hence the tune came capering to me
While I traced the Rhone and Po;
Nor could Milan's Marvel woo me
From the spot englamoured so.
V
And to-day, sunlit and smiling,
Here I stand upon the scene,
With its saffron walls, dun tiling,
And its meads of maiden green,
VI
Even as when the trackway thundered
With the charge of grenadiers,
And the blood of forty hundred
Splashed its parapets and piers . . .
VII
Any ancient crone I'd toady
Like a lass in young-eyed prime,
Could she tell some tale of Lodi
At that moving mighty time.
VIII
So, I ask the wives of Lodi
For traditions of that day;
But alas! not anybody
Seems to know of such a fray.
IX
And they heed but transitory
Marketings in cheese and meat,
Till I judge that Lodi's story
Is extinct in Lodi's street.
X
Yet while here and there they thrid them
In their zest to sell and buy,
Let me sit me down amid them
And behold those thousands die . . .
XI
- Not a creature cares in Lodi
How Napoleon swept each arch,
Or where up and downward trod he,
Or for his memorial March!
XII
So that wherefore should I be here,
Watching Adda lip the lea,
When the whole romance to see here
Is the dream I bring with me?
XIII
And why sing "The Bridge of Lodi"
As I sit thereon and swing,
When none shows by smile or nod he
Guesses why or what I sing? . . .
XIV
Since all Lodi, low and head ones,
Seem to pass that story by,
It may be the Lodi-bred ones
Rate it truly, and not I.
XV
Once engrossing Bridge of Lodi,
Is thy claim to glory gone?
Must I pipe a palinody,
Or be silent thereupon?
XVI
And if here, from strand to steeple,
Be no stone to fame the fight,
Must I say the Lodi people
Are but viewing crime aright?
Nay; I'll sing "The Bridge of Lodi" -
That long-loved, romantic thing,
Though none show by smile or nod he
Guesses why and what I sing!
-
It does seem that Hardy's boyish belief in the glory of war stuck with him. I also remember that reading that some of his poems were set to music, but I couldn't find any of them.
I must say, tho', that the "lip the lea" made me wince. I thought that was a bit much.
-
I hope I have done this right but I read about the Lodi bridge for I have never heard of it and here is a link to the story ...
http://www.napoleon-series.org/military/virtual/c_lodi.html (http://www.napoleon-series.org/military/virtual/c_lodi.html) in my book the author has a list of the poems that were set to music but I must say when I read them they dont sound muscical to me...One thing I am learning a lot about places he has been and reminding me of the places my husband and I traveled...in Pompei many things amazed me but the ruts in the roads where the chariots ran ..I could almost see them coming in and on the Appian Way I imagined Caesars legions marching ..whatever it is I am glad I have "the gift" of imagnination, it has enriched by life and I am thankful
-
Here is a poem I think can represent bias unfairly
Architecural Masks
There is a house with ivied walls ,
And mullioned windows worn and old ,
And the long dwellers in those halls
Have souls that know but sordid calls ,
And daily dote on gold.
In blazing brick and plated show
Not far away a "villa" gleams,
And here a family few may know,
With book and pencil, viol and bow,
Live inner lives of dreams.
The philosophic passers say,
'See that old mansion mossed and fair,
Poetic souls therein are they :
And O that Gaudy Box! Away,
You vulgar people there.'
What is that old saying ? "You cant judge a book by it's cover?" seems like that applies here or "Judge not that you may be judged"
-
I haven't been here for awhile, and what a richness I found!
A new poster on Introductions mentioned haiku about insects. That was a mistake: it got me thinking about my favorite insect haiku (I've probably posted them here before, but bare with me. I posted:
You inspire me to look up some of my favorite insect haiku from Japanese poets:
How easily it lights up
How easily it goes out
The firefly.
Shuku (?)
The breeze
Lifts a hair
On the caterpillers back.
Buson
And of course Issa was THE poet of insects:
Don't worry, spider
I keep house
Casually.
In a large room:
One man
One fly.
But my favorite of his is about a mollusk:
The snail
gets up and goes to bed
with very little fuss.
-
Don't worry, spider
I keep house
Casually.
Ah, a soul mate. I generally maintain a 'live and let live' attitude toward most beings. However, I except mosquitoes, roaches, flies and ants. They have got to go; they are troublemakers.
In a large room:
One man
One fly.
And don't you know that one fly is driving that one man crazy!
-
Speaking of insects I learned, from reading the latest "Doc" Ford mystery by Randy Wayne White, that mosquitos can't see yellow light. Doc is a marine biologist with a past who lives in a marina on Sanibel Island, Florida. Mosquito avoidance ranks high there, I gather.
-
Joan thanks for the haiku's I love them all but like Babi spiders dont bother me and am sure they have found homes in my mess...the rest PHEW ,come spring and summer I tell them to GO and show them the door!
Oh I loved Sanibel . the seashells , I still have a huge jar full...perhaps using candles outside in summer do chase the mosquitoes away....I always thought it was the odor from the candle that did it ...another sunny day but rain is due again tomorrow and the next ...the plants are loving it but one patch of my daffies never bloomed I think they peaked too soon.. they were waving stems when we had some almost summer weather and then it turned COLD and now all I have is green stems and no flowers ...hope all is well wherever you are.,..smiles
-
Where does the time go - I was just getting the hang of Thomas Hardy and here we are ready for a new month with a new poet - thanks Anna for introducing us to Thomas Hardy - I am pleased to have read his poetry - this seems to be a unique time in the character of British poetry that is more somber - I have read that the prominent Victorian Novelists are the Bronte's, Dickens, George Eliot and Thomas Hardy -
Just as I did not know that Thomas Hardy wrote poetry how many of you knew that Charles Dickens wrote Poetry as did George Elliot [Mary Ann Evens] another female who used a masculine name just as Charlotte Bronte used Currer Bell and Emily uses Ellis Bell and Anne uses Action Bell.
Interesting that to this day we remember Mary Ann by her pseudonym George Elliot where as we remember the Bells by their real name the Bronte sisters.
Looks like all seven authors praised as prominent Victorian writers wrote poetry as well as novels.
For the month of April we will focus on Dylan Thomas - and what that man can do with sounds and words is amazing -
Looks like with y'alls interest in Haiku we will have to repeat a focus month of Haiku - maybe the way to make it different will be to find another Haiku poet or two since we have already focused on the big three, Issa, Basho, and Buson.
If you have any suggestion of a haiku poet we could feature for a month please let us know.
For April on with Dylan and his magical use of the English language.
-
Welcome to our Poetry Page.
Our haven for those who listen to words that open hearts, imagination, and who allow our feelings be known about the poems we share - This is our continuing tradition. Please join us this month of April as we explore the work of Dylan Thomas.
Dylan Marlais Thomas,
born 1914, in Swansea, Wales
(http://seniorlearn.org/bookclubs/poetry/poetrytuner-1.jpg)
J.M.William Turner - The Wreckers | The name Dylan comes from the Mabinogion, (http://www.timelessmyths.com/celtic/mabinogion.html) a collection of 11 medieval Welsh tales. The word means "sea". In the tale Math, the son of Mathonwy, challenges Aranrhod, his niece who claims to be a virgin, to step over his magic wand.
"Aranrhod stepped over the wand, and with that step she dropped a sturdy boy with thick yellow hair; the boy gave a loud cry, and with that cry she made her way for the door..."Well," said Math, "I will arrange for the baptism of this one...and I will call him Dylan."
The boy was baptized, whereupon he immediately made for the sea, and when he came to the sea he took on its nature and swam as well as the best fish. He was called Dylan (sea) son of Ton (wave), for no wave ever broke beneath him."
Marlais is the stream which runs from the hills near the birthplace of Dylan Thomas' great uncle Gwilym Marles Thomas. Marles is a variation of the name Marlais. Dylan's sister Nancy also bore a variation of the name Marles.
|
A few Links about Dylan Thomas and his poems:
- Dylan Thomas Home Page (http://www.dylanthomas.com)
- Dylan Thomas Boat House (http://www.britainexpress.com/attractions.htm?attraction=661)
- Dylan Thomas (http://www.poets.org/poet.php/prmPID/150)
- D. Thomas Poems (http://www.cs.rice.edu/~ssiyer/minstrels/index_poet_T.html#Thomas)
Discussion Leaders: BarbStAubrey (augere@ix.netcom.com) & Fairanna (fairanna@verizon.net)
-
Dylan Thomas - Holy Spring
O
Out of a bed of love
When that immortal hospital made one more moove to soothe
The curless counted body,
And ruin and his causes
Over the barbed and shooting sea assumed an army
And swept into our wounds and houses,
I climb to greet the war in which I have no heart but only
That one dark I owe my light,
Call for confessor and wiser mirror but there is none
To glow after the god stoning night
And I am struck as lonely as a holy marker by the sun.
No
Praise that the spring time is all
Gabriel and radiant shrubbery as the morning grows joyful
Out of the woebegone pyre
And the multitude's sultry tear turns cool on the weeping wall,
My arising prodgidal
Sun the father his quiver full of the infants of pure fire,
But blessed be hail and upheaval
That uncalm still it is sure alone to stand and sing
Alone in the husk of man's home
And the mother and toppling house of the holy spring,
If only for a last time.
-
What I like most about Dylan Thomas' poems are - the poems are lyrical and powerful - the images are stark, yet compelling with a beauty that both attract and chill the reader
-
Oh, dear. I'm finding some of these phrases odd and difficult to understand. What, for instance, is a "curless counted body"? After a second reading, a few more things became a little clearer. Perhaps after I've read more of his poetry I'll begin to make more sense of it.
-
Oh. boy! This is going to be a real effort. Maybe instead of making sense out of it, we have to just try to make some feeling out of it. As far as sense is concerned, Dylan seems to be marching to his own drummer.
I loved A Child's Christmas in Wales.
-
What I am getting out of a 'curless counted body' is
A cur is a mixed breed mutt that is known to growl a lot and it is an insult to call someone a cur. I think he is referring to the fact that we treat these soldiers as mutts who are trained attack dogs of war and in the hospital it is evident they are not but there are many wounded soldiers as well as dead bodies and so they are treated as a number as if counting a pack of dogs rather then treating them with the dignity of an individual or even the dignity we think of when we consider a breed dog.
I think this will be a month where the sounds and rhyme of the words will be the message along with stretching our understanding of words rather than the exact definitions that are used by other poets.
Have any of you tackled Ezra Pound - he is another who stretches the mealing of words - the difference so far to me, although, I have NOT read that much Ezra Pound, is that Dylan Thomas's work is more lyrical and romanticized.
I am like you Bellemere - I just loved A Child's Christmas in Wales - we discussed it on SeniorNet some years ago and it was a delicious discussion - the most memorable was that Perman joined us and he was Jewish but loved anything written by Dylan Thomas - also, that was his last discussion before Perman, who lived in New Jersey died.
-
This Side of the Truth
(for Llewelyn)
This side of the truth,
You may not see, my son,
King of your blue eyes
In the blinding country of youth,
That all is undone,
Under the unminding skies,
Of innocence and guilt
Before you move to make
One gesture of the heart or head,
Is gathered and spilt
Into the winding dark
Like the dust of the dead.
Good and bad, two ways
Of moving about your death
By the grinding sea,
King of your heart in the blind days,
Blow away like breath,
Go crying through you and me
And the souls of all men
Into the innocent
Dark, and the guilty dark, and good
Death, and bad death, and then
In the last element
Fly like the stars' blood
Like the sun's tears,
Like the moon's seed, rubbish
And fire, the flying rant
Of the sky, king of your six years.
And the wicked wish,
Down the beginning of plants
And animals and birds,
Water and Light, the earth and sky,
Is cast before you move,
And all your deeds and words,
Each truth, each lie,
Die in unjudging love.
Here is a link to the Obituary for Llewelyn - First son, Llewelyn Edouard Thomas born, in Cornelia Hospital, Poole, Dorsett in 1939.
http://www.guardian.co.uk/news/2000/nov/28/guardianobituaries.geoffreygibbs
-
This is going to be a painful stretching of my mind's muscles. Each word, each line, each fragment is a morsel worth chewing on but the whole is obscured by my preconceptions of the words' meanings. No pain, no gain, i guess.
-
You may be right, BARB, but it's hard to say. The poem has just referred to a
'bed of love', and apparently called it 'that immortal hospital'. I thought the
reference was to the healing powers of making love. From there, I tended to
take the references to war as symbolic rather than literal. Who knows?!
"This Side of Truth" I seem to grasp somewhat better. It seems to be about a child's innocence, before he grows to learn the harsh side of 'truth'.
I agree with you, JACKIE. This poet is going to give us work-out.
-
here is one that can help us get the sound and meter down - the poem is read on You Tube by Dylan Thomas and so we can hear how the words are hitting the ear while we follow along reading the poem. http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=y0f1txSI_D8&feature=related
Lament
When I was a windy boy and a bit
And the black spit of the chapel fold,
(Sighed the old ram rod, dying of women),
I tiptoed shy in the gooseberry wood,
The rude owl cried like a tell-tale tit,
I skipped in a blush as the big girls rolled
Nine-pin down on donkey's common,
And on seesaw sunday nights I wooed
Whoever I would with my wicked eyes,
The whole of the moon I could love and leave
All the green leaved little weddings' wives
In the coal black bush and let them grieve.
When I was a gusty man and a half
And the black beast of the beetles' pews
(Sighed the old ram rod, dying of bitches),
Not a boy and a bit in the wick-
Dipping moon and drunk as a new dropped calf,
I whistled all night in the twisted flues,
Midwives grew in the midnight ditches,
And the sizzling sheets of the town cried, Quick!-
Whenever I dove in a breast high shoal,
Wherever I ramped in the clover quilts,
Whatsoever I did in the coal-
Black night, I left my quivering prints.
When I was a man you could call a man
And the black cross of the holy house,
(Sighed the old ram rod, dying of welcome),
Brandy and ripe in my bright, bass prime,
No springtailed tom in the red hot town
With every simmering woman his mouse
But a hillocky bull in the swelter
Of summer come in his great good time
To the sultry, biding herds, I said,
Oh, time enough when the blood runs cold,
And I lie down but to sleep in bed,
For my sulking, skulking, coal black soul!
When I was half the man I was
And serve me right as the preachers warn,
(Sighed the old ram rod, dying of downfall),
No flailing calf or cat in a flame
Or hickory bull in milky grass
But a black sheep with a crumpled horn,
At last the soul from its foul mousehole
Slunk pouting out when the limp time came;
And I gave my soul a blind, slashed eye,
Gristle and rind, and a roarers' life,
And I shoved it into the coal black sky
To find a woman's soul for a wife.
Now I am a man no more no more
And a black reward for a roaring life,
(Sighed the old ram rod, dying of strangers),
Tidy and cursed in my dove cooed room
I lie down thin and hear the good bells jaw—
For, oh, my soul found a sunday wife
In the coal black sky and she bore angels!
Harpies around me out of her womb!
Chastity prays for me, piety sings,
Innocence sweetens my last black breath,
Modesty hides my thighs in her wings,
And all the deadly virtues plague my death!
-
Yes, lyrical it is. Much more like the poetry I am used to reading. But sad, reading it in the light of Thomas' alcoholism and early death.
-
lyrical and raunchy as all get out but powerful is the message - He sure lived a roaring life and what appeared to be a painful reaction to his childhood - although he loved his Caitlin they could not make a success out of their marriage or could they nurture their children. To be so gifted
-
Do you think he is regretting or sort of telling us as bad as he was he had no regret...I feel he is boasting , He was a rotter through and through it sounds like to me ...I need to read more ..the days are warm and things look like spring and there are trees everywhere in bloom, dainty blossoms as delicate as silken lace...when You look at them is seems they seem like clouds caught in the branches rather then flowers blooming there
-
I think he was a drunk - knew he was a drunk - had no tools like AA to turn to even if he had a mind to and like many drunks their bragging rights are often about how much they have abused - they are filled with loathsome feelings about their behavior but do not know how to change and still cover up the pain the drink provides - they truly love the ones they hurt but again they have no control till they have the help to find a way to get through an hour and then a day without covering their pain with drink.
I learned so much about the alcoholic and the drug addict when for years I attended ACOA meetings [Adult Children of Alcholics] and then later attended Al-anon to learn how to live with the drunks and addicts in my life. I still attend a meeting now and then where for at least 10 years I attended a meeting once or sometimes twice a day and then another 10 years of once a week. Now it is sporadic if something comes up and I am acting crazy or think I should be fixing someone.
I do know that it was only in the 1970s that AA was reaching Scotland and Ireland in a big way - I doubt if AA was even available in Wales during the lifetime of Dylan Thomas and his New York stays seemed to be centered in the local bars.
There are so many artists who are addicted to a substance - but write they do and with a gift and practiced talent that puts me in awe of their use of words. Dylan Thomas can use words like no other and reading his work knocks my sox off every time. Nothing soft and googly eyed but rough, sometimes harsh and always lyrical and powerful.
-
Wow! On first reading "Lament" is randy and raunchy. But lyrical as you all say. Can you imagine that poem if it was straight thoughts set down as such say as a prose poem!!
-
I am finding I do not like Dylan Thomas' poetry, and 'lyrical' does not adequately rescue it for me. Starting the morning with one of his poems tends to spoil it fo rme. I really don't think I want to read any more of his work.
I'm going to pass on this one.
See you all later.
-
Last night local PBS presented on its weekly Oregon Art Beat a segment about a poet, Clem Stark, whose day job is as a carpenter at OSU. Well, his poetry is everything Thomas' poems are not. Taking life's events, large and small, paints pictures with words, somewhat like Frost. http://www.opb.org/programs/artbeat/episodes/view/1024 Sadly his work is not online nor is it available in my library. Gasp! I might have to buy it!
-
Hmmm no books published and for sale at Amazon and so if his poetry is in print it must be for sale and published locally or maybe privately -
This is strange there is a You Tube about him that because of copywrite the voice has been silenced http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=_AWHE-cGWRY
The only information I can f ind on the internet is the one you shared Marj - says he is a carpenter at the University in Oregon. http://www.opb.org/programs/artbeat/episodes/view/1024
-
On A Wedding Anniversary
The sky is torn across
This ragged anniversary of two
Who moved for three years in tune
Down the long walks of their vows.
Now their love lies a loss
And Love and his patients roar on a chain;
From every tune or crater
Carrying cloud, Death strikes their house.
Too late in the wrong rain
They come together whom their love parted:
The windows pour into their heart
And the doors burn in their brain.
That to me is brillian to describe a painful life experience as the sky is torn - having experienced unexpected pain tht goes to your core that is a wonderful expression that describes it so well.
-
Welcome to our Poetry Page.
Our haven for those who listen to words that open hearts, imagination, and who allow our feelings be known about the poems we share - This is our continuing tradition. Please join us this month of April as we explore the work of Dylan Thomas.
Dylan Marlais Thomas,
born 1914, in Swansea, Wales
(http://seniorlearn.org/bookclubs/poetry/poetrytuner-1.jpg)
J.M.William Turner - The Wreckers | The name Dylan comes from the Mabinogion, (http://www.timelessmyths.com/celtic/mabinogion.html) a collection of 11 medieval Welsh tales. The word means "sea". In the tale Math, the son of Mathonwy, challenges Aranrhod, his niece who claims to be a virgin, to step over his magic wand.
"Aranrhod stepped over the wand, and with that step she dropped a sturdy boy with thick yellow hair; the boy gave a loud cry, and with that cry she made her way for the door..."Well," said Math, "I will arrange for the baptism of this one...and I will call him Dylan."
The boy was baptized, whereupon he immediately made for the sea, and when he came to the sea he took on its nature and swam as well as the best fish. He was called Dylan (sea) son of Ton (wave), for no wave ever broke beneath him."
Marlais is the stream which runs from the hills near the birthplace of Dylan Thomas' great uncle Gwilym Marles Thomas. Marles is a variation of the name Marlais. Dylan's sister Nancy also bore a variation of the name Marles.
|
A few Links about Dylan Thomas and his poems:
- Dylan Thomas Home Page (http://www.dylanthomas.com)
- Dylan Thomas Boat House (http://www.britainexpress.com/attractions.htm?attraction=661)
- Dylan Thomas (http://www.poets.org/poet.php/prmPID/150)
- D. Thomas Poems (http://www.cs.rice.edu/~ssiyer/minstrels/index_poet_T.html#Thomas)
Discussion Leaders: BarbStAubrey (augere@ix.netcom.com) & Fairanna (fairanna@verizon.net)
-
There is an interesting article/essay by Jim Holt in today's NY Times called "Got Poetry?" He talks about how a few years ago he started learning poetry by heart, a few lines a day, and now has memorized about a hundred poems. He recites them out loud as he jogs along the Hudson River. He recommends a book by the the former U.S. poet laureate, Robert Pinsky, ESSENTIAL PLEASURES; A NEW ANTHOLOGY OF POEMS TO READ ALOUD, which comes with a CD.
It reminded me that as a teenager I used to memorize poems I liked and I was surprized to find that I can still recite some of the first lines of the Prologue to Canterbury Tales -- "When the Aprile with his shourers soote...." I just love the sound of it.
And Little Boy Blue by Eugene Field --I cry every time I recite it.
Another one that I learned that makes me cry is "In Flanders Fields."
And I love the sound of The Raven -- "Once upon a midnight dreary, while I pondered weak and weary..."
Did/does anyone here like to memorize poems?
-
Marj I have memorized poems since I was a little girl (81 now) and still can recite them I dont think one can go wrong in learning poems by heart ,., they can be a great help when needed and you dont have a book handy, Little Boy Blue I used to recite when I felt sad no reason I just did and reciting that poem helped me ..Flanders Fields is another one and High FLight which meant a lot to me since my husband was a pilot in the USAF Right now I serving as a caregiver to a DAV and am trying to get him into the local VA hospital the regular hospitals dont take them and he needs CARE he cant walk etc but I will be thinking of everyone and checking but this is my last post to let you know what is going on at this time...love you all and Life is poetry and POETRY IS LIFE ...
-
Anna the plight of your friend reminds me of this Dylan Thomas poem - the title is said as the opposite of what Dylan is saying in the poem
I Have Longed To Move Away by Dylan Thomas
I have longed to move away
From the hissing of the spent lie
And the old terrors' continual cry
Growing more terrible as the day
Goes over the hill into the deep sea;
I have longed to move away
From the repetition of salutes,
For there are ghosts in the air
And ghostly echoes on paper,
And the thunder of calls and notes.
I have longed to move away but am afraid;
Some life, yet unspent, might explode
Out of the old lie burning on the ground,
And, crackling into the air, leave me half-blind.
Neither by night's ancient fear,
The parting of hat from hair,
Pursed lips at the receiver,
Shall I fall to death's feather.
By these I would not care to die,
Half convention and half lie.
We will be thinking of you and wishing you God Speed -
Marj what a great idea to memorize a bit of poetry each day - hadn't thought of that although my fondest childhood memories are of my father who when in a good mood would go on with all the gestures and ring out either Longfellow's Paul Revere's Ride or The Wreck of the Hesperus.
-
Anna: So sorry to hear about your difficulties finding health care for your DH. From now on High Flight will bring thoughts of you and him. That is one of my favorites and I bitterly resented Ronald Reagan quoting it without attribution. Little Boy Blue sure is a weeper. My mother was fond of those sentimental poems. When I was a little tyke I used to listen to the radion playing Little Sir Echo and cry and cry. The Gingham Dog and the Calico Cat is another one from my childhood. Has anyone read A A Milne's poetry? When We Were Very Very Young and Now We Are Six? Wonderful.
-
Here are some I have memorized: Never Love Unless; They Told Me Heraclites; When in
Disgrace with Fortune; Weary with Toil I Haste Me to my Bed; The Lake Isle of Innifree; The Stolen Child; the last part of Ulysses; Because I Could Not Stop for Death; Dover Beach; I know there are more but?
I say them to help me sleep; in waiting rooms; on drives to help me stay awake; sometimes just for the pleasure.
Memorizing gets harder as the brain gets older and the old synapses fail to connect!
I am going to try Fern Hill!
-
Barb- I only had time to muse the first stanza. It sounds like a war zone with fears, cries, salutes growing "more terrible" day in and day out.
The ghosts in the air! Are they the ones that have fallen?
What is the hissing of the serpent lie"? Is it the lies told regarding impending freedom?
I thought Thomas wrote more about religious issues.
I shall return after church.
-
Wow Bellemere Fern Hill! Here it is...
FERN HILL
Now as I was young and easy under the apple boughs
About the lilting house and happy as the grass was green,
The night above the dingle starry,
Time let me hail and climb
Golden in the heydays of his eyes,
And honoured among wagons I was prince of the apple towns
And once below a time I lordly had the trees and leaves
Trail with daisies and barley
Down the rivers of the windfall light.
And as I was green and carefree, famous among the barns
About the happy yard and singing as the farm was home,
In the sun that is young once only,
Time let me play and be
Golden in the mercy of his means,
And green and golden I was huntsman and herdsman, the calves
Sang to my horn, the foxes on the hills barked clear and cold,
And the sabbath rang slowly
In the pebbles of the holy streams.
All the sun long it was running, it was lovely, the hay
Fields high as the house, the tunes from the chimneys, it was air
And playing, lovely and watery
And fire green as grass.
And nightly under the simple stars
As I rode to sleep the owls were bearing the farm away,
All the moon long I heard, blessed among stables, the nightjars
Flying with the ricks, and the horses
Flashing into the dark.
And then to awake, and the farm, like a wanderer white
With the dew, come back, the cock on his shoulder: it was all
Shining, it was Adam and maiden,
The sky gathered again
And the sun grew round that very day.
So it must have been after the birth of the simple light
In the first, spinning place, the spellbound horses walking warm
Out of the whinnying green stable
On to the fields of praise.
And honoured among foxes and pheasants by the gay house
Under the new made clouds and happy as the heart was long,
In the sun born over and over,
I ran my heedless ways,
My wishes raced through the house high hay
And nothing I cared, at my sky blue trades, that time allows
In all his tuneful turning so few and such morning songs
Before the children green and golden
Follow him out of grace.
Nothing I cared, in the lamb white days, that time would take me
Up to the swallow thronged loft by the shadow of my hand,
In the moon that is always rising,
Nor that riding to sleep
I should hear him fly with the high fields
And wake to the farm forever fled from the childless land.
Oh as I was young and easy in the mercy of his means,
Time held me green and dying
Though I sang in my chains like the sea.
Alf I had not heard that Dylan Thomas was much of a poet for religious views but he sure has a way with words.
I too am in a rush this mornng - be back early this evening and yes, let's look again at that first poem shared in this discussion.
-
Good, thanks Barb. It is always so much more enjoyable when everyone gives their own views. I love to look at a poem or prose thru the eyes of someone else. I love it when I have this grand epiphany of "oh my I never saw that." 8)
-
As I was writing this I realized there is another even deeper interpretation that could be made - but for now this is how I understand the poem.
O – Out of a bed of love
Says to me either a place we consider safe in a house where there is a bed and where you are loved or maybe the birth of someone that was born out of a bed of love
When that immortal hospital made one more moove to soothe
Where efforts were made to soothe – almost futile efforts with move being broadened to moove
The curless counted body
A reference to a growling mutt that we often see chained in yards with the greatest disrepair but the person is not a cur and so the image is that he is treated as a cur by some and he is just a counted body therefore is not an individual treated with love.
And ruin and his causes
Whatever the cause that brought about his ruin
Over the barbed and shooting sea assumed an army
The sea is the battle line that is barbed as the trenches of WWI and the shooting is on the sea and on the other side of the sea that assumed or consumed an army
And swept into our wounds and houses
The nation felt a wound that that the aggression fills as it war fills the houses with war preparation, rations, loss of men and boys, etc.
I climb to greet the war in which I have no heart but there is only
That one dark I owe the light.
The darkness of war the darkness of his spirit the darkness of his actions that fighting a war requires he owes to that which allows him his life, his light of learning, opportunity etc.
Call for confessor and wiser mirror but there is none
Call for the priest, who should be filled with moral outrage and wise men of the nation who one would think both would hold a more moral view about using aggression to settle a dispute.
To glow after the god stoning night
To enlighten us after a night of both storm and worry in the conscience - or - possibly after a night of rockets and bombs.
And I am struck as lonely as a holy marker by the sun.
He feels so alone as Jesus crucified [holy marker] during the day after a night like the dark night of the soul
No
Praise that the springtime is all
Gabriel and radiant shrubbery as the morning grows joyful
Out of the woebegone pyre
Out of the fire and hell - Spring, Gabriel announcing a new birth, the resurrection as the bible story about God appearing as a light from the bush
And the multitude's sultry tear turns cool on the weeping wall,
All those involved have experienced the pain and show sorrow
My arising prodgidal
Sun the father his quiver full of the infants of pure fire,
The returning sun – as a repentant son - as if the dawn of a new day - the authority with their ability to call upon and use the young men who are like children or infants trained so they are like pure fire. They represent the authority of the nation and along with their youth act in purity but are capable of fire
But blessed be hail and upheaval
Their capability to cause upheaval
That uncalm still it is sure alone to stand and sing
The war continues with all its sound
Alone in the husk of man's home
Without as in the nation but more, within what is left of a man’s soul
And the mother and toppling house of the holy spring,
From the mother who birthed him to the upside down values he is a part of as compared to his childhood education of values based in God's word
If only for a last time.
If only God's word for a last time before either his body or soul dies.
-
I have not worked it out but I can see a few key words that lead me to think this poem could have a more personnel interpretation when we consider our body the house of our soul and the sea of temptation that we have learned to stay clear but we engage - I need to check to see if it works but my gut says that line of interpretation would work.
-
OK I am totaly lost now Barb. Which poem are you referring to? ???
-
I was sharing thoughts on the first poem that started this discussion - I think there are many insights that as I was sharing in the preceding post it hit me - with his name meaning the sea and the usual symbolic for house being our inner selves I realized the poem could have a deeper more personal meaning other than the one I shared in the earlier post - the words of the poem are in red.
Did any of you know about this movie - it is now on my list of 'to see' -
http://www.boston.com/ae/movies/articles/2009/04/03/lots_of_love_and_a_little_poetry_2_women_and_dylan_thomas/
-
Barb, I didn't know Fern Hill was so long. What I first read must have been a two-stanza fragment. But it is so evocative of a free, happy childhood like mine, full of running, playing in the sun, blessed with a great set of parents and a comfortable home, and none of the worries of kids today. My grandchildren will never know that kind of childhoodl Their time is so structured and supervised; music lessons, team sports, day camps, etc. And that ultimate indignity, the Play Date!
-
Yes, Fern Hill is a delight isn't it Bellemere - that will be a wonderful poem to commit to memory if only a stanza or two.
here is another of his less word stretching poems -
Clown In The Moon
by Dylan Thomas
My tears are like the quiet drift
Of petals from some magic rose;
And all my grief flows from the rift
Of unremembered skies and snows.
I think, that if I touched the earth,
It would crumble;
It is so sad and beautiful,
So tremulously like a dream.
-
That poem above reminds of the clown with the tear. First thing I thought of.
(http://i192.photobucket.com/albums/z70/MarjV/clown.jpg)
-
DO NOT GO GENTLE......
Do not go gentle into that good night,
Old age should burn and rave at close of day;
Rage, rage against the dying of the light.
Though wise men at their end know dark is right,
Because their words had forked no lightning they
Do not go gentle into that good night.
Good men, the last wave by, crying how bright
Their frail deeds might have danced in a green bay,
Rage, rage against the dying of the light.
Wild men who caught and sang the sun in flight,
And learn, too late, they grieved it on its way,
Do not go gentle into that good night.
Grave men, near death, who see with blinding sight
Blind eyes could blaze like meteors and be gay,
Rage, rage against the dying of the light.
And you, my father, there on the sad height,
Curse, bless, me now with your fierce tears, I pray.
Do not go gentle into that good night.
Rage, rage against the dying of the light.
You can hear it read at this page- it's wonderful:
http://www.poets.org/viewmedia.php/prmMID/15377
-
Found commentary on Wikipedia about "Do not go gentle......"
http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Do_not_go_gentle_into_that_good_night
-
Great - thanks Marj - the analysis is a good one don't you think - This is one of the poems of a group of poems read by the poet on a tape that I listen to in my car - my big worry is most new cars are no longer providing a tape recorder - only a CD recorder and I have quite a collection of tapes that I like to listen to while driving.
-
Barb - have someone transfer the tapes to cds - with the right equipment it can easily be done.
I have always liked Do Not Go Gentle..... Spit and fire in the very elderly I always admire.
-
yes I noticed - is it hannersher Shimmler [spell] - anyhow they have equipment for changeign tapes to CD as well as changing DVDs to CDs but I wonder if the cost for the equipment is greater than replacing the tapes - I have to add them up and figure it out because after the inventory is done I have no more use for the equipment and I am not a good eBay seller.
-
There Was A Saviour
by Dylan Thomas
There was a saviour
Rarer than radium,
Commoner than water, crueller than truth;
Children kept from the sun
Assembled at his tongue
To hear the golden note turn in a groove,
Prisoners of wishes locked their eyes
In the jails and studies of his keyless smiles.
The voice of children says
From a lost wilderness
There was calm to be done in his safe unrest,
When hindering man hurt
Man, animal, or bird
We hid our fears in that murdering breath,
Silence, silence to do, when earth grew loud,
In lairs and asylums of the tremendous shout.
There was glory to hear
In the churches of his tears,
Under his downy arm you sighed as he struck,
O you who could not cry
On to the ground when a man died
Put a tear for joy in the unearthly flood
And laid your cheek against a cloud-formed shell:
Now in the dark there is only yourself and myself.
Two proud, blacked brothers cry,
Winter-locked side by side,
To this inhospitable hollow year,
O we who could not stir
One lean sigh when we heard
Greed on man beating near and fire neighbour
But wailed and nested in the sky-blue wall
Now break a giant tear for the little known fall,
For the drooping of homes
That did not nurse our bones,
Brave deaths of only ones but never found,
Now see, alone in us,
Our own true strangers' dust
Ride through the doors of our unentered house.
Exiled in us we arouse the soft,
Unclenched, armless, silk and rough love that breaks all rocks
-
Barb, I would be happy to read any comment that you have on this Dylan Poem. There was A Saviour.
-
Wow you sure pick em Alf - later I am full to the brim just now with work - back tonight - in the meantime here is the poem.
There Was a Saviour
There was a saviour
Rarer than radium,
Commoner than water, crueller than truth;
Children kept from the sun
Assembled at his tongue
To hear the golden note turn in a groove,
Prisoners of wishes locked their eyes
In the jails and studies of his keyless smiles.
The voice of children says
From a lost wilderness
There was calm to be done in his safe unrest,
When hindering man hurt
Man, animal, or bird
We hid our fears in that murdering breath,
Silence, silence to do, when earth grew loud,
In lairs and asylums of the tremendous shout.
There was glory to hear
In the churches of his tears,
Under his downy arm you sighed as he struck,
O you who could not cry
On to the ground when a man died
Put a tear for joy in the unearthly flood
And laid your cheek against a cloud-formed shell:
Now in the dark there is only yourself and myself.
Two proud, blacked brothers cry,
Winter-locked side by side,
To this inhospitable hollow year,
O we who could not stir
One lean sigh when we heard
Greed on man beating near and fire neighbour
But wailed and nested in the sky-blue wall
Now break a giant tear for the little known fall,
For the drooping of homes
That did not nurse our bones,
Brave deaths of only ones but never found,
Now see, alone in us,
Our own true strangers' dust
Ride through the doors of our unentered house.
Exiled in us we arouse the soft,
Unclenched, armless, silk and rough love that breaks all rocks
-
Anybody else want to take a stab at this one? Babi? Anna?
Is Dylan talking THE Saviour here?
-
Today I find myself alone...my companion and friend family left for home,. my oldest and her husband the same , my local family , friends and all have been with us and it leaves us the sad job of finding a way to move on ,. Grateful we had him in our lives..I know poetry will give me a way to remember and bless the time we all have shared...fairanna
-
Anna: It is the final peace, though it leaves us with burning eyes and sleepless nights. Suddenly we are fewer than we were and the void is infinite is size and scope. However trite it is, remember that the pain will lessen and we will be able of go on even when we feel as if a part of us has been amputated. My prayers are with you.
-
Once It Was The Colour Of Saying by Dylan Thomas
Once it was the colour of saying
Soaked my table the uglier side of a hill
With a capsized field where a school sat still
And a black and white patch of girls grew playing;
The gentle seaslides of saying I must undo
That all the charmingly drowned arise to cockcrow and kill.
When I whistled with mitching boys through a reservoir park
Where at night we stoned the cold and cuckoo
Lovers in the dirt of their leafy beds,
The shade of their trees was a word of many shades
And a lamp of lightning for the poor in the dark;
Now my saying shall be my undoing,
And every stone I wind off like a reel.
Mitching:
To loiter, lollygag, procrastinate, or behaving in a lackadaisical fashion in an attempt to avoid a previously set obligation, especially under the pretense of dealing with a meltdown, glitch, that would hinder participation in the aforementioned activity.
-
Lie Still, Sleep Becalmed
by Dylan Thomas
Lie still, sleep becalmed, sufferer with the wound
In the throat, burning and turning. All night afloat
On the silent sea we have heard the sound
That came from the wound wrapped in the salt sheet.
Under the mile off moon we trembled listening
To the sea sound flowing like blood from the loud wound
And when the salt sheet broke in a storm of singing
The voices of all the drowned swam on the wind.
Open a pathway through the slow sad sail,
Throw wide to the wind the gates of the wandering boat
For my voyage to begin to the end of my wound,
We heard the sea sound sing, we saw the salt sheet tell.
Lie still, sleep becalmed, hide the mouth in the throat,
Or we shall obey, and ride with you through the drowned.
-
I have a knot of bitterness I cant seem to let go I know the thoughts and poems you left for me to read ....do help and time will allow me to remember all the good but a week ago I watched his pain and felt it as well and today I share a poem ...because I have to give thoughts to what I feel before I can move on...I also posted this poem with another group of poets oddly enough I believe only poets and poet lovers will understand because like me they feel
My father died at home
his hands peacefully lay
Across his chest ,the priest
had gently placed....
My husband died in his sleep
with my arm across his chest
what a blessed way to go
for him, for me , for family
near
another friend's heart ceased to beat
at a meeting of his beloved lodge
but you, who battled long and hard
against the pains of life
was moved to a hospital
to suffer the last indignities
poked and prodded to see
if you could be saved to suffer more
by your bed I watched you fight
not to live but to die
death delayed would not let you go
and you fought well to leave
for you knew it was not life
that remained a friend
but death who was not the foe
remembering John
always , anna April 20, 2009, 11:07 AM©
-
Anna the trauma you are feeling is touching us - I can only pray that you will find peace.
-
Hold Hard, These Ancient Minutes In The Cuckoo's Month
Hold hard, these ancient minutes in the cuckoo's month,
Under the lank, fourth folly on Glamorgan's hill,
As the green blooms ride upward, to the drive of time;
Time, in a folly's rider, like a county man
Over the vault of ridings with his hound at heel,
Drives forth my men, my children, from the hanging south.
Country, your sport is summer, and December's pools
By crane and water-tower by the seedy trees
Lie this fifth month unskated, and the birds have flown;
Holy hard, my country children in the world if tales,
The greenwood dying as the deer fall in their tracks,
The first and steepled season, to the summer's game.
And now the horns of England, in the sound of shape,
Summon your snowy horsemen, and the four-stringed hill,
Over the sea-gut loudening, sets a rock alive;
Hurdles and guns and railings, as the boulders heave,
Crack like a spring in vice, bone breaking April,
Spill the lank folly's hunter and the hard-held hope.
Down fall four padding weathers on the scarlet lands,
Stalking my children's faces with a tail of blood,
Time, in a rider rising, from the harnessed valley;
Hold hard, my country darlings, for a hawk descends,
Golden Glamorgan straightens, to the falling birds.
Your sport is summer as the spring runs angrily.
-
I Have Longed To Move Away
I have longed to move away
From the hissing of the spent lie
And the old terrors' continual cry
Growing more terrible as the day
Goes over the hill into the deep sea;
I have longed to move away
From the repetition of salutes,
For there are ghosts in the air
And ghostly echoes on paper,
And the thunder of calls and notes.
I have longed to move away but am afraid;
Some life, yet unspent, might explode
Out of the old lie burning on the ground,
And, crackling into the air, leave me half-blind.
Neither by night's ancient fear,
The parting of hat from hair,
Pursed lips at the receiver,
Shall I fall to death's feather.
By these I would not care to die,
Half convention and half lie.
-
Barbara thanks for posting those poems.. it is odd I think to find in almost every poem some thing one has thought and felt ,...and to see it in there lets you know it was not the poets intent to keep it to hidden but to share..
I have searched and found an April poem ..April is the real beginning of spring of life returning to a earth that seemed dead , and dark and dreary...I have realized I do have the right to mourn but I dont have the right to feel sorry for me...it aches when I go somewhere we went together ,, the house is full of his things left behind by his family for the meaning was not theirs to know..some I have let go ..others I most likely will keep to remind me we walked a way together and it was good....today I checked out April poems on the net and found this one ..reminds me to ask myself what is this ...heartbreak and joy ...to reach the last one you sometimes have to feel the first .. my love to all and thanks April is here and I am off to plant tomatoes because we both loved them and some other plants to cheer me and make the yard a pleasent place to remember ..love
Just Before April Came by Carl Sandburg
THE SNOW piles in dark places are gone.
Pools by the railroad tracks shine clear.
The gravel of all shallow places shines.
A white pigeon reels and somersaults.
Frogs plutter and squdge—and frogs beat the air with a recurring thin steel sliver of melody.
Crows go in fives and tens; they march their black feathers past a blue pool; they celebrate an old festival.
A spider is trying his webs, a pink bug sits on my hand washing his forelegs.
I might ask: Who are these people?
-
Anna it sounds like you are at another morning of your life - this story poem by Dylan Thomas reminds me of turning the page while holding to what roots us and gives meaing to our lives.
http://www.wesjones.com/dylan.htm
-
Barbara I don't know if I am totally ready but I do know that John is in a better place , without the pain he has suffered for many months and I also know he was a thoughtful caring person who would be grieving for me ...and asking me to give him the peace he would want me to have ...good memories are a gift and he gave me many ..I have to smile when I see him lifting his arms heavenward when I did some dumb and saying Why me God Why me ? and I feel if he were here he would be asking the same thing ,feeling sad his death had wounded me so...
I am ready to go on but to be honest I have no idea ..and will rely on your suggestion or anyone here ..is there a special poet you would like to learn more about and their poems ...should we do something else .,..please let us know and Barbara we have known each other for a long time and you always have good ideas ..so help me out please
This evening I did something I haven't done in quite awhile I drove after dark to Barnes and Noble for the poetry reading we do here twice a month ...John had been taking me ( it isn't far about 5 min away) and returning to pick me up because he didn't want me to go out by myself... I was so nervous but I did it and felt good about it ...so tell me all of you what would you like to do ..Poetry has been special to me as a person since I was a child and I know poetry helps me in ways no other form does ...love to all , anna
-
Anna why not go generic next month and choose a bit of nature as our theme rather than any one poet - in the past we have done a Spring month - how about this time we do a Bird and Wind month - the lightness of a bird that soars and the wind that can be soft or full both are like the spirit of something greater. In the case of the wind, an unseen force which can be as the memory of a loved one is an unseen force - the bird is the mythological messenger or God - it just feels to me like a great duo with so many poets writing about either birds or the wind or both.
-
Barbara I love your idea ,...I knew I could count on you...Here in my corner of Virginia it seems we have by passed Spring and into summer! If I dont get my tomato plants out this weekend they will be wilted ,,,and the other seeds and bulbs will cook in the promised 90 degree temperatures and me as well working in the yard I will have to do those things early and drink lots of water,....and wind is something we have to deal with in summer , the birds are nesting and thunderstorms are predicited at the end of April...Perfect ...do have an idea for a heading ? I guess I could read about that and learn to help in that area .. for such a busy lady you have many talents ..perhaps some day we shall meet.. We lived in Texas at three different places while my husband was undergoing training to be a pilot San Antonio, Hondo, and San Angelo ...I am thinking about going to California via train to see my brother in Sacramento ....and I think there is a train that goes to San Antonio ,..I suspect I wouldnt recognize the place it was a sleepy town when we lived there...I am remembering the song Across the Alamo in San Antone lived a pinto pony and a Navjo etc seemed it was described as sleepy..I understand that is certainly not the case now...well I guess I have done my post for now...below is a poem I wrote remembering my husband and realize it can be used for anyone who has lost someone..
Remembering you....again
Oh, it is the first star of the evening
that begins my splintered night -
the residue of day still hovers ,
somewhere to the west , just out of sight.
As the darkness deepens,
more stars appear and send their light-
until the heavens are adorned with
a multitude of luminous bright,
coded messages from deep, dark space.
While I try to understand just
what they have to say,
a sliver of the silver moon rides into view-
washes the darkness of my room
with its resplendent hue.
Time and space waver, undulate
and I live again with you.
anna alexander
14 August 2005 ©
-
We have the headings down to a science now Anna - so no fear - I find an appropriate photo or graphic and a few links that include poems and in this case maybe something about the mythology of birds and wind used in poetry -
I am pleased with this idea because let's face it we are like starting off as we did years ago - I think we have to build up again a reservoir of poetry before we are focusing again on one poet a month.
San Antonio is a large moving city now as compared to the years you were living there - I do not think the thru train to the west coast goes into San Antonio - it would be like taking a side trip - I think the train from Dallas goes into San Antonio and I am not sure if there is a train directly from San Antonio to New Orleans or if you have to go back north towards Dallas and then go over - I believe the train out of New Orleans goes all the way to Washington D.C. - if not it at least goes to Atlanta where you can switch trains to various eastern locations. The train used to stop here in Austin on its route between Dallas and San Antonio but that stopped some years back.
I wish there was a more direct trip from either Dallas or San Antonio to Atlanta - that would be a perfect way for me to visit my daughter - it is only a 3 hour drive from where she lives in North Carolina to Atlanta and she or my grandsons could pick me up - but with the convoluted way the trip is laid out it would take me days to make the trip.
Seems to me when I have looked at train travel in the past the trip from east to west is more easily accomplished by taking northern routes through the rockies from places like Chicago which easily hook into trains going to New York City and on south to D.C.
-
Barbara I agree with your thoughts and am posting one of mine to get us on the way..the out door temps made me turn on the a/c yesterday The humidity is low so I can have ti at 72 and be very comfortable..I have been to CA twice by train I leave out of DC then CHicago then Denver , Salt Lake City and finally Sacramento.. I love being on it through the High Rockies because there is no sign of any civilization there and it is awesome ,they move so slowly you can just drink it all in,..Went back again for a SN bash in Denver..out of Chicago I went to St Louis where I still have family and on to Kansas City for a bash...I am going to check to see if I can return from CA via the southern route which might include San Antonio
any way for now here is the poem
Park Visit in Spring 2007
All day there were signs spring is nearly here ,
Oaks waved halos of incipient promises ---
Of green leaves ,who will share their canopy
When hot summers days are near.
In early grass bright green stalks
Hold aloft white jonquils and sun struck daffodils
Proudly their blossoms nodded as we passed by
On our early morning walk .
Encouraged by warm air from the south
My dog and I headed for the park
With sandwiches and water to quench our thirst
When the food was gone and our mouths
Dry from inhaling sweet fresh air ,
Essence of dried leaves -- needles
From pine ,cushioning our trail ----
From dog sniffing some forest creatures lair
Water birds , white herons and gulls
Caught high currents and played
,Cart wheels ‘cross an azure sky
With wings as oars they pull
Themselves above the surface of the lake
Plunge heaven ward in joyous drill
Sated with lungs full of air wine
We head for home and make
Promises to return to park and lake
anna alexander with Skipper my Golden Retriever
March 13, 2007©
-
Welcome to our Poetry Page.
Our haven for those who listen to words that open hearts, imagination, and who allow our feelings be known about the poems we share - This is our continuing tradition. Please join us as we focus on poems written about either Birds or Wind.
Birds and Wind
(http://seniorlearn.org/bookclubs/poetry/poetrysparrow.jpg)
Bird on the Wind / Wind on the Bird | The aim of Symbolism in art is to capture more absolute truths which can only be accessed by indirect methods. It is what a thing means or symbolizes for us that is often what we are judging.
Rising and soaring through the skies, birds in myth and legend are the symbols of power and freedom. Throughout the ages, birds link the human world to the divine, to forces beyond the normal world; magical or miraculous realms that lie beyond ordinary experience.
The wind is stronger then all, but is blind and lost. It's sad and in pain, but it doesn't know why. It carries thousands of years with it, countless knowledge and wisdom fly with it, but it has nowhere and nobody to bring it to.
The wind comes and goes, it is soft and strong, it represents freedom but also misdirection, it defines a sense of self and purpose but with no confirmation aside from what you leave in your wake. A key with no hole.
The wind as a god is a power that is capable of communicating a larger-than-life language to those who would hear it
|
A few Links about Birds and Wind...
- Windy Morning in the Garden (YouTube) (http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=SQFmJAEyUxQ)
- Birds as a Symbol (http://www.courses.unt.edu/efiga/STORYTELLING/Fall2002/5440pdf/Hope_Taylor.pdf)
- Poems with the Theme of Birds (http://www.poetry-chaikhana.com/Themes/Birds.htm)
- The Big Wind by Theodore Roethke (http://www.poetryarchive.org/poetryarchive/singlePoem.do?poemId=9502)
- A Poem for the Wind (http://www.poetry-chaikhana.com/T/Taliesin/APoemforWind.htm)
Discussion Leaders: BarbStAubrey (augere@ix.netcom.com) & Fairanna (fairanna@verizon.net)
-
To start us off here is a poem from one of our favorite poets we focued upon a couple of years ago, Pablo Neruda.
Bird
It was passed from one bird to another,
the whole gift of the day.
The day went from flute to flute,
went dressed in vegetation,
in flights which opened a tunnel
through the wind would pass
to where birds were breaking open
the dense blue air -
and there, night came in.
When I returned from so many journeys,
I stayed suspended and green
between sun and geography -
I saw how wings worked,
how perfumes are transmitted
by feathery telegraph,
and from above I saw the path,
the springs and the roof tiles,
the fishermen at their trades,
the trousers of the foam;
I saw it all from my green sky.
I had no more alphabet
than the swallows in their courses,
the tiny, shining water
of the small bird on fire
which dances out of the pollen.
-
And for Wind how about another from Dylan Thomas who wrote...
Especially When the October Wind
Especially when the October wind
With frosty fingers punishes my hair,
Caught by the crabbing sun I walk on fire
And cast a shadow crab upon the land,
By the sea's side, hearing the noise of birds,
Hearing the raven cough in winter sticks,
My busy heart who shudders as she talks
Sheds the syllabic blood and drains her words.
Shut, too, in a tower of words, I mark
On the horizon walking like the trees
The wordy shapes of women, and the rows
Of the star-gestured children in the park.
Some let me make you of the vowelled beeches,
Some of the oaken voices, from the roots
Of many a thorny shire tell you notes,
Some let me make you of the water's speeches.
Behind a pot of ferns the wagging clock
Tells me the hour's word, the neural meaning
Flies on the shafted disk, declaims the morning
And tells the windy weather in the cock.
Some let me make you of the meadow's signs;
The signal grass that tells me all I know
Breaks with the wormy winter through the eye.
Some let me tell you of the raven's sins.
Especially when the October wind
(Some let me make you of autumnal spells,
The spider-tongued, and the loud hill of Wales)
With fists of turnips punishes the land,
Some let me make you of the heartless words.
The heart is drained that, spelling in the scurry
Of chemic blood, warned of the coming fury.
By the sea's side hear the dark-vowelled birds.
-
First Georgic [excerpt]
by Virgil
Translated by David Ferry
When spring begins and the ice-locked streams begin
To flow down from the snowy hills above
And the clods begin to crumble in the breeze,
The time has come for my groaning ox to drag
My heavy plow across the fields, so that
The plow blade shines as the furrow rubs against it.
Not till the earth has been twice plowed, so twice
Exposed to sun and twice to coolness will
It yield what the farmer prays for; then will the barn
Be full to bursting with the gathered grain,
And yet if the field's unknown and new to us,
Before our plow breaks open the soil at all,
It's necessary to study the ways of the winds
And the changing ways of the skies, and also to know
The history of the planting in that ground,
What crops will prosper there and what will not.
In one place grain grows best, in another, vines;
Another's good for the cultivation of trees;
In still another the grain turns green unbidden.
-
Written in Farsi and translated by Jo Shapcott this poem takes me to far places.
A Nightingale in the Cage of My Breast
by Farzaneh Khojandi
In this leafy orchard is a nightingale,
a nightingale whose songs are the dawn
and take me into the light,
to the mountains of legendary Farhad,
and to the place where mad Majnun talks to the raven:
'Hello gorgeous!' And to that lucky cave,
luminous with solitude, basking in gold,
and to a paradise where Adam and Eve stare at a wheat grain:
'Shall we taste it or not?' If I were Eve, I wouldn't taste it.
Thank goodness I'm not Eve or else mankind
would never forgive me for not sinning.
O tiny, miraculous wheat grain, O tiny apple of amazement,
O simple beginnings of myself.
There is a nightingale who sings my see through thoughts,
sings back to the beginning of memory.
There is a nightingale flying out of the cage of my breast;
it's chirping now at the edge of morning.
I am leaving; I am leaving, my friend.
You have to step into life, spread your existence,
you must hurry,
you must bring to Farhad in the story,
the good news about Shirin, his beloved,
you must enter Zoroaster's cave
and taste the light.
To taste the wheat grain of paradise - or not? O...
I am leaving, I am leaving at last:
my friend, open your heart for me.
-
This poem by Mark Roper in a more familiar type of poem which I can slip into with little trouble.
Hummingbird
Not just how
it hung so still
in the quick of its wings,
all gem and temper
anchored in air;
not just the way
it moved from shelf
to shelf of air,
up down, here there,
without moving;
not just how it flicked
its tongue's thread
through each butter-yellow
foxglove flower
for its fix of sugar;
not just the vest's
electric emerald,
the scarf's scarlet,
not just the fury
of its berry-sized heart,
but also how the bird
would soon be found
in a tree nearby,
quiet as moss at the end
of a bare branch,
wings closed around
its sweetening being,
and then how light
might touch its throat
and make it glow,
as if it were the tip
of a cigarette
smouldering
on the lip of a world,
whose face,
in the lake's hush
and the stir of leaves,
might appear
for a moment
composed.
-
Birds and wind, how intriguing. That sounds like it would lead to a very pleasant
hunt. I will be pleased to join you for this one.
-
Jackie I love both the poems you found and shared - I've come back to this page several times now to re-read - they both are just wonderful and I cannot pull out a line or a phrase from either that says more than any other line or phrase - thanks for sharing them.
-
How special to find myself here amid such wonderful poetry I will qoute from Jackie
Poetry is an echo, asking a shadow to dance.
Carl Sandburg
Like Barbara I will return and copy the poems for today I want to take the time to read them quietly and allow them to speak so many wonderful lines and thoughts ...I regret I havent been able to be here and have missed it so, but any of you know that have had a speciial person leave there is so much to do I feel overwhelmed ..I am hoping and trying to see some space but since I am not a neat person to begin with the disaster of years awaits me I did find a small book about birds by a local poetess Who served as a WAC in WWll . has more degrees than an thermometer , born in ALaska and lived many places but birds are what she loves She prefers simple phrases but I think they are like paint brushes showing us the wind and the birds I have chosen a small poem this time but when I have more time will type some of the longer ones,..I feel so relaxed when I come here < I find I can turn my back on the mess behind me and just allow my spirit to fly and sigh ....
I Sent My Song Aloft
I sent my song , aloft, to play
upon the wind, among the stars,
to sing the coolest summer song,
bring lyric warmth to winter hours.
I know its beauty is a thing
of fragile, woven words. They fling
bold metaphors into the path
of heaven's most poetic wrath.
Then my frail song and I should part
on such good terms, so trustingly,
is all a matter of the heart ,
where wings and things that fly go free.
Dollie Carpenter Youkeles
-
Fairanna: That poem moved me deeply. Thank you.
-
Absolutely love the poem by Neruda.
Here's a wind haiku by Sondra Ball
Small candles flicker
with wind whipping through windows.
Loud thunder crashes!
-
I copied this poem just as it was printed, so it takes up quite a bit of space. Still, it is quite good and I think you will like it.
Mockingbirds
This morning
two mockingbirds
in the green field
were spinning and tossing
the white ribbons
of their songs
into the air.
I had nothing
better to do
than listen.
I mean this
seriously.
In Greece,
a long time ago,
an old couple
opened their door
to two strangers
who were,
it soon appeared,
not men at all,
but gods.
It is my favorite story--
how the old couple
had almost nothing to give
but their willingness
to be attentive--
but for this alone
the gods loved them
and blessed them--
when they rose
out of their mortal bodies,
like a million particles of water
from a fountain,
the light
swept into all the corners
of the cottage,
and the old couple,
shaken with understanding,
bowed down--
but still they asked for nothing
but the difficult life
which they had already.
And the gods smiled, as they vanished,
clapping their great wings.
Wherever it was
I was supposed to be
this morning--
whatever it was I said
I would be doing--
I was standing
at the edge of the field--
I was hurrying
through my own soul,
opening its dark doors--
I was leaning out;
I was listening
- Mary Oliver
-
I always like Mary Oliver.
I see she has a published collection titled "West Wind"
Here's a review:
http://www.edward-dougherty.net/westwind.html
-
My wind contribution , we are having a lot of wind here ..thunderstorms predicted for at least 4 more days......Mary Oliver was the first poet we discussed when I was taking classes at the local U ...and you can always trust her to find a special poem
the poem I am posting is by Amy Lowell another favorite
The Wind
He shouts in the sails of the ships at sea,
He steals the down from the honeybee,
He makes the forest trees rustle and sing,
He twirls my kite till it breaks its string.
Laughing, dancing, sunny wind,
Whistling, howling, rainy wind,
North, South, East and West,
Each is the wind I like the best.
He calls up the fog and hides the hills,
He whirls the wings of the great windmills,
The weathercocks love him and turn to discover
His whereabouts -- but he's gone, the rover!
Laughing, dancing, sunny wind,
Whistling, howling, rainy wind,
North, South, East and West,
Each is the wind I like the best.
The pine trees toss him their cones with glee,
The flowers bend low in courtesy,
Each wave flings up a shower of pearls,
The flag in front of the school unfurls.
Laughing, dancing, sunny wind,
Whistling, howling, rainy wind,
North, South, East and West,
Each is the wind I like the best.
Amy Lowell
-
The breeze
raises a hair
on the caterpiilers back.
Buson
-
And then, of course, there is Robert Frost, who can always be relied on.
TO THE THAWING WIND
Come with rain, O loud Southwester!
Bring the singer, bring the nester;
Give the buried flower a dream;
Make the settled snowbank steam;
Find the brown beneath the white;
But whate'er you do tonight,
Bathe my window, make it flow,
Melt it as the ice will go;
Melt the glass and leave the stick
Like a hermit's crucifix;
Burst into my narrow stall;
Run the rattling pages o'er;
Scatter poems on the floor;
Turn the poet out of door.
[/b]
I love that image of the winds of spring enticing the poet out the door.
-
Ah Babi I agree and Joan isnt it amazing that few words can say so much ...when one of my assignments was to write some haikus I failed miserbly being Irish I cant say in a whole conversation what haikus can say in just a few words...
Here is my choice for today ...the poet paints a whole canvas with his words
Evening Hawk by Robert Penn Warren
From plane of light to plane, wings dipping through
Geometries and orchids that the sunset builds,
Out of the peak's black angularity of shadow, riding
The last tumultuous avalanche of
Light above pines and the guttural gorge,
The hawk comes.
His wing
Scythes down another day, his motion
Is that of the honed steel-edge, we hear
The crashless fall of stalks of Time.
The head of each stalk is heavy with the gold of our error.
Look!Look!he is climbing the last light
Who knows neither Time nor error, and under
Whose eye, unforgiving, the world, unforgiven, swings
Into shadow.
Long now,
The last thrush is still, the last bat
Now cruises in his sharp hieroglyphics.His wisdom
Is ancient, too, and immense.The star
Is steady, like Plato, over the mountain.
If there were no wind we might, we think, hear
The earth grind on its axis, or history
Drip in darkness like a leaking pipe in the cellar.
-
reef
High by the long island's side
the rubble banks swim in the evening light
death-grey and bleached white,
speckled together.
The Wind sings over the coelenterate dead
the hollow-gutted stone-sheath-dwellers
the lace-masons, the spicule shapers
the island-makers.
Written by Mark O'Connor,
[Australian poet]
on One-Tree Island
Great Barrier Reef
-
wings dipping through geometries and orchids that the sunset builds,
What inspired imagery, ANNA! Robet Penn Warren...who knew? Another novelist who wrote poetry, to my surprise.
the coelenterate dead
the hollow-gutted stone-sheath-dwellers
the lace-masons, the spicule shapers
Mr. O'Connor is no slouch either, BARB. I may need to go consult my dictionary, though I suppose it doesn't really matter exactly what a spicule is.
I thought I would offer another Robert Frost poem.
The Oven Bird
There is a singer evryone has heard,
Loud, a mid-summer and a mid-wood bird,
Who makes the solid tree trunks sound again.
He says that leaves are old and that for flowers
Mid-summer is to spring as one to ten.
He says the early petal-fall is past,
When pear and cherry bloom went down in showers
On sunny days a moment overcast;
And comes that other fall we name the fall.
He says the highway dust is over all.
The bird would cease and be as other birds
But that he knows in singing not to sing.
The question that he frames in all but words
Is what to make of a diminished thing.
-
early blooming gorse -
a heron buffetted
by the wind
from craftygreenpoet.com
-
I love the Aussie "reef" poem - takes you right into the wilds.
Which reminds me- did you all hear the news about the British man who won
6 months as caretaker of a tropical Aussie Island -
http://www.salon.com/wires/ap/world/2009/05/05/D980I2100_as_australia_world_s_best_job/
-
Since we have had rain, tornado watches, thunderstorms etc I have been off my computer and watching the weather Tonight I checked another poet I have read and liked and share one of his ( we still have rain and Tstorms predicted for another week egads)
A Walk
My eyes already touch the sunny hill.
going far ahead of the road I have begun.
So we are grasped by what we cannot grasp;
it has inner light, even from a distance-
and charges us, even if we do not reach it,
into something else, which, hardly sensing it,
we already are; a gesture waves us on
answering our own wave...
but what we feel is the wind in our faces.
Translated by Robert Bly
Rainer Maria Rilke
-
I can remember, ANNA, when I walked with my eyes on what lay ahead or looked from side to side to enjoy whatever of beauty was near. Now, I walk with my eyes carefully fixed on what lies in front of my feet. Much safer, that way. ;)
I came across this Emily Dickinson poem that I didn't remember haveing seen before, and it goes right along with our bird theme.
A Bird
A bird came down the walk,
He did not know I saw;
He bit an angleworm in halves
And ate the fellow, raw.
And then he drank a dew
From a convenient grass,
And then hopped sidewise to the wall
To let a beetle pass.
-
I am in early this morning, and I see I am the first. So this will make two poems in a row, this one by W. E. Henley.
The nightingale has a lyre of gold,
The lark's is a clarion call,
And the blackbird plays but a boxwood flute,
But I love him best of all.
For his song is all the joy of life,
And we in the mad spring weather,
We two have listened till he sang
Our hearts and lips together.
- Echoes [Birds]
W. E. Henley
-
Thanks Babi for the introduction to Henley - I had not heard of him and had to find out a bit more - here is a link from Bartleby that tells us who he is... http://bartleby.com/223/0656.html
-
I had only vaguely heard of him, BARB, but I was looking for poems about birds, and that one had three! I liked the poem, too, and I am intrigued by the
"boxwood flute". This was an 'introduction' for me, too.
-
Where is everyone? Nary a post here for the last two days. Is this one of those two weeks discussions?
Well, since I looked this one up, I'm going to post it anyway. This is from
Christina Rosetti.
BIRD OR BEAST?
Did any bird come flying
After Adam and Eve,
When the door was shut against them
And they sat down to grieve?
I think not Eve's peacock
Splendid to see,
And I think not Adam's eagle;
But a dove may be.
Did any beast come pushing
Thru' the thorny hedge
Into the thorny thistly world
Out from Eden's edge?
I think not a lion
Tho' his strength is such;
But an innocent loving lamb
May have done as much.
If the dove preached from her bough
And the lamb from his sod,
The lamb and the dove
Were preachers sent from God.
-
The Wind
I saw you toss the kites on high
And blow the birds about the sky;
And all around I heard you pass,
Like ladies' skirts across the grass-
O wind, a- blowing all day long,
O wind, that sings so loud a song!
I saw the different things you did,
But always you yourself you hid.
I felt you push, I heard you call,
I could not see yourself at all-
O wind, a- blowing all day long,
O wind, that sings so loud a song!
O you that are so strong and cold,
O blower, are you young or old?
Are you a beast of field and tree,
Or just a stronger child than me?
O wind, a- blowing all day long,
O wind, that sings so loud a song!
Robert Louis Stevenson
-
I saw you toss the kites on high
And blow the birds about the sky;
And all around I heard you pass,
Like ladies' skirts across the grass-
I like that, Barb.
-
Sorry I have been taking a break between rainy days We had ten days of rain earlier and will have five days starting today ,..my grass was knee high and I have plants to plant etc but am posting a poem ..I miss being here but I really had to take care of my yard ! I enjoyed reading the poems posted but I think everyone is busy here is the poem I found...
The Wind
He shouts in the sails of the ships at sea,
He steals the down from the honeybee,
He makes the forest trees rustle and sing,
He twirls my kite till it breaks its string.
Laughing, dancing, sunny wind,
Whistling, howling, rainy wind,
North, South, East and West,
Each is the wind I like the best.
He calls up the fog and hides the hills,
He whirls the wings of the great windmills,
The weathercocks love him and turn to discover
His whereabouts -- but he's gone, the rover!
Laughing, dancing, sunny wind,
Whistling, howling, rainy wind,
North, South, East and West,
Each is the wind I like the best.
The pine trees toss him their cones with glee,
The flowers bend low in courtesy,
Each wave flings up a shower of pearls,
The flag in front of the school unfurls.
Laughing, dancing, sunny wind,
Whistling, howling, rainy wind,
North, South, East and West,
Each is the wind I like the best.
Amy Lowell
-
selections from recent Jan Sand my Helsinki fried who rescued a tiny bird, fed it , saved it a lives with flying freely in his space.
not all of these are about wind but some are close to the subject at hand and I think must be shared since they are wonderful. The philosopher/poet is too.
========
this in his letter to me. Jan cuts up loaves of bread nd goes out to feed hundreds of ducks who know him and come running.
Humphrey, at the moment, is chirping steadily to me about something I cqannot fathom. I an still alive and feeding ducks inspite of the DO NOT FEED THE BIRDS signs proliferating throughout Helsinki. Piss on the bastard bureaucrats! I am tied up at the moment baking for tomorrow's class but here are my latest. I might have already sent you some but I don't remember.
Jan
FORECAST
Snowflakes will,
Someday spill,
Fall upon my face
And remain.
The turbid skies
Will not cloud my eyes,
My lips will blue and seize
To match the shadows of the trees.
Body heat will vanish under drifts
And soon nothing shows
Above the snow
But my nose.
A promontory to arouse
The curiosity
Of crows
Who will donate
A peck or two
Until something
More tempting
Will appear
On which to browse.
FRUITFUL CONTEMPLATION
“Time flies”,
Groucho uttered
(In a voice quite smooth
And recently buttered)
“Like an arrow.”
Not an eagle,
Nor an owl,
Nor a sparrow.
“Fruit flies,”
He appended
In comment intended
For linguistic contortion
(To descend like manna
In consumable portion)
“Like a banana”.
But fruit could not suit,
With aerodynamics
The point that is moot
(When you’re snoozing in hammocks)
Or merely confusing
A fly with a newt.
So the trick
With the pun
(When all’s said and done)
And sneezing’s not pleasing
Nor the best thing to do
Is to deal with a fly
And avoid the flu.
REIGN
Time pelts its steady minutes down
To splash in sunlight, snow or rain,
Drench us into happiness or fear,
Accountancy for loss or gain.
These minutes falling through our fingers,
Ephemeric in their flow
Carry with them all that’s real.
The sights and sounds of all we know.
The steady pounding of events
Generate a lively glow
Captured by surprise, suspense,
Are everything life can bestow.
Incessant traffic, hard to bear
Makes us wish the skies to clear.
Becoming weary, not to care,
But when it does, we’re not here.
POET’S LAMENT
When you fiddle with verse,
Of this be aware.
No money’s the curse
And it demands flair.
Rhyming and meter
Will twist up your brain.
Ideas are fleeter
Than you can attain.
But he fun is still there
If you never bore us.
Don’t tear your hair
If you’ve got a thesaurus.
LOVE AND WRITING
Your writing would mostly get better
If you would learn to forget her.
For the world that you see
Is unbelievably
Responsive to each word and letter.
Look around! Hear the sound! Smell the breeze!
There are time’s love’s an awful disease.
It deafens and blinds
And shrinks up our minds.
Just ignore all those birds and the bees.
For writing is more than just love.
Fit your mind to the world like a glove.
Delight in sunlight
And the Moon in the night.
Get busy! Just write! Mazel Tov!
CAUTIONARY
Life’s not all full of larks.
The world’s a dangerous place.
The ocean is all full of sharks.
Watch out for one pretty face.
Feelings can be quite deceiving.
Love and hate come and go.
And both have potential for grieving.
If you’re wise, take it easy and slow.
Some oceans turn out to be ponds
That quickly dry up or can drain.
Be careful of one who responds.
Think not with your heart. Use your brain.
VEGGIE HOMAGE
The roots and shoots and fruits I gobble
Keep me from that old age hobble.
I do not mumble like a dumb bell,
My physique makes me not humble,
For, with rigor and with vigor
I maintain a decent figure.
It’s broccoli, carrots, tomatoes
Let me stretch, touch my toes.
Beans, of course, teach me the art
Of the loud creative fart.
(attentive of the circumstance
Careful not to shit my pants)
So hey for veggies, shout “Hurray!
Good for work, great for play.”
PROFUSION OF CONFUSION
Though Einstein kicked Newton’s butt
And Plank made Albert queasy,
The latest book is not quite shut.
Astrophysics’ never easy.
Black holes meander everywhere
And gobble stars like nuts
While God plays dice to suffice
Einstein should tear his hair
Dimensions multiply much more
For four are insufficient.
Eleven seems to be the score.
Who knows? I’m not omniscient.
Confusion dominates the world.
Theories proliferate like mice.
The universe is flat or curled.
Impossible to be precise.
DOUBT
To poke one’s mind at possibility
Where darkness rules the realm
Tempts chancy wild facility
So doubt can overwhelm.
But doubt, at end is a friend
Engendering great caution.
It warns of danger ‘round the bend,
Reality’s distortion.
Problems arise with open eyes.
The world is full of trolls
That snicker at each new surmise
And offer fairy goals.
So one must figure how to move,
Beware of odd pretentions,
Discriminate just how to groove
To violate conventions.
FORCED STRATEGY
One can, with concern, observe
The delicate complexity of a flea,
Admire and desire to conserve
The mechanism of a wasp or bee.
There is, within all life, an industry,
A sophistication out of form
Honed by energy, necessity,
That comprise an astounding norm.
And yet, abundant sophistication
Mitigates no survival drive
To exist by strong extermination
Of all threats to stay alive.
Therefore we hold status quo
In vandalizing opposition
To our drives to exist and grow.
Nature demands this as base condition.
Nevertheless these masterpieces cry
To be admired, not destroyed.
Restraint is hard, yet I try,
But most difficult to avoid.
THE FROG
Consider the average frog
Who sits and grunts in a bog
With a tongue like a lasso
From Texas (El Paso)
And eyes always bulging agog.
This fellow (some yellow, some green),
Can be both slimy yet clean.
He’s quite a leaper,
A buggy grim reaper
From out the insectivore scene.
Now, a frog on a log, his abode
Ought not be confused with a toad.
For a toad is quite dry,
A landlubber guy
Most frequently found on a road.
Sometimes it seems quite a joke
That a frog can be lively, yet croak.
But be happy he’s here
When mosquitoes are near.
He finds them most tasty folk.
FUTILE
It’s alright to pray for some money
Or the cure to endure a sore throat,
But for cancer no answer
To give you a chance, sir.
It’s cure is exceeding remote.
Since God made you sick for a start,
Don’t put the horse ‘fore the cart.
You’re just His minion,
Can’t change His opinion
For He has a very small heart.
What’s done, in His eyes, is done.
Life can be absent from fun.
So a prayer for His help
Is a meaningless yelp
To the Father or to the Son.
PRAYER
Don’t you think it odd
When you piss and moan at God
His decisions need revisions,
Are not right?
The Almighty should be perfect,
No defect should infect
The way he makes provisions.
Do you doubt his sight?
Your problems, strictly local,
Why make them so vocal
When totality is of God’s concern?
Your personal destruction
Is a very small production.
Isn’t it time for you to learn?
If you believe in God,
Spoil the soul, spare the rod.
Do not second guess your deity.
It damages belief
And bestows no relief.
The very opposite of piety.
OUR URINE NATION
There’s really something missing
In the manner that we’re pissing.
The freedom with this act is all with dogs.
They can piss against the trees,
They can piss across your knees,
They can even piss on top of other dogs.
But when my need arises
There are never enterprises
That welcome deposition of your juice.
You are looked upon with frowns
When the places out of bounds
Are searched for a convenient sluice.
You may jump or you may wiggle
In a pornographic wriggle
But hard denial meets your every plea.
All the freedoms under law
Must be fought for tooth and claw
But where’s the basic one to simply pee?
This ubiquitous denial
Is a horrid modern style
With my bladder getting madder to degree
That we must demand solution
Or we start a revolution
For the freedom when we need ‘em just to pee!
VERNAL FLASH
The Finnish Spring’s an instant thing,
If instants can be days.
The trees, at first, bare boned from freeze
Are stark naked displays,
But quick to gain green haze.
The tiny mouse-eared leaves appear
Like magic apparitions
As sunlight chases Winter’s night
With leafy acquisitions.
The business is extremely quick,
A matter of mere hours
And soon the woods are wholly thick
With tiny bright white flowers.
SPARROW SONATA
My sparrow, Humphrey, sings to me
Of lady friends for company,
Of wood brown friends
With feathered ends.
We dream, we scheme, me and he.
BEWARE OF POSITIVE THINKING
Positive thinking’s a way to pretend
That all of your efforts will have a good end.
That an all seeing eye high up in the sky
Selects you, protects you from what’s ‘round the bend.
But time has its ways more nasty than nice
And chance plays the game with very black dice.
While things in the sky, with goodness, are frugal.
That eye in the sky is most likely Google.
ARCHIMEDES
Have you heard of Archimedes
Who rides velocipedes
He’s an acrobatic emu
With an omnivorous menu
And a celebrated taste for baby chicks.
On his cycle he pursues ‘em
And then he hardly chews ‘em
But gulps them down with just two simple licks.
But you never need to worry,
No cause to run and scurry.
With people he’s a very friendly feller.
With a snaky kind of neck
And a tendency to peck
And a beak where we folks have a smeller.
FINALITY
To be alive is quite a trial,
To know we walk
That last mile.
But the way is so delightful
Beautiful and insightful
I need not think what's 'round the bend.
I let it be.
I don't pretend.
WELL ENOUGH ALONE
Poetry can elevate a word, a phrase,
In strange ways
To enhance a frog into a prince,
A kind of magic rinse
That converts a burp to art,
Puts a cockroach before the cart.
But roaches, frogs and like creatures
Have fascinating useful features,
Doing needed work, most proper
Directly out of nature’s hopper.
In the end, there’s something wrong
Conjuring a croak into a song.
So, leave it lay, don’t usurp
The happy melody of a burp.
FUGITIVE
Some concepts are elusive,
Slippery and inconclusive.
God and beauty, love, and art,
A dream, the evanescent scent
Of April rain,
The reason why we’re here
And why, someday,
We disappear.
Many people are Hell bent
On getting rich, staying drunk,
Some, desperate to pay the rent.
Some delight in being bitchy
Others to be a hunk,
Do good.
(Knock on wood).
I’m happy to exist
Where nothing hurts, I sleep OK,
Delighted in another day.
It takes a lot to make me pissed.
The magic in a good existence
Is purely, solely, tough persistence.
-
Wow - and then the wind blew in the poetry - thanks Winsom
Do you mind if we tighten them up a bit without as much space between the lines
-
Wind and birds ....both hold me captive in my backyard....teh fledglings are trying to fly with parents standing by to encourage them and cheer them on thier way ,,,and here is a poem that says things better than I
The Gladness of Nature by William Cullen Bryant
Is this a time to be cloudy and sad,
When our mother Nature laughs around;
When even the deep blue heavens look glad,
And gladness breathes from the blossoming ground?
There are notes of joy from the hang-bird and wren,
And the gossip of swallows through all the sky;
The ground-squirrel gaily chirps by his den,
And the wilding bee hums merrily by.
The clouds are at play in the azure space,
And their shadows at play on the bright green vale,
And here they stretch to the frolic chase,
And there they roll on the easy gale.
There's a dance of leaves in that aspen bower,
There's a titter of winds in that beechen tree,
There's a smile on the fruit, and a smile on the flower,
And a laugh from the brook that runs to the sea.
And look at the broad-faced sun, how he smiles
On the dewy earth that smiles in his ray,
On the leaping waters and gay young isles;
Ay, look, and he'll smile thy gloom away.
-
Oh, I really had to smile at Jan's humorous reference to his nose,
a 'promontory to arouse the curiosity of crows'. And his pun on the
fruit flies, with the aside that it is all moot to the poet snoozing
in his hammock. And, with rigor and with vigor I maintain a decent figure.
This guy is a delight. Thanks for the introduction to Jan Sand, Winsum.
-
Little Robin Redbreast
Little Robin Readbreast
Sat upon a rail.
Niddle, naddle went his head;
Wiggle, waggle went his tail.
by Mother Goose
-
and along a more conventional line- I'm not even sure I "get it"
188. Call for the Robin-Redbreast
John Webster (1580(?)–1625(?))
CALL for the robin-redbreast and the wren,
Since o’er shady groves they hover
And with leaves and flowers do cover
The friendless bodies of unburied men.
Call unto his funeral dole 5
The ant, the field-mouse, and the mole
To rear him hillocks that shall keep him warm
And (when gay tombs are robb’d) sustain no harm;
But keep the wolf far thence, that’s foe to men,
For with his nails he’ll dig them up again.
-
Part of the problem is the entire poem is not printed - if it really is a poem - it is part of a play written by Webster.
Cornelia sings the following that is a dirge she remembered from her grandmother who sang it on her lute whenever she heard the bell toil.
Call for the robin redbreast, and the wren,
Since o'er shady groves they hover,
And with leaves and flowers do cover
The friendless bodies of unburied men.
Call unto his funeral dole
The ant, the fieldmouse, and the mole,
To rear him hillocks that shall keep him warm,
And (when gay tombs are robb'd) sustain no harm;
But keep the wolf far thence, that 's foe to men,
For with his nails he 'll dig them up again.
They would not bury him 'cause he died in a quarrel;
But I have an answer for them:
Let holy Church receive him duly,
Since he paid the church-tithes truly.
His wealth is summ'd, and this is all his store,
This poor men get, and great men get no more.
Now the wares are gone, we may shut up shop.
Bless you all, good people.
This bit is saying that the various birds and animal life can create a hillock over the corpse but the wolf can still dig up the corpse and since in the play the various deaths - there are many - revolve around the Catholic clergy and illicit marriage it is one of the characters who later becomes a pope who uses the 'rules' of the church to justify not burying this corpse -
The dirge in the play is used to say what the title of the play is saying, the white devil is as bad as the black devil - in other words the church is being sanctimonious about burial; excluding a proper burial because of a quarrel - regardless the guy paid his tithes which was the exchange important to being given any sacrament at this time in history - Webster is saying that the worse crime is committed of leaving the corpse subject to being dug up and desecrated by the guy's enemies [symbolized by the wolf].
The wolf is also symbolic of the wolf in sheep's clothing which again refers to the church since the soon to be Pope has disguised himself as a Moor and was complicit in the death of Marcello.
-
It is confusing MarjV. First the poet refers to the 'bodies of unburied men', then
speaks of keeping the wolf away, left he 'dig them up again'. Perhaps Mr. Webster
had a few drinks before he wrote his mournful dirge.
Good work, BARB, digging up that Webster play. It still seems a bit off, tho'.
I don't believe any body could be left unburied (except in war, of course); the
Church could only refuse to allow it to be buried in 'Holy ground'.
-
Hey! Thanks for the commentaries you two. It sure was confusing. Helps a bit.
-
No late night drink by Webster only the way it was - coffins were not used regularly till sometime in the mid-1600s - the burial ritual included a piece of cloth - according to the wealth and importance of the corpse the cloth was either black or canvas and either enough to wrap which took 20 yards or 2 or 3 yards enough to make a sac or in some cases a shirt. The important aspect of a Christian burial was to have food and drink for the mourners - the poorest of poor served at least beer and if possible bread.
There are stories of orphaned children who used the last of their few coins to have the food at the burial of their parents because that was more important to the honor and respect they could give to themselves by burying their parents properly.
In the eleventh and twelfth century corpses were buried in hollowed out tree logs or stumps - mid-medieval they were wrapped in cloth and placed in a hole dug in the earth, which was piled high with the extra earth creating a hillock.
There were three parts to the burial - the early evening or late afternoon were one set of prayers that I forget the name now and this is when all through the town the bells ringers alerting everyone there was a death - the more important the person the more the bell rang - followed was the dirge [spelled differently but from it we have the word dirge] between 9: and midnight with keening and then in the morning the Mass followed by the actual burying of the corpse.
Since emotion was important, the more important the social standing of the dead they included in their will or the family arranged for mourners to cry [keen] over the body during the dirge the night before and during the Mass - a comfortable but not well known citizen could have 20 mourners plus 6 to 8 who carried the corpse all who were given gifts and food. Sometimes the gift was the clothes the dead person was wearing when they found him or her dead.
If you were a criminal, according to your crime you may not have received a Christian burial - some crimes like murder that we think of horrendous were treated less severely in death with the corpse baptized and buried in the cemetery where the gallows were often set up. Most of the criminals and the very poor were left till there was enough money from the parishioners to afford a minimal burial that paid for a shroud, carriers and the food for the carriers and so the bodies were in various stages of decomposing since they were often left for a couple of months on the ground.
Also, some crimes, especially crimes against the King or the church meant the criminal's punishment did not stop with his death. He was de-bowled and the bowls sent to another location in a special basket for that purpose and his head was cut off and attached to a pike and his body was quartered and left for the animals.
As to animals getting to the bodies - that was a given - cemeteries were a place of revenue were animals grazed - often the animals were the livelihood of the parish priest or, after the reformation, the minister. Gradually the priests or ministers wrote rules that were transferred as the priests were moved from parish to parish and took their rules with them, that large animals were no longer allowed to graze in the cemetery and no one was allowed to build a shelter unless there was a war.
Cemeteries were protected sanctuaries, a place of refuge, so that folks built shelters and lived in the cemetery during war as well as, they brought their livestock to the cemetery for protection. With wars lasting for years and the shelters becoming more sturdy a problem grew with land rights. There are accounts of crops grown in the cemeteries so that in the late seventeenth century statutes were written limiting the types of plants allowed to be planted.
Knowing medieval burial traditions helps to understand the piece from Webster's play.
-
Welcome to our Poetry Page.
Our haven for those who listen to words that open hearts, imagination, and who allow our feelings be known about the poems we share - This is our continuing tradition. Please join us as we focus on poems written about either Birds or Wind.
Birds and Wind
(http://seniorlearn.org/bookclubs/poetry/poetrysparrow.jpg)
Bird on the Wind / Wind on the Bird | The aim of Symbolism in art is to capture more absolute truths which can only be accessed by indirect methods. It is what a thing means or symbolizes for us that is often what we are judging.
Rising and soaring through the skies, birds in myth and legend are the symbols of power and freedom. Throughout the ages, birds link the human world to the divine, to forces beyond the normal world; magical or miraculous realms that lie beyond ordinary experience.
The wind is stronger then all, but is blind and lost. It's sad and in pain, but it doesn't know why. It carries thousands of years with it, countless knowledge and wisdom fly with it, but it has nowhere and nobody to bring it to.
The wind comes and goes, it is soft and strong, it represents freedom but also misdirection, it defines a sense of self and purpose but with no confirmation aside from what you leave in your wake. A key with no hole.
The wind as a god is a power that is capable of communicating a larger-than-life language to those who would hear it
|
A few Links about Birds and Wind...
- Windy Morning in the Garden (YouTube) (http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=SQFmJAEyUxQ)
- Birds as a Symbol (http://www.courses.unt.edu/efiga/STORYTELLING/Fall2002/5440pdf/Hope_Taylor.pdf)
- Poems with the Theme of Birds (http://www.poetry-chaikhana.com/Themes/Birds.htm)
- The Big Wind by Theodore Roethke (http://www.poetryarchive.org/poetryarchive/singlePoem.do?poemId=9502)
- A Poem for the Wind (http://www.poetry-chaikhana.com/T/Taliesin/APoemforWind.htm)
Discussion Leaders: BarbStAubrey (augere@ix.netcom.com) & Fairanna (fairanna@verizon.net)
What a fascinating post, BARB. I didn't realize Webster's play was that old,
but even so I didn't know all that about the burials of those days. I do remember reading about hired mourners. So, the ministers earned some
income by renting the cemetery for grazing. Well, I suppose that makes sense.
It was the easiest way to keep the grass cut, and grazers aren't going to be
digging up bodies as a carnivore would.
A good morning...I learned something new!
-
Hon it wasn't rented it was the priest or ministers animals - and bovines did dig up bodies. That was one of the reasons that rules were made by some to limit the type of animals and finally prohibit large animals from grazing in the cemetery lands except during times of war. Even the trees in the cemetery were the priest or ministers and if when a tree fell if anyone took part of the tree it was a crime.
Remember when we were reading Jane Austen and the young men were offered a Living which was to be a minister in a parish - when you research further you learn that part of the reason for getting a good 'Living' parish was the opportunities to make the land that was the cemetery be productive so that ministers were farm managers just as the landed gentry in their 'Country Homes'.
If you read the Magna Carte most of the document is about the Forests and the ownership which was mostly the Church. And so where we are educated to understand it was one of the first steps towards freedom and democracy that document may have given greater freedoms to serfs but they were now hemmed in with few places to live, gather wood, fish, hunt etc. etc. because the vast majority of the land belonged to either the Church or the King.
We are so used to thinking of how during the early years of this nation if you were freed from servitude you packed up and walked west till you found a piece of land - granted the native Indians used the land but that did not bother the white man. Still we did not have the kind of land use laws the prohibited using and changing the natural habitat because the land belonged to the Church. A crime over poaching on Church land was as serious a crime as robbing from the Church treasury.
-
Barbara I havent spoken to you about what kind of poetry we will do come June , which is just around the corner
Any ideas from you or anyone who would like us to post poems from thier favorite poet...
This is my offering for today...the Irish wakes I attended as a child (unless it was a tragic death ) I thought were the best places and things we did...in the home usually , with lots of food and drink and everyone telling funny stories about the deceased Which is what I tell my family I want....
anyway here is my post for today...
Four Winds
"Four winds blowing thro' the sky,
You have seen poor maidens die,
Tell me then what I shall do
That my lover may be true."
Said the wind from out the south,
"Lay no kiss upon his mouth,"
And the wind from out the west,
"Wound the heart within his breast,"
And the wind from out the east,
"Send him empty from the feast,"
And the wind from out the north,
"In the tempest thrust him forth,
When thou art more cruel than he,
Then will Love be kind to thee."
Sara Teasdale
-
Bovines dig up bodies?! How strange; they are not carnivores.
Oh, dear, ANNA. I fear Sara Teasdale had a bad experience with a
cruel lover. She sounds so hurt and angry in this poem.
-
Neither are pigs and yet they also dug up bodies - the priests and ministers developed written rules to rid the cememtaries of animals in order to stop this behavior - onward to the twentyfirst century - Oh I cannot leave it - did you know before the first garbage collectors in New York, which happened in the late 1800 well after the Civil War, the street and garbage cleanup consisted of pigs - bands of pigs roamed the streets of New York and ate the refuse - I have not read what other cities did and I always wondered.
What about June - do you think we should focus on one poet or another theme like: flowers, rain, the sea, the sun, clouds, colors, trees - you name it.
-
Red Bird Explains Himself
“Yes, I was the brilliance floating over the snow
and I was the song in the summer leaves, but this was
only the first trick
I had hold of among my other mythologies,
for I also knew obedience: bring sticks to the nest,
food to the young, kisses to my bride.
But don’t stop there, stay with me: listen.
If I was the song that entered your heart
then I was the music of your heart, that you wanted and needed,
and thus wilderness bloomed that, with all its
followers: gardeners, lovers, people who weep
for the death of rivers.
And this was my true task, to be the
music of the body. Do you understand? for truly the body needs
a song, a spirit, a soul. And no less, to make this work,
the soul has need of a body,
and I am both of the earth and I am of the inexplicable
beauty of heaven
where I fly so easily, so welcome, yes,
and this is why I have been sent, to teach this to your heart.”
~ Mary Oliver ~
-
Here's another poem about a bird with a high purpose, by one Sri Aurobindo:
The Blue Bird
I am the bird of God in His blue;
Divinely high and clear
I sing the notes of the sweet and the true
For the god's and the seraph's ear.
I rise like a fire from the mortal's earth
Into a griefless sky
And drop in the suffering soil of his birth
Fire-seeds of ecstasy.
My pinions soar beyond Time and Space
Into unfading Light;
I bring the bliss of the Eternal's face
And the boon of the Spirit's sight.
I measure the worlds with my ruby eyes;
I have perched on Wisdom's tree
Thronged with the blossoms of Paradise
By the streams of Eternity.
Nothing is hid from my burning heart;
My mind is shoreless and still;
My song is rapture's mystic art,
My flight immortal will.
-
Well I had replied to Babi's comment about Teasdale poem and Joan poem which I loved I have to agree Teasdale did not write a cheerful poem I thought it rather bitter myself but did not take time to really think about it Today I am sharing a poem I wrote in 1999 about Memorial Day My husband is buried at Arlington along with one brother , his wfe and a number of those who served in the military I know.. so whenever I go I am often overwhelmed and when I read how many we have lost in the different wars in my life this is how I feel .
memorial day
even in the black of night
the white crosses gleam
declare to all the place
where the silenced heroes came
heroic deeds are marked by some
praised eulogized revered
what would the dead proclaim
if they had our listening ear
would they weep that their blood
in rivers ran and made dark
spots upon the foreign land
would they ask why they had to die
and what would be our reply
we who still breathe the scented air
who feel the sun and rain
who lie next to warm flesh
who lips are kissed and bodies hugged
do we thank them tell them it was a job well done
do we tell them peace has come
and there sacrifice won
for us a future free of onslaughts
do we lie to them to ease our shame
that we let them go cheered them on
promised them if they did we would remember
vowed we would show we cared
that they gave us a chance
our lies flood the air
rise in dark clouds and hide the sun
oh the white crosses gleam even in the black of night
march forever across the tended green
be glad your eyes are closed
you do not see the mess we made
your pain was brief and ours prolonged
we should weep and gnash our teeth
that we let you die believing the lie
that your death would not be in vain
that we would learn to live in peace
anna alexander
5/26/99
all rights reserved
-
Oh, ANNA, what a poignant poem. It says so much that is painful and is so
true. Please, please find someone to collect and edit your poems. They deserve to be published; it would be tragic if they were lost.
-
Fascinating , Barbara!
Yes, I agree about the Anna poem! I made this graphic on Monday
http://i192.photobucket.com/albums/z70/MarjV/Memday09.jpg
-
Song lyrics are poems in music - here is Mockingbird Hill that just came to mind.
Words and music for Mockingbird Hill (http://www.btinternet.com/~edward.caution/mockingbirdhill.htm)
-
Ah Mary Oliver hit home for me with these lines
And this was my true task, to be the
music of the body. Do you understand? for truly the body needs
a song, a spirit, a soul. And no less, to make this work,
the soul has need of a body,
My favorite line in 'The Blue Bird' is:
My mind is shoreless and still;
OH my Anna - the offering for Memorial Day is a prayer that I had to read several times. Thanks...
-
Ah Mary Oliver hit home for me with these lines
And this was my true task, to be the
music of the body. Do you understand? for truly the body needs
a song, a spirit, a soul. And no less, to make this work,
the soul has need of a body,
Absolutely wonderful lines, Barbara, from Oliver. Thanks.
-
So perfect for Memorial Day, Marj. That was a thoughtful thing to do.
I wholly agree about the lyrics in songs; so many of them are truly beautiful poetry. "Wind Beneath My Wings", or "America, the Beautiful" come to my mind.
What lyrics come to mind for the rest of you?
-
I love the lyrics of this haunting song sung by Dolly Parton among others:
Elusive Butterfly of Love
You might wake up some morning
To the sound of something moving past your window in the wind
And if you're quick enough to rise,
You'll catch a fleeting glance of someone's fading shadow.
Out on the new horizon
You may see the floating motion of a distant pair of wings
And if the sleep has left your eyes
You might hear footsteps running through an open meadow.
Don't be concerned; it will not harm you.
It's only me, pursuing something I'm not sure of.
Across my dreams, with nets of wonder,
I chase the bright elusive butterfly of love.
-
I notd the FRost poem of May 4, which always brings memories of one of my college English teachers, little Sister Melmarie from South Boston, who loved to recite:
Come with rain, thou loud southwestah
Bring the singah, bring the nestah!
-
Remember this from when we were kids...
The Wind
by Robert Louis Stevenson
I saw you toss the kites on high
And blow the birds about the sky;
And all around I heard you pass,
Like ladies' skirts across the grass
Oh wind, a blowing all day long,
Oh wind, that sings so loud a song!
I saw the different things you did,
But always you yourself you hid.
I felt you push, I heard you call,
I could not see yourself at all
Oh wind, a blowing all day long!
Oh wind, that sings so loud a song!
O you that are so strong and cold,
O blower, are you young or old?
Are you a beast of field and tree,
Or just a stronger child than me?
O wind, a blowing all day long,
O wind, that sings so loud a song!
-
DAUGHTER OF THE WIND
WHY HAVE I ALWAYS BEEN A DAUGHTER
OF THE WIND? IT HAS SUCH STRENGTH,
IT IS TREACHEROUS AND HOLDS SUCH FURY.
YET IT HAS THE MOST GENTLE, TENDER TOUCH.
WHEN I WATCH THE WIND. HEAR THE WIND OR
FEEL ITS SOFT AND GENTLE CARESS, I
SUDDENLY BECOME LOST IN THOUGHT AND WILD
WANDERINGS. DEAR WIND WHERE ARE YOU GOING?
WHAT HAVE YOU DONE TODAY? WHAT ARE
YOU GOING TO DO TOMORROW? YOU ALWAYS SEEM
TO CARRY ME TO ANOTHER PLAIN. A PLACE WHERE
DREAMERS DWELL. SOMEWHERE YOUR SECRETS ARE
NEVER TOLD. AS THE DAUGHTER OF THE WIND,
I WILL NEVER GROW OLD.
Momfeather
-
by Paul Dunbar
A sad and vivid poem concerning wind and sea. Consider the words all relating
to death and dying.
The Wind and the Sea.
I stood by the shore at the death of day,
As the sun sank flaming red;
And the face of the waters that spread away
Was as gray as the face of the dead.
And I heard the cry of the wanton sea
And the moan of the wailing wind;
For love's sweet pain in his heart had he,
But the gray old sea had sinned.
The wind was young and the sea was old,
But their cries went up together;
The wind was warm and the sea was cold,
For age makes wintry weather.
So they cried aloud and they wept amain,
Till the sky grew dark to hear it;
And out of its folds crept the misty rain,
In its shroud, like a troubled spirit.
For the wind was wild with a hopeless love,
And the sea was sad at heart
At many a crime that he wot of,
Wherein he had played his part.
He thought of the gallant ships gone down
By the will of his wicked waves;
And he thought how the churchyard in the town
Held the sea-made widows' graves.
The wild wind thought of the love he had left
Afar in an Eastern land,
And he longed, as long the much bereft,
For the touch of her perfumed hand.
In his winding wail and his deep-heaved sigh
His aching grief found vent;
While the sea looked up at the bending sky
And murmured: "I repent."
But e'en as he spoke, a ship came by,
That bravely ploughed the main,
And a light came into the sea's green eye,
And his heart grew hard again.
Then he spoke to the wind: "Friend, seest
thou not
Yon vessel is eastward bound?
Pray speed with it to the happy spot
Where thy loved one may be found."
And the wind rose up in a dear delight,
And after the good ship sped;
But the crafty sea by his wicked might
Kept the vessel ever ahead.
Till the wind grew fierce in his despair,
And white on the brow and lip.
He tore his garments and tore his hair,
And fell on the flying ship.
And the ship went down, for a rock was there,
And the sailless sea loomed black;
While burdened again with dole and care,
The wind came moaning back.
And still he moans from his bosom hot
Where his raging grief lies pent,
And ever when the ships come not,
The sea says: "I repent."
- Special Collections and Archives - African American Collections - Wright State University
Copyright Information © 2005
-
Ooh, MARJ, that one is heavy! I find some of our worst human emotions in that poem. A repentence that does not survive the next temptation to do harm. An anger that flares up when thwarted in what one wishes to do, even
if that wish was originally to do good. Murderous cold and spiteful fury. Brrr.
-
Let's Celebrate Summer
Welcome to our Poetry Page.
Our haven for those who listen to words
that open hearts, imagination, and who allow our feelings be known
about the poems we share - Please join us.
(http://seniorlearn.org/bookclubs/poetry/poetrysummer09.jpg) | Summer time fills our mind-pictures with
long, lazy picnics by the river,
old-fashioned ice cream socials,
a day at the seaside,
parades, flags, fireworks and
burgers hot off the grill.
Poetry can be part of life rather than a thing apart.
Share with us your:
Warm weather poems,
Summer recipes and entertainment that
Celebrate poets and poems,
Summer craft idea using poetry.
Promise to follow through using poetry in
a weekly outdoor happening and
make this summer the best it can be! |
A few Summer Poetry Links:
- Famous Poets and Poems about Summer (http://famouspoetsandpoems.com/thematic_poems/summer_poems.html)
- Summer Poems (http://www.dltk-holidays.com/summer/poems.htm)
- Flower Poems for Gardeners (http://www.gardendigest.com/flowers.htm)
Discussion Leaders: BarbStAubrey (augere@ix.netcom.com) & Fairanna (fairanna@verizon.net)
-
To start us off sharing how Poetry is part of my Summer - it was a long day - met the decorator who removed her furnishings we rented to help sell a vacant house followed by, showed property and then wrote an offer that probably has a snow balls chance of making it since there are already 3 offers on the house - she needed to increase her offer over the asking price by more than $100 but it takes loosing one to learn - and so tired, on the way home I decided to stop and pickup a 'to go' hamburger from Wally's.
Wally's is a local hamburger place that uses fresh home grown tomatoes - lettuce, onions, pickles, mayo and of course the burger - no one can make them like they do at Wally's and with the Tomatoes in season the taste is so much more than in Winter when he uses store bought tomatoes. It reminded my of Neruda's Ode To The Tomato -
Ode To Tomatoes by Pablo Neruda
The street
filled with tomatoes,
midday,
summer,
light is
halved
like
a
tomato,
its juice
runs
through the streets.
In December,
unabated,
the tomato
invades
the kitchen,
it enters at lunchtime,
takes
its ease
on countertops,
among glasses,
butter dishes,
blue saltcellars.
It sheds
its own light,
benign majesty.
Unfortunately, we must
murder it:
the knife
sinks
into living flesh,
red
viscera
a cool
sun,
profound,
inexhaustible,
populates the salads
of Chile,
happily, it is wed
to the clear onion,
and to celebrate the union
we
pour
oil,
essential
child of the olive,
onto its halved hemispheres,
pepper
adds
its fragrance,
salt, its magnetism;
it is the wedding
of the day,
parsley
hoists
its flag,
potatoes
bubble vigorously,
the aroma
of the roast
knocks
at the door,
it's time!
come on!
and, on
the table, at the midpoint
of summer,
the tomato,
star of earth, recurrent
and fertile
star,
displays
its convolutions,
its canals,
its remarkable amplitude
and abundance,
no pit,
no husk,
no leaves or thorns,
the tomato offers
its gift
of fiery color
and cool completeness.
-
Well each year I plant two tomato plants because there is NOTHING Like one ...I am enclosing the lyrics to the song June is busting out all over from Carousal and this was site gave it as it happened in the play with the characters names included .. I love this song because it is the way I always felt about this month..hope it brings back some memories as it does to me...
Nettie
March went out like a lion
Awakin' up the water in the bay;
Then April cried and stepped aside,
And along came pretty little May!
May was full of promises
But she didn't keep 'em quickly enough for some
And the crowd of doubtin' tonuses
Was predictin' that the summer'd never come
Men
But it's comin' by dawn,
We can feel it come,
You can feel it in your heart
You can see it in the ground
Girls
You can see it in the trees
You can smell it in the breeze
All
Look around! Look around! Look around!
Nettie
June is bustin' out all over
All over the meadow and the hill!
Buds're bustin' outa bushes
And the rompin' river pushes
Ev'ry little wheel that wheels beside the mill!
June is bustin' out all over
The feelin' is gettin' so intense,
That the young Virginia creepers
Hev been huggin' the bejeepers
Outa all the mornin' glories on the fence!
Because it's June...
All
June, June, June
Just because it's June, June, June!
Nettie
Fresh and alive and gay and young
June is a love song, sweetly song
All
June is bustin' out all over!
The saplin's are bustin' out with sap!
Love hes found my brother, Junior,
And my sister's even loonier!
And my Ma is gettin' kittenish with Pap!
June in bustin' out all over
Nettie
To ladies and men are payin' court.
Lotsa ships are kept at anchor
Jest because the captains hanker
Fer the comfort they ken only get in port!
All
Because it's June... June, June, June
Just because it's June, June, June!
Nettie
June makes the bay look bright and new
Sails gleamin' bright on sunlit blue
All
June is bustin' out all over
The ocean is full of Jacks and Jills,
With the little tail a-swishing'
Ev'ry lady fish is wishin'
That a male would come
And grab 'er by the gills!
Nettie
June is bustin' out all over!
The sheep aren't sleepin' anymore!
All the rams that chase ewe-sheep
All determined there'll be new sheep
and the ewe-sheep aren't even keepin' score!
All
On acounta it's June! June, June, June
Just because it's June, June, June!
-
the knife
sinks
into living flesh,
red
viscera
[/color]
Barb, I'm going to have trouble slicing tomatoes for a while, after reading that!
Anna, I loved that song, and could hear the singers again as I read it.
I immediately thought of "Summer is icumen in". The song is a medieval English canon (notated 1240). It is the only known six part music written before the 15th century. This is a modern translation.
Summer is a-coming in,
Loudly sing, Cuckoo!
The seed grows and the meadow blooms
And the wood springs anew,
Sing, Cuckoo!
The ewe bleats after the lamb
The cow lows after the calf.
The bullock stirs, the stag farts,
Merrily sing, Cuckoo!
Cuckoo, cuckoo, well you sing, cuckoo;
Don't you ever stop now,
Sing cuckoo now. Sing, Cuckoo.
Sing Cuckoo. Sing cuckoo now!
-
Doing this from memory. Jump in if I mess up
Shall I compare thee to a summer's day?
Thou art more lovely and more temperate.
Rough winds do shake the darling buds of May,
And summer's lease has all to short a date,.
Sometime to hot the eye of heaven shines,
And often is he gold complexion dimmed;
And every fair from fair sometime declines
By chance or nature's changing course untrimmed
But thy eternal summer shall not fade,
Nor use that rare perfection that thou owest,
Nor shall death brag thou wanderest in his shade,
When in eternal lines to time thour growest.
So long as men can breathe and eyes can see
So long lives this, and this gives life to thee.
-Shakespeare
-
Well,I see one goof. "use" should be "lose" that rare perfection. Sorry.
-
No apology necessary, Bellemere. I'm impressed that you could remember a
Shakespearean sonnet that accurately. I'm doing well to remember something I read yesterday! :(
-
ah how lovely Bellemere - how often we have heard of the "Darling Buds of May" weren't those words used in a song from Camelot?
Rushing around today packing and getting everything in order so that I can leave in the wee hours of tomorrow morning for my Daughter's in North Carolina - Ty graduates having earned all these wonderful scholarships to the Collage of his choice - the Savannah School of Art - and so a big family gathering is happening as we celebrate with him.
All sorts of Rushing poems - most about rushing water but here is a fun and outrageous poem about rushing. .
Rushing in Nerja
I met a flustered lady in the midday sun
Rushing in the plaza like a bandit on the run
Scurrying to buy her liquor on the cheaper side of town
"Finlandia !" she said, a vodka of renown
She touched me with her trembling hands
Bronzed and decked in golden bands
She kissed me with her pouted lips
And held me in her feeble grip
"I must go' she said
For Don Quixote de la Galway
Lies waiting in my bed
And here is a typical Rushing poem about the countryside.
I've Heard the Rushing
I’ve heard the rushing of mountain torrents, gushing
Down through the rocks, in a cataract of spray,
Onward to the ocean;
Swift seemed their motion,
Till, lost in the desert, they dwindled away.
I’ve learnt the story of all human glory,
I’ve felt high resolves growing weaker every day,
Till cares, springing round me,
With creeping tendrils bound me,
And all I once hoped for was wearing fast away.
I’ve seen the river rolling on for ever,
Silent and strong, without tumult or display.
In the desert arid,
Its waters never tarried,
Till far out at sea we still found them on their way.
Now no more weary we faint in deserts dreary,
Toiling alone till the closing of the day;
All now is righted,
Our souls flow on united,
Till the years and their sorrows have all died away.
James Clerk Maxwell
-
The following poem used to describe for me the month of June...and the first verse for some reason I memorized ..I always forget there are other verses and I post them all...Was June so special because it was the month when school was out and the lazy days arrived? I know it was special when our children were home all the time and we had time for traveling and camping and seeing what our country and nature had to offer.. it was so long ago and it was a peaceful time..easy to visit the places in America , without guards everywhere and having purses checked at the entrance to things you wanted to see..I am GLAD in my heart and in my SOUL that life was nicer then and life was sweeter.....
What Is So Rare As A Day in June
AND what is so rare as a day in June?
Then, if ever, come perfect days;
Then Heaven tries earth if it be in tune,
And over it softly her warm ear lays;
Whether we look, or whether we listen,
We hear life murmur, or see it glisten;
Every clod feels a stir of might,
An instinct within it that reaches and towers,
And, groping blindly above it for light,
Climbs to a soul in grass and flowers;
The flush of life may well be seen
Thrilling back over hills and valleys;
The cowslip startles in meadows green,
The buttercup catches the sun in its chalice,
And there's never a leaf nor a blade too mean
To be some happy creature's palace;
The little bird sits at his door in the sun,
Atilt like a blossom among the leaves,
And lets his illumined being o'errun
With the deluge of summer it receives;
His mate feels the eggs beneath her wings,
And the heart in her dumb breast flutters and sings;
He sings to the wide world, and she to her nest,-
In the nice ear of Nature which song is the best?
Now is the high-tide of the year,
And whatever of life hath ebbed away
Comes flooding back with a ripply cheer,
Into every bare inlet and creek and bay;
Now the heart is so full that a drop overfills it,
We are happy now because God wills it;
No matter how barren the past may have been,
'Tis enough for us now that the leaves are green;
We sit in the warm shade and feel right well
How the sap creeps up and the blossoms swell;
We may shut our eyes but we cannot help knowing
That skies are clear and grass is growing;
The breeze comes whispering in our ear,
That dandelions are blossoming near,
That maize has sprouted, that streams are flowing,
That the river is bluer than the sky,
That the robin is plastering his house hard by;
And if the breeze kept the good news back,
For our couriers we should not lack;
We could guess it all by yon heifer's lowing,-
And hark! How clear bold chanticleer,
Warmed with the new wine of the year,
Tells all in his lusty crowing!
Joy comes, grief goes, we know not how;
Everything is happy now,
Everything is upward striving;
'Tis as easy now for the heart to be true
As for grass to be green or skies to be blue,-
'Tis for the natural way of living:
Who knows whither the clouds have fled?
In the unscarred heaven they leave not wake,
And the eyes forget the tears they have shed,
The heart forgets its sorrow and ache;
The soul partakes the season's youth,
And the sulphurous rifts of passion and woe
Lie deep 'neath a silence pure and smooth,
Like burnt-out craters healed with snow.
James Russell Lowell
-
Lowell is always so good, isn't he? I found an old childhood poem that belongs here, I think.
Bed in Summer by Robert Louis Stevenson
In winter I get up at night
And dress by yellow candle-light.
In summer quite the other way,
I have to go to bed by day.
I have to go to bed and see
The birds still hopping on the tree,
Or hear the grown-up people's feet
Still going past me in the street.
And does it not seem hard to you,
When all the sky is clear and blue,
And I should like so much to play,
To have to go to bed by day?
-
I remember trying to convince my children that it was time to go to bed while the day was still light.
This is what DuBose Hayward gave George Gershwin to work withl
Or maybe it was the other way around;
Summertime! and the livin' is easy.
Fish are jumpin' and the cotton is high.
Oh, your daddy's rich
And your ma is good lookin',
So hush little baby, don't you cry.
One of these mornings,
You're gonna rise up singing'
And you'll spread your wings and you'll take to the sky.
But till that mornin', there's nothing can harm you.
With Daddy and Mammy standin' by.
Summertime!
2
-
Oh, thanks for printing "Summertime", BELLEMERE. I love that song, and it is one I can still 'hear' in my memory. :)
-
Been busy visiting and like the poem building a revery.
To make a prairie it takes a clover and one bee,
One clover and a bee,
And revery.
- Emily Dickenson
-
While in High School we were allowed to choose a class in our Junior Year if we had completed the credits for graduation ,. I can see the teacher but his name I cant recall ..his class was a drama class ..which included a variety of drama venues one being poetry ...and to me an introduction to new poets ,,.one being Edna St Vincent Millay,,so I checked to see if she had written a poem about summer..as usual not the usual poem ..there was always a touch of sadness in her poems.. not really sadness but a wistful sort of feeling that appealed to a young girl on the rim of being a young woman and here is her poem about summer ..which sound so Millay ...
I Know I Am But Summer To Your Heart
I know I am but summer to your heart,
And not the full four seasons of the year;
And you must welcome from another part
Such noble moods as are not mine, my dear.
No gracious weight of golden fruits to sell
Have I, nor any wise and wintry thing;
And I have loved you all too long and well
To carry still the high sweet breast of Spring.
Wherefore I say: O love, as summer goes,
I must be gone, steal forth with silent drums,
That you may hail anew the bird and rose
When I come back to you, as summer comes.
Else will you seek, at some not distant time,
Even your summer in another clime.
Edna St. Vincent Millay
-
ANNA, I find myself unsure whether Miss Millay was wise, or too unaware of
her own worth. I can't imagine being willing to be someone's 'summer' only.
Here's one by William Henry Davies
When on a Summer's Morn
When on a summer's morn I wake,
And open my two eyes,
Out to the clear, born-singing rills
My bird-like spirit flies.
To hear the Blackbird, Cuckoo, Thrush,
Or any bird in song;
And common leaves that hum all day
Without a throat or tongue.
And when Time strikes the hour for sleep,
Back in my room alone,
My heart has many a sweet bird's song --
And one that's all my own.
I like the idea of 'common leaves that hum all day without a throat or tongue'.
-
Summer is a season and like Ecclesiastes 3:1-8 I always think of summer when I read this:
To every thing there is a season and a time to every purpose under the heaven:
A time to be born, and a time to die;
a time to plant,
and a time to pluck up that which is planted;
A time to kill and a time to heal;
a time to break down and a time to build up;
A time to weep and a time to laugh;
a time to mourn , and a time to dance;
A time to cast away stones and a time to gather stones together;
a time to embrace, and a time to refrain from embracing'
A time to seek, and a time to lose;
a time to keep and a time to cast away;
A time to rend, and a time to sew;
a time to keep silence, and a time to speak;
A time to love, and time to hate;
a time for war, and a time for peace.
I love that verse and used to be able to recite it verbatim. I'm getting old because I got it all fouled up and had to go to my King James. :P
-
The Summer Rain
My books I'd fain cast off, I cannot read,
'Twixt every page my thoughts go stray at large
Down in the meadow, where is richer feed,
And will not mind to hit their proper targe.
Plutarch was good, and so was Homer too,
Our Shakespeare's life were rich to live again,
What Plutarch read, that was not good nor true,
Nor Shakespeare's books, unless his books were men.
Here while I lie beneath this walnut bough,
What care I for the Greeks or for Troy town,
If juster battles are enacted now
Between the ants upon this hummock's crown?
Bid Homer wait till I the issue learn,
If red or black the gods will favor most,
Or yonder Ajax will the phalanx turn,
Struggling to heave some rock against the host.
Tell Shakespeare to attend some leisure hour,
For now I've business with this drop of dew,
And see you not, the clouds prepare a shower--
I'll meet him shortly when the sky is blue.
This bed of herd's grass and wild oats was spread
Last year with nicer skill than monarchs use.
A clover tuft is pillow for my head,
And violets quite overtop my shoes.
And now the cordial clouds have shut all in,
And gently swells the wind to say all's well;
The scattered drops are falling fast and thin,
Some in the pool, some in the flower-bell.
I am well drenched upon my bed of oats;
But see that globe come rolling down its stem,
Now like a lonely planet there it floats,
And now it sinks into my garment's hem.
Drip drip the trees for all the country round,
And richness rare distills from every bough;
The wind alone it is makes every sound,
Shaking down crystals on the leaves below.
For shame the sun will never show himself,
Who could not with his beams e'er melt me so;
My dripping locks--they would become an elf,
Who in a beaded coat does gayly go.
Henry David Thoreau
-
I love those verses, too. ALF. I love the song based on them, too. "Turn, turn, turn."
I would have greatly enjoyed joining Thoreau in the meadow, lying under the early sun with a clover pillow, but I really would prefer to watch the rain from under a roof. Being drenched never made me look like an elf. ;)
-
Babi- WHAT??? "Turn, turn, turn" is a song based on that verse. Am I thinking of the right one? Turn, turn, turn, like a ring of fire? No, that's Johnny Cash isn't it?
-
ALF, here are the lyrics I was referring to. I find the last line especially poignant.
The opening lines are the chorus.
To everything (turn, turn, turn)
There is a season (turn, turn, turn)
And a time for every purpose, under heaven
A time to build up,a time to break down
A time to dance, a time to mourn
A time to cast away stones,
a time to gather stones
together
[chorus]
A time of love, a time of hate
A time of war, a time of peace
A time you may embrace, a time to refrain from embracing
[chorus]
A time to gain, a time to lose
A time to rend, a time to sew
A time to love, a time to hate
A time for peace, I swear its not too late
-
Let's Celebrate Summer
Welcome to our Poetry Page.
Our haven for those who listen to words
that open hearts, imagination, and who allow our feelings be known
about the poems we share - Please join us.
(http://seniorlearn.org/bookclubs/poetry/poetrysummer09.jpg) | Summer time fills our mind-pictures with
long, lazy picnics by the river,
old-fashioned ice cream socials,
a day at the seaside,
parades, flags, fireworks and
burgers hot off the grill.
Poetry can be part of life rather than a thing apart.
Share with us your:
Warm weather poems,
Summer recipes and entertainment that
Celebrate poets and poems,
Summer craft idea using poetry.
Promise to follow through using poetry in
a weekly outdoor happening and
make this summer the best it can be! |
A few Summer Poetry Links:
- Famous Poets and Poems about Summer (http://famouspoetsandpoems.com/thematic_poems/summer_poems.html)
- Summer Poems (http://www.dltk-holidays.com/summer/poems.htm)
- Flower Poems for Gardeners (http://www.gardendigest.com/flowers.htm)
Discussion Leaders: BarbStAubrey (augere@ix.netcom.com) & Fairanna (fairanna@verizon.net)
Well shoot, of course that is the song! DUH! I couldn't pull it up in my thoughts. Thank you Babi, now I do believe I've got it!! 8)
-
I love that passage from the bible. I even memorized some of the words in Hebrew:
Lah col, zmahn - to everything there is a season
Ve et le col chafetz tachat ha shamayim -- and a time for every purpose under heaven
(transliteration mine -- please excuse mistakes. I knew how to type in Hebrew letters on my old computer, but haven't tried it on the new one).
Here is the song, with Joan Collins and Pete Seiger:
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=DejUPN4SksU&feature=PlayList&p=3B151BA8BE2D2FAE&index=0&playnext=1 (http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=DejUPN4SksU&feature=PlayList&p=3B151BA8BE2D2FAE&index=0&playnext=1)
-
How about one from our beloved Emily Dickinson.
A something in a summer’s Day
As slow her flambeaux burn away
Which solemnizes me.
A something in a summer’s noon —
A depth — an Azure — a perfume —
Transcending ecstasy.
And still within a summer’s night
A something so transporting bright
I clap my hands to see —
Then veil my too inspecting face
Lets such a subtle — shimmering grace
Flutter too far for me —
The wizard fingers never rest —
The purple brook within the breast
Still chafes it narrow bed —
Still rears the East her amber Flag —
Guides still the sun along the Crag
His Caravan of Red —
So looking on — the night — the morn
Conclude the wonder gay —
And I meet, coming thro’ the dews
Another summer’s Day!
-
Wow storms - rain and hail blowing in these mountains is a sight to behold - here is a poem fitting to the experience except we were caught in the car port that is 50 feet or so from the house - the wind blew the trees and the hail beat down - the rain was so hard on the metal roof I could only think of a full metal band orchestra.
Summer Storm
The panther wind
Leaps out of the night,
The snake of lightning
Is twisting and white,
The lion of thunder
Roars -- and we
Sit still and content
Under a tree --
We have met fate together
And love and pain,
Why should we fear
The wrath of the rain!
Sarah Teasdale
-
I like that poem, BARB. I hope y'all were in the car, out of the wind. Hail is no joke; those things can hurt[/i]
-
HAIL yes, stay inside.
-
Elizabeth Bishop - Sandpiper
1.
The roaring alongside he takes for granted,
and that every so often the world is bound to shake.
He runs, he runs to the south, finical, awkward,
in a state of controlled panic, a student of Blake.
The beach hisses like fat. On his left, a sheet
of interrupting water comes and goes
and glazes over his dark and brittle feet.
He runs, he runs straight through it, watching his toes.
-
JoanK
in a state of controlled panic, a student of Blake.
How clever! I love it.
Here's one by James Henry Leigh Hunt. (I didn't know 'James Henry'. I thought
his name began with Leigh.)
A Night-Rain in Summer
Open the window, and let the air
Freshly blow upon face and hair,
And fill the room, as it fills the night,
With the breath of the rain's sweet might.
Hark! the burthen, swift and prone!
And how the odorous limes are blown!
Stormy Love's abroad, and keeps
Hopeful coil for gentle sleeps.
Not a blink shall burn to-night
In my chamber, of sordid light;
Nought will I have, not a window-pane,
'Twixt me and the air and the great good rain,
Which ever shall sing me sharp lullabies;
And God's own darkness shall close mine eyes;
And I will sleep, with all things blest,
In the pure earth-shadow of natural rest.
-
That is beautiful Babi- thank you.
I know exactly how that poet feels.
Joan- I love this
The beach hisses like fat...
wonderful poetry.
-
Today my brain and leg muscles are hissing like fat - I am exhausted -
18 hours driving yesterday - went by way of I-10 - over to and then straight down from Atlanta to Mobile and then across - I knew I would do the last bit in the dark and I just did not want to put up with all those small towns on the way down from Shriveport to Round Rock on 79 - all those towns have increased in size and they now have traffic lights and ring roads -
I-10 is new from about Lafayette to Baton Rouge [that does not look like it has had any tax dollars spent on its road] Even the gas stations along 10 north of New Orleans are all new. On the other side of the bridge in the industrial area of Lake Charles there is a pile of what I thought was a rusty sided office building - as I drove over the bridge it became clearer and it was a pile about 4 stories high and as large as a huge office building of flattened vehicles all turning to rust - I bet from Katrina.
Today I am dead on my feet - I get a bit done between long naps.
Here is one of many translations of a night poem
by TuFu 767A.D.
My Reflection by Night
Some scattered grass. A shore breeze blowing light.
A giddy mast. A lonely boat at night.
The wide-flung stars o’erhang all vasty space.
The moonbeams with the Yangtze’s current race.
How by my pen can I to fame attain?
Worn out, from office better to refrain.
Drifting o’er life — and what in sooth am I?
A sea-gull floating twixt the Earth and Sky.
-
Another year
How have I grown so old?
Bird disappearing among clouds.
Basho
-
Barb, my husband and I have traveled extensively in the USA and I will say without a doubt that I 10 is the worst Interstate in our nation. I hate that drive!!!! Boring.
-
I endorse that sentiment, ALF. I don't like I-10 either, but it is the straightest
route along the southern edge of the country.
-
Meadowlarks
In the silver light after a storm
Under dripping boughs of new gree,
I take the low path to hear the meadowlarks
Alone and high-hearted as if I were a queen.
What have I to fear in life or death
Who have known three things: the kiss in the night,
The white flying joy when a song is born,
And meadowlarks whistling in silver light.
Sara Teasdale
-
But for incredible scenery nothing beats I-10 between Sonora and El Paso - coming off one Sierra chain after the other across those magnificent flats it is as if you could see forever. What I also like is from Mobile west everyone drives 80 to 85 - no dawdling on this road and no one seems hesitant driving past an 18-wheeler as they are hesitant on I-20. We each have our favorites and I-10 is one of mine.
-
night driving
night driving along the Sacramento River,
top of the red cliffs on the east side—
we looked out upon the blanket of
tiny white lights
thrown across the northernmost tip
of the valley floor.
how warm those Redding summer nights,
all the windows down,
wind in our hair,
a.m. radio playing early 60's
folk and rock 'n roll.
we drove and drove,
talked and laughed,
sang along with Dylan, the Beatles,
the Beach Boys.
at the north end of Hilltop Drive
we would pull off, get out,
smell the dry summer hills
of grass, manzanita, redbud, oak, and pine.
leaning back against a warm fender,
we looked up at the
black and diamond night,
Altair, Deneb, and Vega herding the
summer star flocks across the
silent Redding skies.
how will it all turn out, we asked,
Kennedy shot down less than a year before,
and all this trouble in Viet Nam.
we wondered where we would be,
where our friends would be,
in ten, twenty, thirty years.
college called, we were ready to go,
our goals high as the night cliffs,
our questions running south with the river
out of town.
below us the glittering distant lights
of our childhoods,
the familiar, dark, swift currents
winding through this green, quiet town—
how could we know,
how could we tell,
that we would never really
come home again
after that summer.
1996 by Leslye Layne Russell
-
Night Traveler
I am a night traveler
Travel all through the night
And my bed is a sailing boat
I reach for my bed every night
And take a trip places far away
To see new things and people
I travel past the harbors
Full of anchored boats
I travel past the beaches
With swaying coconut trees
I watch the waves
Embracing the shore
I watch the kids playing
And reach out my arms
Then I touch my own bed
Here comes a flash
And my boat is back
And I am back in bed
My boat sails every night
And reach home with morning light
Never did it anchor once
Still traveling every day
Hoping to reach
That unknown destination
by Deepa Thomas
-
His poem reminds me of one I read often as a child.
My Bed is a Boat
My bed is like a little boat;
Nurse helps me in when I embark;
She girds me in my sailor's coat
And starts me in the dark.
At night I go on board and say
Good-night to all my friends on shore;
I shut my eyes and sail away
And see and hear no more.
And sometimes things to bed I take,
As prudent sailors have to do;
Perhaps a slice of wedding-cake,
Perhaps a toy or two.
All night across the dark we steer;
But when the day returns at last,
Safe in my room beside the pier,
I find my vessel fast.
by Robert Louis Stevenson
-
Alone and high-hearted as if I were a queen.
JoanK, I looked at that line and had to think that it was a pleasant
poetic license. No queen, poor soul, is ever allowed to go wandering
alone!
Barb, it must be your liking for flat scenery that makes the difference.
To me, 'flat' simply means there is nothing to see. Like Ms.(?) Russell,
I like to see hills and trees. (I love trees!) And for me, a spectacular
sight is coming over a hill at night and seeing a shining panorama of
lights.
-
These summer poems are the closest summer has come to me in Massachusetts. One gray or rainy day after another.
Here is one by Gerard Manley Hopkins, that has beautiful imagery but sounds like he didn't really finish it, and just gave up.
A Windy Day in Summer
The vex'd elm-heads are pale with the view
Of a mastering heaven utterly blue;
Swoll'n is the wind that in argent billows
Rolls across the labouring willows;
The chestnut fans are loosely flirting,
Ahd bared is the aspen's silky skirting;
The sapphire pools are smit with white
And silver-shot with gusty light;
While the breeze by rank and measure
Paves the clouds on the swept azure.
-
We also have had rain and more rain, along with several hail storms - I met someone last night who keeps his boat out on the Lake - Austin is located either side of the Colorado which is dammed in 6 locations creating lakes - some are larger than others and some look just like the contained river that it is - http://www.highlandlakes.net/
About 20 minutes away is one of the larger lakes, Lake Travis and when the water is low, because of draught, little islands of land show along with the tops of long ago dead trees that were not felled before the dam was closed. Well with all this rain most of us were sure the Lakes were back up again - but NO! Travis is still 23 feet below normal and the water level on Lake Travis is decreasing by about a foot a week increasing the danger to boaters.
We have been in a draught for going on 3 years now - and it will take far more rain than we have had to fill up the water table in most areas of the country.
And so, we need to be wishing for Gray Skies and start thinking of how we can make a Gray Sky day meaningful to fill up our memory banks.
-
this one is for you Babi
Trees Against The Sky
Pines against the sky,
Pluming the purple hill;
Pines . . . and I wonder why,
Heart, you quicken and thrill?
Wistful heart of a boy,
Fill with a strange sweet joy,
Lifting to Heaven nigh -
Pines against the sky.
Palms against the sky,
Failing the hot, hard blue;
Stark on the beach I lie,
Dreaming horizons new;
Heart of my youth elate,
Scorning a humdrum fate,
Keyed to adventure high -
Palms against the sky.
Oaks against the sky,
Ramparts of leaves high-hurled,
Staunch to stand and defy
All the winds of the world;
Stalwart and proud and free,
Firing the man in me
To try and again to try -
Oaks against the sky.
Olives against the sky
Of evening, limpidly bright;
Tranquil and soft and shy,
Dreaming in amber light;
Breathing the peace of life,
Ease after toil and strife . . .
Hark to their silver sigh!
Olives against the sky.
Cypresses glooming the sky,
Stark at the end of the road;
Failing and faint am I,
Lief to be eased of my load;
There where the stones peer white
in the last of the silvery light,
Quiet and cold I'll lie -
Cypresses etching the sky.
Trees, trees against the sky -
O I have loved them well!
There are pleasures you cannot buy,
Treasurers you cannot sell,
And not the smallest of these
Is the gift and glory of trees. . . .
So I gaze and I know now why
It is good to live - and to die. . . .
Trees and the Infinite Sky.
Robert W. Service
-
And Bellemere this is for you - how far is it to Thoreau's hut in the woods from where you live?
The Summer Rain
My books I'd fain cast off, I cannot read,
'Twixt every page my thoughts go stray at large
Down in the meadow, where is richer feed,
And will not mind to hit their proper targe.
Plutarch was good, and so was Homer too,
Our Shakespeare's life were rich to live again,
What Plutarch read, that was not good nor true,
Nor Shakespeare's books, unless his books were men.
Here while I lie beneath this walnut bough,
What care I for the Greeks or for Troy town,
If juster battles are enacted now
Between the ants upon this hummock's crown?
Bid Homer wait till I the issue learn,
If red or black the gods will favor most,
Or yonder Ajax will the phalanx turn,
Struggling to heave some rock against the host.
Tell Shakespeare to attend some leisure hour,
For now I've business with this drop of dew,
And see you not, the clouds prepare a shower--
I'll meet him shortly when the sky is blue.
This bed of herd's grass and wild oats was spread
Last year with nicer skill than monarchs use.
A clover tuft is pillow for my head,
And violets quite overtop my shoes.
And now the cordial clouds have shut all in,
And gently swells the wind to say all's well;
The scattered drops are falling fast and thin,
Some in the pool, some in the flower-bell.
I am well drenched upon my bed of oats;
But see that globe come rolling down its stem,
Now like a lonely planet there it floats,
And now it sinks into my garment's hem.
Drip drip the trees for all the country round,
And richness rare distills from every bough;
The wind alone it is makes every sound,
Shaking down crystals on the leaves below.
For shame the sun will never show himself,
Who could not with his beams e'er melt me so;
My dripping locks--they would become an elf,
Who in a beaded coat does gayly go.
Henry David Thoreau
-
Wonderful poems. The ones about a bed being a ship reminds me of the autobiography of Christopher Reeves, written after the accident that left him paralyzed from the neck down. He wrote that during the day he was imprisoned in his bed, but at night, he was free -- in his dreams he would fly all over the world, and go wherever he wanted.
BARB: for beauty, I'll match you with the place where I was yesterday: Point Vincente in Palos Verdes California. This is the place where PatH took the picture of the California poppy that shows up in the heading often. It is a cliff, overlooking the sea, next to a lighthouse. The sea reflects the color of the sky and yesterday it was the deepest blue I've ever seen it. The poppies were almost gone, but red tailed hawks were gliding in the thermals, as were pelicans and gulls. There were seals on the rocks and, far off, a mother blue whale and her cub were spouting.
-
Thank you most kindly, Barb. Not only trees, but good old Robert Service, too, for the gift and glory of trees. . . .
I never knew Thoreau wrote poetry! This is one that draws you in to share the
the wonders of the day.
Oh, Joan..I wish I could have been with you!
-
thanks for the Thoreau poem. I grew up about a half hour ride from Concord and Walden Pond , as well as Orchard House (the Alcotts) and the homes of Emerson and Hawthorne. Not to mention "the rude bridge that arched the flood" where the embattled farmers "fired the shot heard round the world" . Now it would take me longer, but a daugher lives in the town next to Concord/
But Emily Dickinson's house is now close by to the north, and Herman Melville's and Edith Wharton's to the west.
So much history so close, one reason I love New England.
-
Bellemere, New England is a wonderful place to visit...right up to -50 deg. ;)
This is a long poem, but I like it very much.
by William Blake (from Songs of Experience, 1794)
I love to rise in a summer morn,
When the birds sing on every tree;
The distant huntsman winds his horn,
And the skylark sings with me:
O what sweet company!
But to go to school in a summer morn, --
O it drives all joy away!
Under a cruel eye outworn,
The little ones spend the day
In sighing and dismay.
Ah then at times I drooping sit,
And spend many an anxious hour;
Nor in my book can I take delight,
Nor sit in learning’s bower,
Worn through with the dreary shower.
How can the bird that is born for joy
Sit in a cage and sing?
How can a child, when fears annoy,
But droop his tender wing,
And forget his youthful spring!
O father and mother if buds are nipped,
And blossoms blown away;
And if the tender plants are stripped
Of their joy in the springing day,
By sorrow and care’s dismay, --
How shall the summer arise in joy,
Or the summer fruits appear?
Or how shall we gather what griefs destroy,
Or bless the mellowing year,
When the blasts of winter appear?
-
Super great summer posies! They are all so good.
Especially want to remark on the tomato poem - golly, what a description .
And I love to watch sand pipers scurry along the beach and hear the small swishes of the water as it goes in and out. So that poem really brought mind pics.
-
Tried to find a poem with all your imagery Joan but no luck...
My Lighthouses
By Helen Hunt Jackson
At westward window of a palace gray,
Which its own secret still so safely keeps
That no man now its builder's name can say,
I lie and idly sun myself to-day,
Dreaming awake far more than one who sleeps,
Serenely glad, although my gladness weeps.
I look across the harbor's misty blue,
And find and lose that magic shifting line
Where sky one shade less blue meets sea, and through
The air I catch one flush as if it knew
Some secret of that meeting, which no sign
Can show to eyes so far and dim as mine.
More ships than I can count build mast by mast
Gay lattice-work with waving green and red
Across my window-panes. The voyage past,
They crowd to anchorage so glad, so fast,
Gliding like ghosts, with noiseless breath and tread,
Mooring like ghosts, with noiseless iron and lead.
O ships and patient men who fare by sea,
I stretch my hands and vainly questioning cry,
Sailed ye from west? How many nights could ye
Tell by the lights just where my dear and free
And lovely land lay sleeping? Passed ye by
Some danger safe, because her fires were nigh?
Ah me! my selfish yearning thoughts forget
How darkness but a hand's-breadth from the coast
With danger in an evil league is set!
Ah! helpless ships and men more helpless yet,
Who trust the land-lights' short and empty boast;
The lights ye bear aloft and prayers avail ye most.
But I - ah, patient men who fare by sea,
Ye would but smile to hear this empty speech, --
I have such beacon-lights to burn for me,
In that dear west so lovely, new, and free,
That evil league by day, by night, can teach
No spell whose harm my little bark can reach.
No towers of stone uphold those beacon-lights;
No distance hides them, and no storm can shake;
In valleys they light up the darkest nights,
They outshine sunny days on sunny heights;
They blaze from every house where sleep or wake
My own who love me for my own poor sake.
Each thought they think of me lights road of flame
Across the seas; no travel on it tires
My heart. I go if they but speak my name;
From Heaven I should come and go the same,
And find this glow forestalling my desires.
My darlings, do you hear me? Trim the fires!
-
The Pelican Chorus
by Edward Lear
King and Queen of the Pelicans we;
No other Birds so grand we see!
None but we have feet like fins!
With lovely leathery throats and chins!
Ploffskin, Pluffskin, Pelican jee!
We think no Birds so happy as we!
Plumpskin, Ploshkin, Pelican Jill!
We think so then, and we thought so still
We live on the Nile. The Nile we love.
By night we sleep on the cliffs above;
By day we fish, and at eve we stand
On long bare islands of yellow sand.
And when the sun sinks slowly down,
And the great rock walls grow dark and brown,
Where the purple river rolls fast and dim
And the Ivory Ibis starlike skim,
Wing to wing we dance around,
Stamping our feet with a flumpy sound,
Opening our mouths as Pelicans ought;
And this is the song we nightly snort,--
Ploffskin, Pluffskin, Pelican jee!
We think no Birds so happy as we!
Plumpskin, Ploshkin, Pelican jill!
We think so then, and we thought so still!
Last year came out our Daughter Dell,
And all the Birds received her well.
To do her honor a feast we made
For every bird that can swim or wade,--
Herons and Gulls, and Cormorants black,
Cranes, and Flamingoes with scarlet back,
Plovers and Storks, and Geese in clouds,
Swans and Dilberry Ducks in crowds:
Thousands of Birds in wondrous flight!
They ate and drank and danced all night,
And echoing back from the rocks you heard
Multitude-echoes from Bird and Bird,--
Ploffskin, Pluffskin, Pelican jee!
We think no Birds so happy as we!
Plumpskin, Ploshkin, Pelican jill!
We think so then, and we thought so still!
Yes, they came; and among the rest
The King of the Cranes all grandly dressed.
Such a lovely tail! Its feathers float
Between the ends of his blue dress-coat;
With pea-green trowsers all so neat,
And a delicate frill to hide his feet
(For though no one speaks of it, every one knows
He has got no webs between his toes).
As soon as he saw our Daughter Dell,
In violent love that Crane King fell,--
On seeing her waddling form so fair,
With a wreath of shrimps in her short white hair.
And before the end of the next long day
Our Dell had given her heart away;
For the King of the Cranes had won that heart
With a Crocodile's egg and a large fish-tart.
She vowed to marry the King of the Cranes,
Leaving the Nile for stranger plains;
And away they flew in a gathering crowd
Of endless birds in a lengthening cloud.
Ploffskin, Pluffskin, Pelican jee!
We think no Birds so happy as we!
Plumpskin, Ploshkin, Pelican jill!
We think so then, and we thought so still!
And far away in the twilight sky
We heard them singing a lessening cry,--
Farther and farther, till out of sight,
And we stood alone in the silent night!
Often since, in the nights of June,
We sit on the sand and watch the moon,--
She has gone to the great Gromboolian Plain,
And we probably never shall meet again!
Oft, in the long still nights of June,
We sit on the rocks and watch the moon,--
She dwells by the streams of the Chankly Bore.
And we probably never shall see her more.
Ploffskin, Pluffskin, Pelican jee!
We think no Birds so happy as we!
Plumpskin, Ploshkin, Pelican jill!
We think so then, and we thought so still!
-
Oh, Barb, I loved both of those poems, each so different. I found myself wondering, with a smile, if there truly is a Dilberry Duck. Naturally, I'll have to go see.
Here is a very short that contains a lot in its short lines:
Summer in the Mountains by Li Po
Gently I stir a white feather fan
With open shirt sitting in a green wood.
I take off my cap and hang it on a jutting stone;
A wind from the pine-tree trickles on my bare head.
-
Barb, loved the Edward Lear poem. A real example of a soaring imagination, isn't it? I love to watch the pelicans dive=bombing for fish, and the little bunch of terns staying right with them, hoping to catch what they drop.
-
These are all wonderful poems. I was sitting on my daughter's front porch last night just smelling summer in the air; a gentle breeze was blowing as it cooled and twilight approached.
The summer breeze and rain of summer in New York are much different than in the state of Florida. I love to sit and watch it rain here.
I wish I had thought to come inside and print out some of these summer poems to enjoy with the drops.
Thank you Barb and Babi.
Well bella, bella, there you are. Kick back I won't pick on you here in this discussion. :D
-
loved the Lear poem. I also love to watch the pelicans.
And the li po. I love Eastern poetry: so consise, saying so much.
-
How about the images in this poem!!!
POEM Midsummerby Louise Glück
On nights like this we used to swim in the quarry,
the boys making up games requiring them to tear off the girls’ clothes
and the girls cooperating, because they had new bodies since last summer
and they wanted to exhibit them, the brave ones
leaping off the high rocks — bodies crowding the water.
The nights were humid, still. The stone was cool and wet,
marble for graveyards, for buildings that we never saw,
buildings in cities far away.
On cloudy nights, you were blind. Those nights the rocks were dangerous,
but in another way it was all dangerous, that was what we were after.
The summer started. Then the boys and girls began to pair off
but always there were a few left at the end — sometimes they’d keep watch,
sometimes they’d pretend to go off with each other like the rest,
but what could they do there, in the woods? No one wanted to be them.
But they’d show up anyway, as though some night their luck would change,
fate would be a different fate.
At the beginning and at the end, though, we were all together.
After the evening chores, after the smaller children were in bed,
then we were free. Nobody said anything, but we knew the nights we’d meet
and the nights we wouldn’t. Once or twice, at the end of summer,
we could see a baby was going to come out of all that kissing.
And for those two, it was terrible, as terrible as being alone.
The game was over. We’d sit on the rocks smoking cigarettes,
worrying about the ones who weren’t there.
And then finally walk home through the fields,
because there was always work the next day.
And the next day, we were kids again, sitting on the front steps in the morning,
eating a peach. Just that, but it seemed an honor to have a mouth.
And then going to work, which meant helping out in the fields.
One boy worked for an old lady, building shelves.
The house was very old, maybe built when the mountain was built.
And then the day faded. We were dreaming, waiting for night.
Standing at the front door at twilight, watching the shadows lengthen.
And a voice in the kitchen was always complaining about the heat,
wanting the heat to break.
Then the heat broke, the night was clear.
And you thought of the boy or girl you’d be meeting later.
And you thought of walking into the woods and lying down,
practicing all those things you were learning in the water.
And though sometimes you couldn’t see the person you were with,
there was no substitute for that person.
The summer night glowed; in the field, fireflies were glinting.
And for those who understood such things, the stars were sending messages:
You will leave the village where you were born
and in another country you’ll become very rich, very powerful,
but always you will mourn something you left behind, even though
you can’t say what it was,
and eventually you will return to seek it.
http://www.poetryfoundation.org/archive/poem.html?id=181087
-
Wow - that one really ends with a punch - yes, looking for what we left behind - only yesterday I was thinking I live in a foreign land because most every landmark I knew from 20 and 30 years ago is gone - the land marks were just symbolic of a life and value system that is all but a memory. It is the changed value system that I have been railing over as if it was temporarily tucked in a closet and I along with others just need to open the door and let it back out - but really is is tucked away in our attic and like all antiques it takes a certain few to cherish them and want to escape to a house filled with antiques. And so like teen years, we may yearn for a return however, a value system from 20 and 30 years has been left behind.
-
Forgive me for not posting I seem to be somewhere else ...or perhaps just wish I were but I do read the posts and the poems being shared...Could I pick a favorite ? no way there is something in each one that speaks to me..of yesterday and yesterday and yesterday ..of years that have flown ...why did they move so slow, sort of meandering along life's path and now I feel I am rocketing through each One day it is New Years Day and the next Christmas is over and a new year has its foot in the door...it is hard to savor each day when they move so fast...I was thinking this am the summer solstice is past and I can feel the days getting shorter and tomorrow will be autumn and winter will bring nights too long...I am not trying to hurry them I savor each day but still I know this is an express line ...and the ride will soon be over...the best thing though I can truthfully say It was a great ride....
-
your post Anna reminds me of this poem
Salthouse
When we walked up the hill above Salthouse
and saw, looking down where we’d been,
ourselves on the beach waving,
we were there and here and no-place,
coming and going at once, perceiving
the speckled clouds as sleeping seals,
as we dipped our toes in the breeze
and watched from the hill’s shoreline
a kestrel come in with the tide
and hold his stillness open
over the ship weathervane
of the famous drowned church,
his shadow on the ground below him
the anchor that kept him aloft.
I think like the town of Salthouse we can look at our life as Salthouse - we look back and the kestrel comes in unplanned like the unplanned events in our lives that caste a shadow that is our anchor that keeps us moving through life.
-
Strange, but tho' I can look back and see many happy periods in my life, I
don't feel the desire to repeat any of them. I think this is just me...I never
like to retrace my steps, or go back for something I forgot unless it is absolutely necessary. I have no idea why.
-
Oh Babi, what truth there is in that statement.
Nope, not me either, I would never wish to RELIVE a single thing in my life. Why would anyone?
Move on, try something different, pick an alternative path- but never redo the past.
-
Let's Celebrate Summer
Welcome to our Poetry Page.
Our haven for those who listen to words
that open hearts, imagination, and who allow our feelings be known
about the poems we share - Please join us.
(http://seniorlearn.org/bookclubs/poetry/poetrysummer09.jpg) | Summer time fills our mind-pictures with
long, lazy picnics by the river,
old-fashioned ice cream socials,
a day at the seaside,
parades, flags, fireworks and
burgers hot off the grill.
Poetry can be part of life rather than a thing apart.
Share with us your:
Warm weather poems,
Summer recipes and entertainment that
Celebrate poets and poems,
Summer craft idea using poetry.
Promise to follow through using poetry in
a weekly outdoor happening and
make this summer the best it can be! |
A few Summer Poetry Links:
- Famous Poets and Poems about Summer (http://famouspoetsandpoems.com/thematic_poems/summer_poems.html)
- Summer Poems (http://www.dltk-holidays.com/summer/poems.htm)
- Flower Poems for Gardeners (http://www.gardendigest.com/flowers.htm)
Discussion Leaders: BarbStAubrey (augere@ix.netcom.com) & Fairanna (fairanna@verizon.net)
I suppose it happens, ALF, that sometimes people only find one time of
happiness in their lives. In retrospect, I imagine that they would have
preferred to stay there. If that's not true of my life, I can only be
grateful.
-
Yes Babi 8)
-
This evokes such familiar images of summer.
Summer Colours
by Fenny Sterenborg
Long curls
lightest blond
like silver and gold
in the saffron sun
Summer dresses
cool white
show lots of skin
golden brown
Painted toenails
fierce red
in summer shoes
walk by
and catch eyes
green and blue
behind black shades
against the gleam
-
My exact same sentiment, Babi & Alf.
This is kind of nice:
Summer Stars by Carl Sandburg
BEND low again, night of summer stars.
So near you are, sky of summer stars,
So near, a long arm man can pick off stars,
Pick off what he wants in the sky bowl,
So near you are, summer stars,
So near, strumming, strumming,
So lazy and hum-strumming.
I can remember summers at the beach and we'd be out at night
and the stars felt so close - especially when I would lay flat
down on the sand; like I was part of the universe.
Don't get that kind of sky at all in the city. However, I have the memory AND can bring back the image. :)
-
Alas, one has to drive well out into the countryside, away from even small town lights, to see the stars again. I can't recall when I last saw a night sky full of stars, and that makes me sad.
-
Me, also, Babi. Didn't realize how much til after I wrote that post.
-
I post this poem every 4th of July since I wrote it
Come ye heroes Rise Up
From your graves, wherever they may be.
Some honored, some unmarked, some beneath the sea.
Today we need to celebrate each of you,
Who fought ,though ill supplied, against enemies
On every side. We need to honor you .
Do not let US forget the price you paid.
The debt we owe, and less we forget
Amidst the picnics and parades
To honor you. Let us kneel down and PRAY!
To thank you for your sacrifice, for your family
Left alone to face the future. They too were brave,
To kiss you and say goodbye and never know
If you would die and left behind in an unmarked spot,
Or maimed and crippled return to say,
I am glad and have no remorse for the gift I fought
To save. Freedom, Oh use it well for it can tarnish
Without your help. I beg of you don't let anyone take it away.
Ring your bells, wave the flags, cheer the living
And bless the dead. AND Thank God with heart and soul
Or come and lie with me.
anna alexander
July 3, 2003©
-
Thank you, ANNA, for this most appropriate and timely poem.
-
Thanks, ANNA
For some weird reason I woke up this morning with this song in my head so I sang it for the kittys as we started our 4th of July morning.........
Pattie Page singing Mockingbird Hill- appropriate for summer morn. I don't have mockingbirds around here.(Detroit area)
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=FHRpbiG_ruk
-
This is quite prayer-like, psalm-like, by Mary Oliver
The Summer Day
Mary Oliver
Who made the world?
Who made the swan, and the black bear?
Who made the grasshopper?
This grasshopper, I mean-
the one who has flung herself out of the grass,
the one who is eating sugar out of my hand,
who is moving her jaws back and forth instead of up and down-
who is gazing around with her enormous and complicated eyes.
Now she lifts her pale forearms and thoroughly washes her face.
Now she snaps her wings open, and floats away.
I don't know exactly what a prayer is.
I do know how to pay attention, how to fall down
into the grass, how to kneel down in the grass,
how to be idle and blessed, how to stroll through the fields,
which is what I have been doing all day.
Tell me, what else should I have done?
Doesn't everything die at last, and too soon?
Tell me, what is it you plan to do
with your one wild and precious life?
-
Wow - you found a winner Marj
Wonderful to ponder on these lines ---
I don't know exactly what a prayer is.
I do know how to pay attention, how to fall down
into the grass, how to kneel down in the grass,
how to be idle and blessed, how to stroll through the fields,
which is what I have been doing all day.
Tell me, what else should I have done?
Doesn't everything die at last, and too soon?
Tell me, what is it you plan to do
with your one wild and precious life?
-
I can't believe I am just discovering Mary Oliver, after years and years of visiting, and loving, Provincetown at the tip of Cape Cod, where she lives. Off to Barnes and Noble to but a paperback of her poems. In the fall She is giving a reading at one of the colleges here, must try to get to that.
It is finally summer here. I loved "Summer Stars" only see that many stars in February from our little vacation island off the Yucatan. Always surprises me!
-
I love it, MARJ. can one really entice a grasshopper to eat out of
one's hand? I would love that. I used to love to lie in the grass
in the shade of a tree, and alternate between reading and watching the
play of light and shadow through the leaves. I still do, ..except for the
getting down on the ground part. Too hard to get up again. ;)
-
"Tell me, what is it you plan to do
with your one wild and precious life?"
These lines really make me take pause every single day.
I too wonder about the grasshopper. Maybe if one is quite still.
I try to get the butterflies in my flowers to sit on my hand; they don't but the other day my hand was touched by a wing as it went by - what a thrill! I talk to them when I'm looking at my flowers.
bellemere - her poems are so real, so right in our face.
-
I never got a wild bird to eat out of my hand, but if I sat very still on my feeding deck, they will walk over me.
-
I was nine or ten, and my best friend Beth and I had a treehouse, (boards laid across branches of an old apple tree)and that was where we sat and read our books in the summer. In the winter, it was under the cellar stairs in my house, with a (forbidden) candle and pillows. It was a miracle we didn't set a fire. We were absolute soulmates for books.
I wonder if we still would be. Beth died at 15 in an auto accident. She was in a sense my childhood and that died with her.
-
What a fantastic memory, bellemere. And what a tragedy for a life to end so young - and with your times together that would always stay in your mind.
That's neat Joan. My cardinals and chicadees come real close to "holler" at me for more food in the feeders.
-
Bellemere - your post instantly reminded me of this song/poem:
Say, say, oh playmate,
Come out and play with me
And bring your dollies three
Climb up my apple tree
Shout down my rain barrel
Slide down my cellar door
And we'll be jolly friends
Forever more more more more more
Say, say, oh playmate
I cannot play with you
My dolly's got the flu
Boo hoo hoo hoo hoo hoo
Ain't got no rain barrel
Ain't got no cellar door
But we'll be jolly friends
Forever more more more more more
-
I used to sing that when I was a kid, MARJ. Only my version didn't repeat
the word more, it just stretched it out a bit. :)
Since we are currently enjoying a bit of rain to relieve the heat, I offer
this poem.
Summer Rain
by Raymond A. Foss
A break in the heat
away from the front
no thunder, no lightning,
just rain, warm rain
falling near dusk
falling on eager ground
steaming blacktop
hungry plants
thirsty
turning toward the clouds
cooling, soothing rain
splashing in sudden puddles
catching in open screens
that certain smell
of summer rain
-
The Summer Rain poem was lovely. I can almost smell it. I would just add one last line:
Enough already.
-
That was lovely! The weather here in Southern California is almost perfect -- especially today, it was glorious. But greedy me, I miss the rain!!
-
I lived in Southern California for a couple of years, and of course the weather
is lovely. Nevertheless, I could not get over my surprise at the fact that the
flowers growing there seemed to have no scent. Big, gorgeous blossoms with
no scent! For me, it made them appear almost artificial.
-
well for those of you who live back east here is an event -
A Sunken Garden Poetry Festival ~ http://ctweekender.com/2009/06/sunken-garden-poetry-festival/comment-page-1/
OH and look there is a Poetry program for teachers in Asheville NC
http://www.poetryalive.com/educators/residencyinfo.html
Interesting one of the topics is 'Using poetry across the curriculum' wouldn't you like to be a fly on the wall during this workshop...?
Wow and look at here - a poetry in residency for the average person
http://www.ncwriters.org/programs-and-services/courses/404-2009-summer-residency
And here it looks like we have Suzanne for Washington planning a neighborhood summer poetry party
http://4real.thenetsmith.com/forum_posts.asp?TID=29111&get=last
Hmmm maybe I should not worry about 'if' folks would be interested in poetry and just act as if it is normal and plan a few poetry gatherings.
-
Pablo Garcia Casado
—translated from the Spanish by Chris Michalski
DINNER
They stuff their mouths with food when they talk about
the house. When they talk about money and what it
takes to earn it. She walks through the rooms like a
queen. Points out the tablecloths, the plates, the
fabric on the kitchen furniture. He offers us a beer,
the moisture on the glass is the sweat of his brow.
Get down on your knees and put your head there, he’ll
say much later. But for now they thank God that they
are what they are, that they have what they have.
Fresh pasta, soft cheese, a discreet Spanish wine that
we drink with delight.
-
That is interesting, BARB. Thanks to TV, we seem to have images of poetry
gatherings as dim bars where unshaven,..and apparently unwashed...recite
their less than memorable sagas,..heavy on the angst.
Actually, in searching out summer poetry on-line, I found more than one
site which consisted of contributions from today's hopeful poets. It would
appear that there are more people out there who feel the desire to express
themselves poetically than one might guess.
Would you say it is now midsummer? I found this, and wonder what 'hussar
caps' would look like, translated to millet.
Midsummer
I see the millet combing gold
From summer sun,
In hussar caps, all day;
And brown quails run
Far down the dusty way,
Fly up and whistle from the wold;
Sweet delusions on the mountains,
Of hounds in chase,
Beguiling every care
Of life apace,
Though only fevered air
That trembles, and dies in mounting.
Alexander Lawrence Posey
-
I've always loved summer rains - so that poem is just right - today we expect rains here in SE Michigan.
- the Casado poem is fascinating.
Here's "Blackberry picking" by Seamus Heaney
And you can listen to it here onNPR: http://www.npr.org/templates/story/story.php?storyId=4818965
Blackberry Picking
Late August, given heavy rain and sun
for a full week, the blackberries would ripen.
At first, just one, a glossy purple clot
among others, red, green, hard as a knot.
You ate that first one and its flesh was sweet
like thickened wine: summer's blood was in it
leaving stains upon the tongue and lust for
picking. Then red ones inked up and that hunger
sent us out with milk-cans, pea-tins, jam-pots
where briars scratched and wet grass bleached our boots.
Round hayfields, cornfields and potato-drills
we trekked and picked until the cans were full,
until the tinkling bottom had been covered
with green ones, and on top big dark blobs burned
like a plate of eyes. Our hands were peppered
with thorn pricks, our palms sticky as Bluebeard's.
We hoarded the fresh berries in the byre.
But when the bath was filled we found a fur,
A rat-grey fungus, glutting on our cache.
The juice was stinking too. Once off the bush
the fruit fermented, the sweet flesh would turn sour.
I always felt like crying. It wasn't fair
that all the lovely canfuls smelt of rot.
Each year I hoped they'd keep, knew they would not.
"Blackberry-Picking," from OPENED GROUND: SELECTED POEMS 1966 -1996 by Seamus Heaney. Copyright © 1998 by Seamus Heaney. Used by Permission of Farrar, Straus and Giroux, LLC.
The poem transport right to the place.
-
Midsummer (from Wikipedia)
Midsummer may simply refer to the period of time centered upon the summer solstice, but more often refers to specific European celebrations that accompany the actual solstice, or that take place around the 24th of June and the preceding evening. The exact dates vary between cultures. The 24th of June is a throwback to the old Julian calendar when the summer solstice usually fell on that day.
http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Midsummer
-
Barb a few years ago I read that poetry classes are being FILLED and more Colleges and Universities are offering them as well as local schools I know my grandchildren have been in poetry classes ..when my groups , members of The Poetry Society of VA read at various places we often have a child of one of members sharing thier poems...and some of the people who read thier poems are so good ,. .excellent One young man often memorizes at least one poem and what a special treat that is ...I have a whole slew of friends on line who are in poetry groups ...from very young to one man well into his 90's it cheers me ..be back later love to all ...anna
-
Incense for the heart to hear that poetry is not dying but is being embraced by the young - thanks Anna
Marj you picked a good one - he has such the ability to put us back into our memories regardless we live thousands of miles from each other. You know what I realize I am not seeing - all the ink berries as we called them on bushes along the roadsides - I see a few sumac all red leaves in autumn but few to no ink berries - remembering squishing them and trying to write using our old stick pens with metal nibs we could buy for a penny. I am remembering Blackberry picking in Kentucky and one of the favorites was Woodford Pudding over ham made with blackberry jam.
Babi a hussar is a light cavalryman and their caps were often those woolly looking things often with a plume - some had a hard high top hat with lots of gold trim - in parade they would look like an advancing field of millet - I know Alexander Lawrence Posey was well educated in our western body of learning but I wonder did he ever visit Europe to have seen a hussar or maybe he knew just from reading.
-
"The poem transport right to the place."
Indeed it does, MARJ. What a pity, tho', to go to all that trouble
to pick the berries and then let them spoil. From what I remember,
harvested fruit was baked and/or preserved promptly. Fruits like apples
could be stored, but most produce needed fairly quick attention.
BARB, I love that image of 'an advancing field of millet'. I had a fair
idea of what a hussar cap looked like, but as far as I know I'd never
seen a field of millet. I went looking and finally found this beauty.
http://www.durhamtownship.com/blog-archives/003415.html
-
Great pic, Babi - millet is in my birdseed but I never knew it looked like that in it's growing and harvest time.
-
Here's another summery poem of Seamus Heaney ; has a good bit of humor. His use of language is so remarkable - makes me excited.
DEATH OF A NATURALIST
All year the flax-dam festered in the heart
Of the townland; green and heavy headed
Flax had rotted there, weighted down by huge sods.
Daily it sweltered in the punishing sun.
Bubbles gargled delicately, bluebottles
Wove a strong gauze of sound around the smell.
There were dragon-flies, spotted butterflies,
But best of all was the warm thick slobber
Of frogspawn that grew like clotted water
In the shade of the banks. Here, every spring
I would fill jampotfuls of the jellied
Specks to range on window-sills at home,
On shelves at school, and wait and watch until
The fattening dots burst into nimble-
Swimming tadpoles. Miss Walls would tell us how
The daddy frog was called a bullfrog
And how he croaked and how the mammy frog
Laid hundreds of little eggs and this was
Frogspawn. You could tell the weather by frogs too
For they were yellow in the sun and brown
In rain.
Then one hot day when fields were rank
With cowdung in the grass the angry frogs
Invaded the flax-dam; I ducked through hedges
To a coarse croaking that I had not heard
Before. The air was thick with a bass chorus.
Right down the dam gross-bellied frogs were cocked
On sods; their loose necks pulsed like sails. Some hopped:
The slap and plop were obscene threats. Some sat
Poised like mud grenades, their blunt heads farting.
I sickened, turned, and ran. The great slime kings
Were gathered there for vengeance and I knew
That if I dipped my hand the spawn would clutch it.
-
Yikes - that is some frog pond - talk about a spot of natural decay that breeds - whew
What a picture he conjures up with these words...
The slap and plop were obscene threats. Some sat
Poised like mud grenades, their blunt heads farting.
Babi - great photo - we do not see much Millet here in Texas because it is an invading weed to cotton fields - we see more Sorghum which looks about the same - darker in color - there are some areas where Texas Millet is planted [ a special strain different then European or the Millet that grows in the north] but more and more Texas Millet is planted in the south since there is a decreasing number of cotton fields in the south. Texas cotton may also be decreasing - Last time I drove up to Lubbock I noticed many cotton fields are now filled with oil rigs.
When the summer fields are mown,
When the birds are fledged and flown,
And the dry leaves strew the path;
With the falling of the snow,
With the cawing of the crow,
Once again the fields we mow
And gather in the aftermath.
Not the sweet, new grass with flowers
Is this harvesting of ours;
Not the upland clover bloom;
But the rowen mixed with weeds,
Tangled tufts from marsh and meads,
Where the poppy drops its seeds
In the silence and the gloom.
Henry Wadsworth Longfellow
-
How beautiful the millet field is! No wonder it inspired a poem.
-
warm thick slobber
Of frogspawn that grew like clotted water
Ugh! I think I MUCH prefer Barb's Longfellow poem, MARJ.
Yeah, BARB. That's why I went looking for a picture. I'm from Texas, too,
and had no idea what millet looked like.
-
the waves coming in--
my sandcastle
floating away
Abbey Berry
more here: http://www.brooksbookshaiku.com/wlhaiku/summerhaiku.html
-
MARJ, I was surprised at how many different things those brief three lines
made me think about. First, I thought about how much the waves had
already washed away in my life. Then I thought, 'Well, you know what they
say about houses built on sand.'
-
I was seeing the image of my kids playing in the sand doing their castles, moats , etc.
That's so good about what has been washed away in life! Thanks for expressing that . Works for my starting to think. Some things just happen just as the waves come and change the sand castle.
-
Shoot you can go further and further with both of your images - I am remembering Marj the sand castles on the beach and every day when we returned there would be a small hump or nothing at all left after the Tide washed over it some time after we left - then picking up on Babi's image - I thought of the flow of life and every day we have the opportunity to build a new sandcastle - sooner or later we have to learn that it is not permenant and so to build with the care and improvement is who we are rather than believing we are only what we leave behind - it is the doing and the memory not the permenant edifice. Brings new meaning to make each day your best as if it were your only shot.
-
The tide Rises, The Tide Falls - by Longfellow
The tide rises, the tide falls,
The twilight darkens, the curlew calls;
Along the sea-sands damp and brown
The traveler hastens toward the town,
And the tide rises, the tide falls.
Darkness settles on roofs and walls,
But the sea, the sea in darkness calls;
The little waves, with their soft, white hands
Efface the footprints in the sands,
And the tide rises, the tide falls.
The morning breaks; the steeds in their stalls
Stamp and neigh, as the hostler calls;
The day returns, but nevermore
Returns the traveler to the shore.
And the tide rises, the tide falls.
-
Let's Celebrate Summer
Welcome to our Poetry Page.
Our haven for those who listen to words
that open hearts, imagination, and who allow our feelings be known
about the poems we share - Please join us.
(http://seniorlearn.org/bookclubs/poetry/poetrysummer09.jpg) | Summer time fills our mind-pictures with
long, lazy picnics by the river,
old-fashioned ice cream socials,
a day at the seaside,
parades, flags, fireworks and
burgers hot off the grill.
Poetry can be part of life rather than a thing apart.
Share with us your:
Warm weather poems,
Summer recipes and entertainment that
Celebrate poets and poems,
Summer craft idea using poetry.
Promise to follow through using poetry in
a weekly outdoor happening and
make this summer the best it can be! |
A few Summer Poetry Links:
- Famous Poets and Poems about Summer (http://famouspoetsandpoems.com/thematic_poems/summer_poems.html)
- Summer Poems (http://www.dltk-holidays.com/summer/poems.htm)
- Flower Poems for Gardeners (http://www.gardendigest.com/flowers.htm)
Discussion Leaders: BarbStAubrey (augere@ix.netcom.com) & Fairanna (fairanna@verizon.net)
Beautiful poem.
The endless cycle of the tide - no matter what.
-
Re: Tide. And immediately this poem came to mind.
While not exactly a summer poem it seems to fit the season.
I used to sail our small boat and I sure do understand the call of the sea. Depending on wind alone for movement was a delight. And the challenge of the wind to get where you wanted to go. And the sense of a freedom.
I Must Go Down to the Sea
I must go down to the seas again, to the lonely sea and the sky,
And all I ask is a tall ship and a star to steer her by,
And the wheel's kick and the wind's song and the white sail's shaking,
And a grey mist on the sea's face and a grey dawn breaking.
I must go down to the seas again, for the call of the running tide
Is a wild call and a clear call that may not be denied;
And all I ask is a windy day with the white clouds flying,
And the flung spray and the blown spume, and the sea-gulls crying.
I must go down to the seas again, to the vagrant gypsy life,
To the gull's way and the whale's way where the wind's like a whetted knife;
And all I ask is a merry yarn from a laughing fellow-rover,
And quiet sleep and a sweet dream when the long trick's over.
- John Masefield
-
While we are on sailing had to add this romantic bit of sailing the summer seas by the same poet.
Trade Winds
IN the harbor, in the island, in the Spanish Seas,
Are the tiny white houses and the orange trees,
And day-long, night-long, the cool and pleasant breeze
Of the steady Trade Winds blowing.
There is the red wine, the nutty Spanish ale,
The shuffle of the dancers, the old salt's tale,
The squeaking fiddle, and the soughing in the sail
Of the steady Trade Winds blowing.
And o' nights there's fire-flies and the yellow moon,
And in the ghostly palm-trees the sleepy tune
Of the quiet voice calling me, the long low croon
Of the steady Trade Winds blowing.
John Masefield
-
"to build with the care and improvement is who we are rather than believing
we are only what we leave behind "
What a beautiful thought, BARB. And you are so right. We deal with life
based on who we are, and who we are is all we can take with us.
"The little waves, with their soft, white hands
Efface the footprints in the sands,"
I love those lines; such a wonderful image.
MARJ, that Masefield poem is a long-standing favorite of mine. It can leave
me nostalgic for something I've never actually experienced..a sea voyage.
Thanks for posting the other Masefield poem, BARB. I hadn't read that one
before. The man could certainly evoke an atmosphere.
-
No wonder Masefield wanted to go to the sea again...........that island sounds delightful ;D
-
1386
Paul Laurence Dunbar (1903)
The oriole sings in the greening grove
As if he were half-way waiting,
The rosebuds peep from their hoods of green,
Timid, and hesitating.
The rain comes down in a torrent sweep
And the nights smell warm and pinety,
The garden thrives, but the tender shoots
Are yellow-green and tiny.
Then a flash of sun on a waiting hill,
Streams laugh that erst were quiet,
The sky smiles down with a dazzling blue
And the woods run mad with riot
-
I like that idea of 'the woods run mad with riot' with the coming of Spring
sunshine.
Here's a surprisingly short one by John Keats.
On the Grasshopper and the Cricket
by John Keats
The poetry of earth is never dead:
When all the birds are faint with the hot sun,
And hide in cooling trees, a voice will run
From hedge to hedge about the new-mown mead;
That is the Grasshopper's--he takes the lead
In summer luxury,--he has never done
With his delights; for when tired out with fun
He rests at ease beneath some pleasant weed.
The poetry of earth is ceasing never:
On a lone winter evening, when the frost
Has wrought silence, from the stove there shrills
The Cricket's song, in warmth increasing ever,
And seems to one in drowsiness half lost,
The Grasshopper's among some grassy hills.
-
"When all the birds are faint with the hot sun,
And hide in cooling trees,"
Not just the birds - wheee are we having a summer Babi - although today there are clouds and the sun has not warmed us hitting the high nineties yet, much less the hundreds. I hope it rains, I hope it rains, I HOPE it RAINS - and yet, from some of the posts I am reading other areas of the country are in the middle of cold wet weather and still other areas have had rain, rain, rain all summer long. Truly a good line for this summer is ---
"The poetry of earth is ceasing never"
-
We've had a bit of rain here recently. I hope you got some of it in Austin.
I was noticeably cooler yesterday evening after our third shower in two
weeks. Before that...nothing but sun and heat. I badly need to pull some
grass out of a flower bed, but it has been too hot for old ladies to exert
themselves in the sun. Maybe this morning....
-
Summer Wind by William Cullen Bryant
It is a sultry day; the sun has drank
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 scortching 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 its 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, chesnut and oak
Are tossing their green boughs about. He comes!
Lo, where the grassy meadow runs in wives!
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 the fragrance; and he brings
Music of birds, and rustling of young boughs,
And soun 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 gaily 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.
This poem is like a story of a very hot day and then the respite comes.
Wonderful images. We've all known a summer day like this especially
there in Texas.
-
Now that's the kind of summer I'm familiar with, MARJ, with it's "too
potent fervor" and the "scorching heat". Bless the man who came up with
air conditioning! One could die waiting for that breeze.
I love the old poems like this, with their now quaint language. Whatever is
a 'clock-a-day'? A vine or flower of some kind, apparently.
Summer
by John Clare (1865)
Come we to the summer, to the summer we will come,
For the woods are full of bluebells and the hedges full of bloom,
And the crow is on the oak a-building of her nest,
And love is burning diamonds in my true lover’s breast;
She sits beneath the whitethorn a-plaiting of her hair,
And I will to my true lover with a fond request repair;
I will look upon her face, I will in her beauty rest,
And lay my aching weariness upon her lovely breast.
The clock-a-clay is creeping on the open bloom of May,
The merry bee is trampling the pinky threads all day,
And the chaffinch it is brooding on its grey mossy nest
In the whitethorn bush where I will lean upon my lover’s breast;
I’ll lean upon her breast and I’ll whisper in her ear
That I cannot get a wink o’sleep for thinking of my dear;
I hunger at my meat and I daily fade away
Like the hedge rose that is broken in the heat of the day.
-
Or maybe "clock-a-day" could be time passing quickly.
That person sure is yearning for his/her true love.
-
I don't know, MARJ. I tried to find a 'clock-a-day', but had no success. I'm
thinking it may be something similar to the flower we call a '4-o-clock', bcause it only blooms in the late afternoon. I guess we'll just have to wonder about
that one.
-
I Googled it also Babi
We are having a big rain this afternoon - long needed
Raindrops keep fallin' on my head
And just like the guy whose feet are too big for his bed
Nothin' seems to fit
Those raindrops are fallin' on my head, they keep fallin'
So I just did me some talkin' to the sun
And I said I didn't like the way he got things done
Sleepin' on the job
Those raindrops are fallin' on my head, they keep fallin'
But there's one thing I know
The blues they send to meet me won't defeat me
It won't be long till happiness steps up to greet me
Raindrops keep fallin' on my head
But that doesn't mean my eyes will soon be turnin' red
Cryin's not for me
'Cause I'm never gonna stop the rain by complainin'
Because I'm free
Nothin's worryin' me
[trumpet]
It won't be long till happiness steps up to greet me
Raindrops keep fallin' on my head
But that doesn't mean my eyes will soon be turnin' red
Cryin's not for me
'Cause I'm never gonna stop the rain by complainin'
Because I'm free
Nothin's worryin' me
You can hear and see it here:
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=FRsXHDYXafM&feature=related
-
I miss you all so much and reading all of my favorite poets and their poems made me feel sad that I am not here with you.. I am working in my yard and still going through papers and clothes etc left when my dear companion passed away. For eight years every place we went together ( and since he was ill I always went with him or drove him there) I find going to a place often reduces me to tears...I am not asking for sympathy but have to explain why I am not here ..when fall and winter comes I wont be able to work outdoors and then will be here ..perhaps even before ..I do check in and all of the poems shared are poems I have loved and had meaning to me..I must go down the sea again AH that one is really a favorite ..when I joined my husband in Europe I and our 2 year old sailed on the USS AMERICA at that time the government allowed us to refuse a flight and instead sail the America and THE United States were subsidized and when there vacancies they sent us on them It was not the ship I was supposed to be on but the night we were supposed to leave on our ship my two year old came down with strep throat and we were reassigned to the America .. When people asked why I didn't want to fly I would paraphase "If I must go down to the sea please let it be in a boat" I do read my poetry books searching for a poem but even when I find one I just dint feel like posting ...I do love you all and miss this "home"
-
Oh, what fun, MARJ. I could hear the song in my head, and see Gene Kelly
dancing it!
"When people asked why I didn't want to fly I would paraphase "If
I must go down to the sea please let it be in a boat."
I had to smile at that line, ANNA. I've never been on a longer boat trip than
a ferry ride on the St. Lawrence. I'd like to do that one day, if possible.
We always miss you, but we do understand. It simply takes time to work through a loss; it can't be hurried. Just remember you are greatly loved here.
-
On coolish days I like a bit of sunshine on my bod - so then I found this poem -
Sunshine (Poem)
Sunshine
Has a balm of its own
That soothes the weary soul.
Sunshine
Touches the skin
Soothing, like an old friend.
Sunshine
Please never go away,
Stay,stay,stay
Sunshine stay
Found it on a blog with no name attached as to poet.
-
Then that poem led me to remember John Denver's "Sunshine on my shoulders............" ((not for a hot/humid day)
And here he is singing it:
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=4Zx27dP1mTg
sunshine, on my shoulders - makes me happy
sunshine, in my eyes - can make me cry
sunshine, on the water - looks so lovely
sunshine, almost always - makes me high
if i had a day that i could give you
i'd give to you a day just like today
if i had a song that i could sing for you
i'd sing a song to make you feel this way
sunshine, on my shoulders - makes me happy
sunshine, in my eyes - can make me cry
sunshine, on the water - looks so lovely
sunshine, almost always - makes me high
if i had a tale that i could tell you
i'd tell a tale sure to make you smile
if i had a wish that i could wish for you
i'd make a wish for sunshine all the while
sunshine, on my shoulders - makes me happy
sunshine, in my eyes - can make me cry
sunshine, on the water - looks so lovely
sunshine, almost always - makes me high
sunshine almost al the times makes me high
sunshine, almost always
-
MARJ, I'm afraid my experience with sunshine here in Texas is scorching
sun, best enjoyed from the shade. Preferably, deep shade. "Sunshine on My Shoulders" was also the first thing I thought of when I read it. I've
always loved that song.
-
I have a disc of John Denvers songs and had a wonderful expierence of seeing him on stage here before he became really really popular .. He was charming and everyone loved his songs ..I think because he sang about things we understood...I am sharing one of my poems ...my daughter loves this poem and I hope you do as well...my husband would often cut a rose from our garden and bring it in to me...and after he died and I started to write poetry I wrote this one from my memory ...
Flowers
by Anna Alexander
1996 or 1997
The fragrance arrives before you
Tantalizing it enters
Through my breath
Stored in the labyrinths
Of my mind from times past
From warm gardens
Sunning themselves
From soft grass
From moist earth
The perfume of rain
Emanating
From streets
Sizzling on heated pavement
Wafting miniature drops
Microcosms of scents left there
Of oil and gas and things unknown
How strange all these
Come to me
Because behind me
You hold a rose
-
ANNA, I'll say it again. I think you are one of the best poets alive today. I want
all your poems. Please take them to a publisher! Let them do the sorting, etc.! It would be a crying shame if all these wonderful poems wound up in a box on a closet shelf somewhere.
-
Good idea, Babi.
There are small print publishers that can just print the number you want or on demand. However, You'd need to supply them on a disc.
That poem is full of exquisite images; thanks, Anna.
-
Anna: You can see on Google the opportunities for self publishing or print on demand.
http://www.google.com/search?hl=en&ie=ISO-8859-1&q=print+on+demand+publishers&aq=f&oq=&aqi=
-
You are so kind concerning my poems .. Truthfully I write because I cannot write .. something will happen , memories never forgotten seem to demand me to write them in a poetic form...a word, a phrase., a leaf falling, birds calling . raindrops., snow,. anything , all seem to speak to me and when I sit down at my computer something magic happens...as I write the title or the first line it seems the rest is there in my computer and my fingers on the keyboard finds the letters needed to write a word and then another word ..I seldom , almost never edit a poem ..when I add my name that is it ..the poem has miraculously appeared...and here is another of mine....mostly because working in my garden takes up my days and my nights are spent cleaning house etc so here it is ..self explanatory
A Dragonfly
Each summer you arrive skimming o’er the grass
Stitching a pattern in the air with your stiletto body
Gossamer wings, sheer, transparent hold you aloft
Some say your life span is but a day
You have lived in the pond as struggling larvae
Until you emerge to leave behind your watery birth
Take your place in the summer sun
Years ago a platoon of dragonflies would feed in my yard
A cloud of darting, exuberant beauties dining amid my garden
Each summer your number is less, now only a few
The pond is smaller, almost gone, the still waters
No longer mirror the sky and skaters who once
Glided on winter's frozen surface must seek a false pond
And pay to enjoy what used to be free
Will silt fill in your birthing place ?
Will summer come and you be gone?
And children see only pictures of what used to be?
anna alexander
7/30/02©
-
Interesting how you described your poetry writing (typing), ANNA. I've only
written two poems in my life, and both were under a sort of compulsion. I
paused only briefly in writing them down as they poured out, and I didn't edit,
either. It was as though they were coming from some other source.
I can't give you either poem. One was lost years ago in a computer crash.
The other was given to the family for whom it was written. It must have been
what they needed; it was read at the funeral service.
-
Great poem, Anna. However, so sad the dragonflys are disappearing like other "wildlife" around us. Only sad one monarch bfly here this summer.
I have a friend, Kitty, who writes poetry in the same way as Anna. I'll have to find her Texas Hot poem (she lives near Fort Worth) and post it here.
The dragonfly by Matsuo Basho
The dragonfly
can't quite land
on that blade of grass.
Just picture that haiku!
-
ANNA: you did it again!
And Marge: I love Basho's haiku (I love all of baasho's haiku)
-
This poem is by my dear friend in near Fort Worth Texas. She wrote it a couple years back.
Texas Hot
When Texas is hot...
The land sizzzles,
The trees gasp for air,
The cornfield’s bare,
The porch needs repaired.
The days grow longer,
The evenings are still,
In the distance you hear
The old whippoorwill.
The Model T. Ford,
Sits under the shed.
Mom’s old sneakers
Lie beneath the bed.
Supper is done,
And the flies are shooed.
Papa done eat...
The last of the stew.
Sister’s dropping coins,
In her piggy bank,
She has enough saved,
For the skating rink.
Gram’s knitting,
By the light of the lamp...
While scolding gently,
Our dear old gramp.
He has done something,
But I don’t know what...
He just gets careless,
When it’s Texas Hot!
-Kitty Ivey
=
-
And here is another Kitty sent me last evening; I call it "Texas Hot II"
When the summer is hot,
The flower's go to pot -
The day lilies cease to bloom.
The lizard "loiters" in the shade,
The birds splash a bath -
The slug slugs it out,
I have no doubt.
A southerly breeze,
will sometimes tease -
Porch sitters are fewer,
Fish pass on by the lures.
The "crepe myrtle" has blooms,
It looks like the fertile crescent -
In the "midst of the desert," of old,
Stalwart and arrogant with it's beauty.
- Kitty Ivey
-
I love "Texas is Hot"
-
I love trees, but this poem about cottonwoods is downright alarming.
Cottonwood Summer
by Jack Peachum
“You may have your mighty oaks—
Go on– listen to your whispering pines,
Tend your pretty flowers—
For I’ll outlast them all—
I can grow anywhere, any time—
Give me an inch of your ground,
And I will bury you!
I ask nothing of you, neither food nor water,
I thrive in the drought and I rest in the cold—
Next year I’ll be stronger,
My roots going deeper,
And some night I’ll creep into your room,
Plant myself over you, cover you up,
Bind you to the sheets—
My branches will grow out of your heart.”
-
It sure is alarming, Babi. A nightmare scenario for sure no matter what meaning you assign to the "cottonwood".
-
It never occurred to me that there might be an alternative meaning to 'cottonwood'. I can't imagine what that might be. There are cottonwoods around here, and I've never noticed any problems with them. I understand that they do have an exceptionally fast growth rate. I can only assume that Mr. Peachum has been seriously inconvenienced by the
location of a cottonwood, and wrote his poem in a fit of pique. >:( ;)
-
"fit of pique" --- wonderful phrase, Babi! ;D
re cottonwood: I was thinking about negative feelings that are hard to deal with and can practically strangle your life especially when we have those awake times in the night. While all around you others seem to be coping so easily like the oaks, pines and flowers.
-
Green-Striped Melons
They lie
under stars in a field.
They lie under rain in a field.
Under sun.
Some people
are like this as well --
like a painting
hidden beneath another painting.
An unexpected weight
the sign of their ripeness.
~ Jane Hirshfield
(Alaska Quarterly, Fall & Winter, 2008)
-
MARJ: what an interesting poem -- it really makes me think.
-
Ah, MARJ, I know all about those 'awake times'. Far better to simply get up,
go make some chamomile tea and read a book!
-
I love trees, but this poem about cottonwoods is downright alarming.
We spray vigorously cottonwood starts in the pasture. They not only grow very fast, but deplete the soil so no grass will grow under them. They were orignally promoted ny theDA as quick shade for cattle, but became more of a menace.
In the barnyard or house yard, they cover everything with a fine fluffy white 'cotton' seed and will often blow into the house if the door is opened on a windy day.
-
I never knew that about cottonwood! We have it blow all over inthe late spring around here but not a large number of trees.
Will we continue Summer Poems thru August? I vote for that.
Yes, the Melon poem is "ripe" for thinking! ::) I felt so when I first read it.
-
Ah, that explains it, PAT. Perhaps Mr. Peachum was a cattleman, too, or grew
up on a farm or ranch.
My test for ripeness in melons was always a 'knock,knock'. I've discovered
that losing my hearing puts rather a damper on that, but how many melons
would I have to lift to judge comparative ripeness? They're all heavy to me, but
they're not all ripe. :(
-
Let's Celebrate Summer
Welcome to our Poetry Page.
Our haven for those who listen to words
that open hearts, imagination, and who allow our feelings be known
about the poems we share - Please join us.
(http://seniorlearn.org/bookclubs/poetry/poetrysummer09.jpg) | Summer time fills our mind-pictures with
long, lazy picnics by the river,
old-fashioned ice cream socials,
a day at the seaside,
parades, flags, fireworks and
burgers hot off the grill.
Poetry can be part of life rather than a thing apart.
Share with us your:
Warm weather poems,
Summer recipes and entertainment that
Celebrate poets and poems,
Summer craft idea using poetry.
Promise to follow through using poetry in
a weekly outdoor happening and
make this summer the best it can be! |
A few Summer Poetry Links:
- Famous Poets and Poems about Summer (http://famouspoetsandpoems.com/thematic_poems/summer_poems.html)
- Summer Poems (http://www.dltk-holidays.com/summer/poems.htm)
- Flower Poems for Gardeners (http://www.gardendigest.com/flowers.htm)
Discussion Leaders: BarbStAubrey (augere@ix.netcom.com) & Fairanna (fairanna@verizon.net)
Since life has jumped to August I found this - has a few nice images.
August, with its clouds of scented blooms,
August, with its great stacks of giant clouds,
August, with corn plants standing like rows of soldiers,
August, with watermelons, full and heavy, dozing in the sun,
August.
August, remember swimming in the lake?
August, remember baby Alice daintily eating berries from the vine?
August, remember Richie playing with the goat?
August, remember Donald practicing on his new saxophone?
August.
August, and its lightening laced sky,
August, and newlyweds Pat and Chet decorating their first home,
August, and Billy the Brave, Billy the Fearless, on his two wheel bike,
August, and shimmering memories hanging like drops of dew,
August.
August, the bountiful, August the full,
August, Mama hot, but smiling, over a platter of succulent roast chicken,
August, Daddy mixing her a frosty mint julep,
August, blessed harvest of memories,
August.
Mary Naylor
-
August, hot, hot, hot, hot! If Mama was roasting chicken in August down here,
she definitely deserved that frosty mint julep. Or to have her head examined. ;)
-
Hot it is Babi - my AC bill this summer will be equal to the down payment on a vehicle.
Marj - perfect and here we are starting August already - how the year has flown by - I used to start my Christmas gift making in August but this year I am lying low till this heat breaks.
Here is a Robert Frost poem - Design
I found a dimpled spider, fat and white,
On a white heal-all, holding up a moth
Like a white piece of rigid satin cloth—
Assorted characters of death and blight
Mixed ready to begin the morning right,
Like the ingredients of a witches' broth—
A snow-drop spider, a flower like a froth,
And dead wings carried like a paper kite.
What had that flower to do with being white,
The wayside blue and innocent heal-all?
What brought the kindred spider to that height,
Then steered the white moth thither in the night?
What but design of darkness to appall?—
If design govern in a thing so small
-
Well known poets born during the month of August abound...
Today the 3rd we have: Rubert Brooke 1887 - 1915
On the 4th we have: Percy Bysshe Shelley 1792 – 1822 and Robert Hayden 1913 – 1980
6th: Lord Tennyson 1809 – 1892
8th: Sara Teasdale 1884 – 1933
9th: John Dryden 1631 – 1700
15th: Sir Walter Scott 1771 – 1832
17th: Ted Hughes 1930 – 1998
19th: Ogden Nash 1902 – 1971
20th: Salvatore Quasimodo 1901 – 1968
21th: X.J. Kennedy 1929
22th: Dorothy Parker 1893 – 1967
24th: Robert Herrick 1591 – 1674 and Malcolm Cowley 1898 – 1989
25th: Bret Harte 1836 – 1902
26th: Guillame Apollinaire 1880 – 1918
28th: Goethe 1749 – 1832
29th: Oliver Wendell Holmes 1809 – 1894
31st: Theophile Gautier 1811 – 1872
All that and Goethe - my oh my what a month of birthdays.
-
In celebration of his birthday today ---
Nineteen-Fourteen: Peace
by Rupert Brooke
Now, God be thanked who has matched us with his hour,
And caught our youth, and wakened us from sleeping!
With hand made sure, clear eye, and sharpened power,
To turn, as swimmers into cleanness leaping,
Glad from a world grown old and cold and weary;
Leave the sick hearts that honor could not move,
And half-men, and their dirty songs and dreary,
And all the little emptiness of love!
Oh! we, who have known shame, we have found release there,
Where there’s no ill, no grief, but sleep has mending,
Naught broken save this body, lost but breath;
Nothing to shake the laughing heart’s long peace there,
But only agony, and that has ending;
And the worst friend and enemy is but Death.
-
The image of Roasted Chicken and Mint Julips is lovely served on a wide porch with a painted blue ceiling however, Rubert Brooke brings us face to face with soldiers in the muddy Trenches - when they could, because a battle wasn't raging, this is the daily fare [ rations] of WWI British Soldiers:
20 ounces of bread
16 ounces of flour instead of above
4 ounces of oatmeal instead of bread
3 ounces of cheese
5/8 ounces of tea
4 ounces of jam
4 ounces of dried fruit instead of jam
½ ounce of salt
1/36 ounce of pepper
1/20 ounce of mustard
4 ounces of butter/margarine
8 ounces of fresh vegetables or
2 ounces of dried vegetables
1/10 gill lime if vegetables not issued
½ gill of rum
1 pint of porter instead of rum
maximum of 20 ounces of tobacco
1/3 chocolate – optional
That is for the Day! Looks like Bread and Cheese then later Tea and Jam followed by a dinner of veggies and rum with maybe a chocolate for dessert and a few smokes during the day.
-
Today let's celebrate Rubert's Birthday with a bit of pre-war Tea - according to Tea Time on the web page of The Brave Writer's lifestyle the musts for tea are... http://www.bravewriter.com/bwl/tea-time/
-
If design govern in a thing so small
Hi, BARB. Pesonally, I think there is design in everything. Even the
smallest thing is so complex and so beautifully and perfectly designed.
The Rupert Brooke poem is so powerful. I think I want to quote one great
line, but then find another...and another...
Where did you find that list of poets' birthdays? That is quite a
distinguished list.
-
A gill is 5 fluid oz - so it says on the web - so half a gill wouldn't be very much.
Interesting food list.
And I'll have the chocolate please.
-
August rushes by like desert rainfall,
A flood of frenzied upheaval,
Expected,
But still catching me unprepared.
Like a matchflame
Bursting on the scene,
Heat and haze of crimson sunsets.
Like a dream
Of moon and dark barely recalled,
A moment,
Shadows caught in a blink.
Like a quick kiss;
One wishes for more
But it suddenly turns to leave,
Dragging summer away.
- Elizabeth Maua Taylor
I have the same feeling today - that all of a sudden summer is past. Already I see how the light changes - more hazy than in July (here in lower Michigan)
This morning we had hot orange sunrise. The old quote: red sun at night, sailors delight; red sun in the morning, sailors take warning.
-
Babi it was one of the many history web sites that included the birthdays of artists and I just picked out the poets. I was balled-over weren't you with the group of names who were born in August but then since I started to think - there are only 12 months and I guess I never took into account the many poets whose work we read as basic to poetry in our western cannon.
Yes Marj, you are reminding me again of how quickly time passes and if I am going to do some of the things I have set aside in my mind I need to actually start doing them. It is so easy to get caught in the rhythm of a usual day so that making the effort to break and do something on my mental list will take an effort - I kept thinking I would start treating weeks and months as if they were my last so I would not have so many regrets that i didn't do this or that and your poem reminds me I really need to refocus and get some of these wants into reality.
And so, it may not be in keeping with triple digit heat but I have decided to get a couple of my books of poetry and one of my teapots onto what was intended as a breakfast room table where as for years the family defined it as the eating room table - an alcove with a bay window at the end of my kitchen - As of now the table had become a catch all with the pile of mail that accumulates along with anything that I bring in from the car that does not yet have a place.
So today the table will be cleared - and set one side for my meals instead of eating standing at the counter or sitting on the sofa watching TV - and the other side will become my tea break area with a couple of poetry books, a teapot, cup laying sideways on a saucer till tea time, a tea plate and silverware - I never use my silver - this is ridiculous - my children do not live a lifestyle that includes good silver, you cannot even sell it on eBay for a decent price which I couldn't I think it is too lovely to divest myself of what I thought was important - the thing is to use it and live the life that is in my head.
Nothing is growing in the yard with a bloom - the heat is too much for most blooming plants - but I read not long ago that it is worth the money to buy a chrysanthemum that should last in the house about 2 months - the amount of poisens and chemical vapors from our electronics it removes from the air is astounding. If I cannot find a mum then I will get a kalanchoe which is not as good an air vacuum of toxins but does add moisture to dry air - with our heat this summer the household air is dry, dry, dry. Of course the AC is pulling out every last drop of moisture so we shall see if a kalanchoe helps - hopefully I can find a mum for my tea place and to celebrate poetry.
-
today is a double birthday - since there isn't a poet's birthday tomorrow I think I will save Shelly for tomorrow - here is a poem by Hayden - timely since last night the moon if it wasn't full it was darn near close to being full:
Full Moon
No longer throne of a goddess to whom we pray,
no longer the bubble house of childhood's
tumbling Mother Goose man,
The emphatic moon ascends--
the brilliant challenger of rocket experts,
the white hope of communications men.
Some I love who are dead
were watchers of the moon and knew its lore;
planted seeds, trimmed their hair,
Pierced their ears for gold hoop earrings
as it waxed or waned.
It shines tonight upon their graves.
And burned in the garden of Gethsemane,
its light made holy by the dazzling tears
with which it mingled.
And spread its radiance on the exile's path
of Him who was The Glorious One,
its light made holy by His holiness.
Already a mooted goal and tomorrow perhaps
an arms base, a livid sector,
the full moon dominates the dark.
Robert Hayden
-
Just found this - isn't this poem just wonderful...
Why We Tell Stories
by Lisel Mueller
For Linda Foster
I
Because we used to have leaves
and on damp days
our muscles feel a tug,
painful now, from when roots
pulled us into the ground
and because our children believe
they can fly, an instinct retained
from when the bones in our arms
were shaped like zithers and broke
neatly under their feathers
and because before we had lungs
we knew how far it was to the bottom
as we floated open-eyed
like painted scarves through the scenery
of dreams, and because we awakened
and learned to speak
2
We sat by the fire in our caves,
and because we were poor, we made up a tale
about a treasure mountain
that would open only for us
and because we were always defeated,
we invented impossible riddles
only we could solve,
monsters only we could kill,
women who could love no one else
and because we had survived
sisters and brothers, daughters and sons,
we discovered bones that rose
from the dark earth and sang
as white birds in the trees
3
Because the story of our life
becomes our life
Because each of us tells
the same story
but tells it differently
and none of us tells it
the same way twice
Because grandmothers looking like spiders
want to enchant the children
and grandfathers need to convince us
what happened happened because of them
and though we listen only
haphazardly, with one ear,
we will begin our story
with the word and
-
Barbara said:So today the table will be cleared - and set one side for my meals instead of eating standing at the counter or sitting on the sofa watching TV - and the other side will become my tea break area with a couple of poetry books, a teapot, cup laying sideways on a saucer till tea time, a tea plate and silverware - I never use my silver - this is ridiculous - my children do not live a lifestyle that includes good silver, you cannot even sell it on eBay for a decent price which I couldn't I think it is too lovely to divest myself of what I thought was important - the thing is to use it and live the life that is in my head.
Fantastic Barbara. And how nice to have an area where you can do that!
My kitchen table overlooks my backyard so I usually eat or snack there. I know all to well how easy it is to get in the habit of standing at the counter to eat.
AND - I have a friend that is living with lymph cancer. Makes me even more aware of how precious each minute, etc. is. I make my choices based on what I want to do with my time. Yes, use your silver and your china daily if that is what you like.
-
"Why we tell stories" is wonderful. Just think - we tell our "stories" when we respond to poems right here.
-
MARJ, I've always thought that quote was 'sky' rather than 'sun'. Either way,
it seems to be an accurate guide.
You're probably right, Barb, but I'd be interested to look over he rest of
the months. Wouldn't it be fun if some months were way out of kilter? Bound
to set one speculating.
The breakfast room table sounds like a winning project. Though if there is
a favorite program on, I do tend to eat in my chair. Tea time and a book in a
lovely spot. How wonderful.
The Hayden poem is remarkable. I've never heard of trimming hair or piercing
ears by the phase of the moon, though. How odd. I do hope the day will never
come when the moon is an arms base!
and because we were always defeated,
we invented impossible riddles
only we could solve,
monsters only we could kill,
women who could love no one else
and because we had survived
sisters and brothers, daughters and sons,
we discovered bones that rose
from the dark earth and sang
as white birds in the trees
I think this may be very true.
-
Hymn to Pan
by Percy Bysshe Shelley (August 4, 1803-1882)
From the forests and highlands
We come, we come;
From the river-girt islands,
Where loud waves are dumb,
Listening to my sweet pipings.
The wind in the reeds and the rushes,
The bees on the bells of thyme,
The birds on the myrtle bushes,
The cicale above in the lime,
And the lizards below in the grass,
Were as silent as ever old Tmolus was,
Listening to my sweet pipings.
Liquid Peneus was flowing,
And all dark Tempe lay
In Pelion's shadow, outgrowing
The light of the dying day,
Speeded by my sweet pipings.
The Sileni and Sylvans and Fauns,
And the Nymphs of the woods and waves,
To the edge of the moist river-lawns,
And the brink of the dewy caves,
And all that did then attend and follow,
Were silent with love, as you now, Apollo,
With envy of my sweet pipings.
I sang of the dancing stars,
I sang of the dædal earth,
And of heaven, and the giant wars,
And love, and death, and birth.
And then I changed my pipings—
Singing how down the vale of Mænalus
I pursued a maiden, and clasp'd a reed:
Gods and men, we are all deluded thus!
It breaks in our bosom, and then we bleed.
All wept—as I think both ye now would,
If envy or age had not frozen your blood—
At the sorrow of my sweet pipings.
-
Today August 6, is the birthday of Lord Tennyson - here are a few of his summertime poems.
'Flower in the crannied wall’
Flower in the crannied wall,
I pluck you out of the crannies,
I hold you here, root and all, in my hand,
Little flower–but if I could understand
What you are, root and all, and all in all,
I should know what God and man is.
The Roses on the Terrace
Rose, on this terrace fifty years ago,
When I was in my June, you in your May,
Two words, ‘My Rose,’ set all your face aglow,
And now that I am white and you are gray,
That blush of fifty years ago, my dear,
Blooms in the past, but close to me to-day,
As this red rose, which on our terrace here
Glows in the blue of fifty miles away
The Flower
Once in a golden hour
I cast to earth a seed.
Up there came a flower,
The people said, a weed.
To and fro they went
Thro’ my garden-bower,
And muttering discontent
Cursed me and my flower.
Then it grew so tall
It wore a crown of light,
But thieves from o’er the wall
Stole the seed by night;
Sow’d it far and wide
By every town and tower,
Till all the people cried,
‘Splendid is the flower.’
Read my little fable:
He that runs may read.
Most can raise the flowers now
For all have got the seed.
And some are pretty enough,
And some are poor indeed;
And now again the people
Call it but a weed.
-
Isn't it evident that Yeats and his contemporaries were quite familiar
with the classic Greek and Roman pantheons and myths? Yeat writes about
them with such ease and famliarity. The poem evokes vivid images.
I'd never seen Tennyson's "The Flower" before, and I loved the gentle irony
of it. I have/had a lovely bed of Wandering Jew, which apparently some
people must regard as a weed, since I have had it mowed down twice by ignorant yard men! Not at all amusing, I assure you.
I found this intriguing quote about 'the season of waning light'. Perhaps I
can find more of it.
"As in the bread and wine, so it is with me.
Within all forms is locked a record of the past
And a promise of the future.
I ask that you lay your blessings upon me, Ancient Ones,
That this season of waning light
And increasing darkness may not be heavy.
So Mote It Be!"- Faille, Lammas Ritual
-
BABI - that quote is fantastic! Just beautiful. Thanks
This poem was in my Panhala daily poem e-mail today-
I thought it was quite wonderful~
I Am Completely Different
I am completely different.
Though I am wearing the same tie as yesterday,
am as poor as yesterday,
as good for nothing as yesterday,
today
I am completely different.
Though I am wearing the same clothes,
am as drunk as yesterday,
living as clumsily as yesterday, nevertheless
today
I am completely different.
Ah ...
I patiently close my eyes
on all the grins and smirks
on all the twisted smiles and horse laughs---
and glimpse then, inside me
one beautiful white butterfly
fluttering towards tomorrow.
~ Kuroda Saburo ~
-
Re: "The Flower"
Oh - I have "flowers" like that in my yard. Wild flowers/weeds - whatever they may be in someone's eyes I am most contented with them. An acquaintance the other day asked why I didn't cut down the weeds out behind my back gate - I said - those are wildflowers I've cultivated and keep neat and trim and he snorted. Grrrrrr! Tough!
One of my wildflowers I really like is the spiderwort - blooms in the mornings....
SPIDERWORT PICTURE (http://www.graysonfamily.org/pictures/1/spiderwort.jpg)
-
Sleep seems to be avoiding me so I have read and enjoyed your posts,,,poems and just great conversation....we have had HOT weather and almost daily thunderstorms and rain so heavy it looked like a waterery drape....I spend as much time as possible outdoors since I know when winter comes I will be dining in the dark,,,,and thanks for the picture .....my yard holds many wild things and one of the them is yours..when we moved here my husband wanted a "real" lawn and I said as long as you take care of it ,,as for me I planted a vegetable garden and lots of flowers ,,and welcomed any wild flower that was brave to appear...as I told him you cant give anyone a bouquet of grass...I guess I am odd but could never understand the time people spend having a green lawn...automatic water system, fertilizer, seed , mowing, and some daily pulling out tiny outcropping things that are not grass...well my eyes are saying they would like to close and go to sleep....
Hugs to all and thanks for keeping poetry going.....
-
I found myself wondering if the subject of the poem was Saburo himself, MARJ,
and hoping his 'tomorrow' came true.
I've seen flowers like your picture of the Spiderwort, but there are so many
small blue wildflowers I'm not sure they were the same.
A smooth green lawn..surrounded by flowers and plantings, of course...can be
a beautiful think, ANNA. But of course it is a great deal of work, and beyond
me now. I must rely on someone else to cut the grass, and am content enough
to enjoy whatever 'volunteers'.
-
Here in Texas we see spiderwarts along the edge of fields and along the edge of road shoulders however this year few wildflowers - We are experiencing a history making draught breaking all kinds of heat records for the number of triple didgit days with nights that most often only go down to 95. We can count the number of days it has rained on one hand and here in Central Texas the lakes were only lower two other periods in the history of droughts.
With Shelley's birthday just the other day it can be our excuse to get some of the groups of poets planted in our heads - Shelley was part of the Big Six - the Six major English Romantic poets.
William Blake - William Wordsworth - Samuel Taylor Coleridge - George Gordon, Lord Byron - Percy Bysshe Shelley - John Keats
It used to be the Big Five but in recent years they have included Blake as part of this group - he was a poet unto his own - steeped in religion to the point of creating his own mythology and religion - He did bring a new art form of poetry and drawings interchangeable.
The early two are Spenser and Milton -
Remember Spenser for The Faerie Queene, all about Elizabeth I - he was one of those Englishmen in Ireland who wrote ridicul ing the Irish so that during one of the rebellions his castle was burnt to the ground - he escaped to his second holding in the south.
Spenser influenced the Romantic poets with the Elegy, Spenserian nine line stanza, Pastoral poetry that led, along with the influence of Milton, Pindar and Horace to the eighteenth century Ode, and then his beast fable.
Milton wrote Paradise Lost - another of those epic poems that I have not tackled considered one of the great poems in the English language.
Many, especially Blake claimed that Spenser influenced Milton and then Milton influenced Tennyson who was NOT one of the Romantic Big Six poets. Tennyson was a child during the hayday of the second tier Romantic Poets. He was born in the nineteenth century.
Wordsworth and Coleridge were not only friends but Coleridge, [Rime of the Ancient Mariner] was instrumental in grooming Wordsworth into the recognized poet we know today. For me it is more easy to remember Wordsworth by his poem about Daffodils then his other major work - he lived with his sister and together they took long long walks - he had a major breakdown in his early twenties however later he was the Poet Laureate for Britian. Upon his death in 1850 Tennyson became the national Poet Laureate.
Back to the Big Six - we have the early two Spenser and Milton who lived 300 years before Wordsworth and Tennyson.
Blake a man unto himself born in 1757.
John Keats, Percy Bysshe Shelley, and Lord Byron comprised the latter half of the movement.
Shelley was from gentry with a great 'Country House' - [a castle has a keep where as a country house can be as large or larger than many castles] - however the young Shelley blew it and his sister was helping to support him with her good friend a sixteen year old dropping off the money - Shelley at age nineteen assumed romance - the girl, Harriet was delighted and they run off the Scotland to be married. One thing and another including the girl having an affair and a sister who gave them no space to work out their marriage Shelley leaves - later Harriet kills herself by thowing herself in the Serpentine but has her last sting by making it impossible for Shelley to have custody or visiting rights to his two children.
Shelly had an arrangement living in France and later in Italy with Mary Wollstonecraft Godwin [author of Frankenstine] they marry after the death of Harriet and after the father relents and Shelley receives his stipend - again another sister almost ruined their marriage but that is another story because important is that Shelley liked Keats and was helping him. Keats, a young man with TB - Both his mother and brother died from TB - for his health he came to Italy however, he did not accept Shelley's invitation to stay with them - soon after Keats died in Italy.
We focused on the work of Keats for a month back a year or two ago. Remember how we were enchanted with his poem Ode To A Nightingale
Again, Shelley is the king pin to this group of three because Shelley did not like Byron - he thought he was too loose and fancy free with girls and yet, because they were all Brits in Italy he felt a responsibility to maintain loyalty and fidelity.
Byron served in the House of Lords in 1811 and later spent his own money refitting the Greek fleet as he was engaged with Greece in their war with Turkey.
Byron in Italy - a ladies man, he wanted a women to be met at the train station north and brought to him in Genoa - Shelley offered - after which he and his two companions sail his new custom made boat from Genoa home. A Storm came up and the boat sank - since the boat sank Mary believed it was murder - everything from Byron's jealousy to the possibility of British intelligence because of a radical political paper written while he was living in Wales is blamed. There are several other versions of what could have happened - this was 1822 - not a time when science would have helped solve a crime.
And so these three second tier English Romantic poets knew each other as their lives were touched in one way or another by each other.
Byron for me is best known for Childe Harold's Pilgrimage which influenced Turner to paint http://tiny.cc/QPymH and Berlioz to compose, Harold in Italy
Before an audience estimated at 250,000 to 300,000, Mick Jagger of The Rolling Stones read a part of Shelley's poem Adonais, An Elegy To The Death of John Keats http://theotherpages.org/poems/shell03.html at the Brian Jones memorial concert at Hyde Park on July 5, 1969. Jones, founder and guitarist of the Stones, had drowned July 3, 1969 in his swimming pool.
And finally, the Irish poet Yeats who was influenced by both Shelley and Spenser and only died in 1939. His family was part of the Protestant Ascendancy and they moved back to England during William Yeats early childhood returning to Ireland with the rise of Parnell and the Home rule movement. His poetry was steeped in Irish myth and folklore and his Big Six influence was William Blake.
-
I remember reading Milton's "Paradise Lost" as an assignment in high school.
We also had to write an essay about it, and I am happy to say the teacher was
pleased with mine. I thought it was a rather simple comparison between the
'night' people and the 'day' people, but apparently no one else had done that
before.
Blake has, IMO, written some of the most exotic lines in poetry, though I
have read suggestions that he may have been either somewhat wacky or using
drugs. Irregardless, what can match these wonderful lines from Kublai Khan:
A damsel with a dulcimer
In a vision once I saw :
It was an Abyssinian maid,
And on her dulcimer she played,
Singing of Mount Abora.
Could I revive within me
Her symphony and song,
To such a deep delight 'twould win me,
That with music loud and long,
I would build that dome in air,
That sunny dome ! those caves of ice !
And all who heard should see them there,
And all should cry, Beware ! Beware !
His flashing eyes, his floating hair !
Weave a circle round him thrice,
And close your eyes with holy dread,
For he on honey-dew hath fed,
And drunk the milk of Paradise.
-
So many poems from Sara Teasdale to choose from - this one is perfect for our historic summer of heat - other areas of the nation have experienced a different sort of summer but we have been the furnace of the nation since the end of May.
Oh Day of Fire And Sun
Oh day of fire and sun,
Pure as a naked flame,
Blue sea, blue sky and dun
Sands where he spoke my name;
Laughter and hearts so high
That the spirit flew off free,
Lifting into the sky
Diving into the sea;
Oh day of fire and sun
Like a crystal burning,
Slow days go one by one,
But you have no returning.
Sara Teasdale
-
ah Kubla Khan - here is a link about the real Kublai Khan followed by a wonderful series of photos on YouTube
http://www.thenagain.info/WebChron/china/KublaiKhan.html
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=645CurSFiOM
And finally a link the the entire poem - how the words just roll off your tongue - great Babi, to remind us of such wonders...
http://poetry.eserver.org/kubla-khan.html
I loved the line: "Down the green hill athwart a cedarn cover!" but wasn't sure what "athwart" or "cedarn" meant - athwart is looking from side to side and cedarn is woody usually cedar.
-
"In Xanadu did Kublai Khan a stately pleasure dome decree...", and that's
where Marco Polo met him so many years later. Genghis Kahn, Kublai Khan..not to mention their mother...what a remarkable family that was.
Here's an anonymous August poem you will probably appreciate, BARB.
AUGUST HEAT
In August, when the days are hot,
I like to find a shady spot,
And hardly move a single bit--
And sit--
And sit--
And sit--
And sit!
-
Isn't this so true -
Oh day of fire and sun
Like a crystal burning,
Slow days go one by one,
But you have no returning.
Sara Teasdale
Thanks for the K Khan reminder. Hadn't thought of that in ages
-
missed Yesterday - Babi, I was close to your neck of the woods as the expression goes - I have had such problems with the back shocks on my vehicle ever since they were changed out in early June - I couldn't get anyone to acknowledge the problem without coming up with all sorts of solutions that was going to cost me hundreds - and so my son knows so much about cars he took the tires off and examined the entire system - found the problem and talked to the mechanic in Austin so it WILL be fixed.
Anyhow, all that because I drove down to Houston - all his tools were at his house - he lives in Magnolia 2 streets away from the Woodlands - so all the way over off that road 14 whatever - which is slower than any of the roads on the entire trip - takes me nearly an hour just in from Hempstead on this 14 whatever where I can get all the way to Hempstead from Austin in less then 2 hours.
There was rain - glorious rain - short rain showers that I drove through from Giddings over and while at Paul's the rain came down - When I got home last night they said it rained less than a quarter of an inch here in Austin as well - did not notice any change though in the dried up grass and so I have my hose going again today on the bleached area that gets the sun all day. My concern is they tree roots are going to become so dry that when we finally do get rain the trees will be toppling all over town.
Well Yesterday was John Dryden's birthday and here is one of his poems - not so much Summer but not any other season so I thought we could go with it...
ONE HAPPY MOMENT
by: John Dryden
O, no, poor suff'ring Heart, no Change endeavour,
Choose to sustain the smart, rather than leave her;
My ravish'd eyes behold such charms about her,
I can die with her, but not live without her:
One tender Sigh of hers to see me languish,
Will more than pay the price of my past anguish:
Beware, O cruel Fair, how you smile on me,
'Twas a kind look of yours that has undone me.
Love has in store for me one happy minute,
And She will end my pain who did begin it;
Then no day void of bliss, or pleasure leaving,
Ages shall slide away without perceiving:
Cupid shall guard the door the more to please us,
And keep out Time and Death, when they would seize us:
Time and Death shall depart, and say in flying,
Love has found out a way to live, by dying.
-
Here is a bio for John Dryden - http://www.poetryfoundation.org/archive/poet.html?id=1893
-
I don't think we've had this one..
August
When the blackberries hang
swollen in the woods, in the brambles
nobody owns, I spend
all day among the high
branches, reaching
my ripped arms, thinking
of nothing, cramming
the black honey of summer
into my mouth; all day my body
accepts what it is. In the dark
creeks that run by there is
this thick paw of my life darting among
the black bells, the leaves; there is
this happy tongue.
- Mary Oliver, August
-
Re: One Happy Moment
- ah love, oh so painful! Can just feel him itching in his clothes.
-
Marg: Although I couldn't see the name on my browser, I knew as soon as I started reading that poem that it was Mary Oliver. Somehow, all her poems read TRUE to me, if you know what I mean.
PS: where are you in Title Mania? I miss the duals we used to have. Not quite the same without points and winners, though.
-
Glad you had a chance to enjoy a bit of rain, BARB. We had a dry spell, too,
really hot. It finally broke and for the last two weeks we've enjoyed enough
rain to keep the temp. a notch or two lower. Glad you solved your car problem, too.
Mary Oliver seems to really be enjoying herself, MARJV, with her 'happy
tongue'. A similar feeling in these lines from Andrew Marvell:
"What wondrous life is this I lead!
Ripe apples drop about my head;
The luscious clusters of the vine
Upon my mouth do crush their wine;
The nectarine and curious peach
Into my hands themselves do reach;
Stumbling on melons, as I pass,
Ensnared with flowers, I fall on grass."
- Andrew Marvell, Thoughts in a Garden
-
I love my flower garden like Marvell does- think I'll skip throwing myself in the grass since there are yellow jackets.
Gee - here in SE Michigan we are having humid/hot Michigan! Totally yucky outside.
Here's another Mary Oliver I just recd - it is so neat! Funny you couldn't see her name on the other, Joan K - it followed the poem.
DAISIES
It is possible, I suppose that sometime
we will learn everything
there is to learn: what the world is, for example,
and what it means. I think this as I am crossing
from one field to another, in summer, and the
mockingbird is mocking me, as one who either
knows enough already or knows enough to be
perfectly content not knowing. Song being born
of quest he knows this: he must turn silent
were he suddenly assaulted with answers. Instead
oh hear his wild, caustic, tender warbling ceaselessly
unanswered. At my feet the white-petalled daisies display
the small suns of their center piece, their -- if you don't
mind my saying so -- their hearts. Of course
I could be wrong, perhaps their hearts are pale and
narrow and hidden in the roots. What do I know?
But this: it is heaven itself to take what is given,
to see what is plain; what the sun lights up willingly;
for example -- I think this
as I reach down, not to pick but merely to touch --
the suitability of the field for the daisies, and the
daisies for the field.
~ Mary Oliver ~
(Why I Wake Early)
-
That was great, Marj. I just hadn't scrolled down far enough to see the name yet.
-
Wynken, Blynken, and Nod
by Eugene Field
Wynken, Blynken and Nod one night
Sailed off in a wooden shoe--
Sailed on a river of crystal light
Into a sea of dew.
"Where are you going and what do you wish?"
The old moon asked the three.
"We have come to fish for the herring fish
That live in this beautiful sea;
Nets of silver and gold have we!"
Said Wynken,
Blynken,
And Nod.
The old moon laughed and sang a song,
As they rocked in the wooden shoe,
And the wind that sped them all night long
Ruffled the waves of dew.
The little stars were the herring fish
That lived in that beautiful sea--
"Now cast your nets wherever you wish--
Never afeard are we!"
So cried the stars to the fishermen three:
Wynken,
Blynken,
and Nod.
All night long their nets they threw
To the stars in the twinkling foam.
Then down from the skies came the wooden shoe,
Bringing the fishermen home.
'Twas all so pretty a sail it seemed
As if it could not be
And some folks thought 'twas a dream they'd dreamed
Of sailing that beautiful sea--
But I shall name you the fishermen three:
Wynken,
Blynken,
and Nod.
Wynken and Blynken are two little eyes,
And Nod is a little head,
And the wooden shoe that sailed the skies
Is a wee one's trundle bed.
So shut your eyes while mother sings
Of wonderful sights that be,
And you shall see the beautiful things
As you rock in the misty sea,
Where the old shoe rocked the fishermen three:
Wynken,
Blynken,
and Nod.
-
At my feet the white-petalled daisies display
the small suns of their center piece
Mary Oliver writes so simply and so perfect so that all you can do is smile with the image it brings to our minds.
-
Babi we just have to have the entire poem - it is just too wonderful and perfect for our Summer theme.
The Garden
How vainly men themselves amaze
To win the Palm, the Oak, or Bays,
And their uncessant labors see
Crowned from some single Herb or Tree,
Whose short and narrow-vergèd shade
Does prudently their toils upbraid;
While all the flowers and trees do close
To weave the garlands of repose.
Fair Quiet, have I found thee here,
And Innocence, thy sister dear!
Mistaken long, I sought you then
In busy companies of men:
Your Sacred Plants, if here below,
Only among the plants will grow;
Society is all but rude,
To this delicious solitude.
No white nor red was ever seen
So amorous as this lovely green;
Fond lovers, cruel as their flame,
Cut in these trees their mistress' name.
Little, alas, they know or heed,
How far these beauties hers exceed!
Fair trees! wheresoe'er your barks I wound
No name shall but your own be found.
When we have run our passion's heat,
Love hither makes his best retreat:
The gods who mortal beauty chase,
Still in a tree did end their race.
Apollo hunted Daphne so,
Only that she might laurel grow,
And Pan did after Syrinx speed,
Not as a nymph, but for a reed.
What wondrous life is this I lead!
Ripe apples drop about my head;
The luscious clusters of the vine
Upon my mouth do crush their wine;
The nectarine and curious peach
Into my hands themselves do reach;
Stumbling on melons as I pass,
Insnared with flowers, I fall on grass.
Meanwhile the mind, from pleasure less,
Withdraws into its happiness:
The mind, that ocean where each kind
Does straight its own resemblance find;
Yet it creates, transcending these,
Far other worlds, and other seas;
Annihilating all that's made
To a green thought in a green shade.
Here at the fountain's sliding foot,
Or at some fruit-tree's mossy root,
Casting the body's vest aside,
My soul into the boughs does glide:
There like a bird it sits and sings,
Then whets and combs its silver wings;
And, till prepared for longer flight,
Waves in its plumes the various light.
Such was that happy garden-state,
While man there walked without a mate:
After a place so pure and sweet,
What other help could yet be meet!
But 'twas beyond a mortal's share
To wander solitary there:
Two paradises 'twere in one
To live in Paradise alone.
How well the skillful gardener drew
Of flowers and herbs this dial new;
Where from above the milder sun
Does through a fragrant zodiac run;
And, as it works, the industrious bee
Computes its time as well as we.
How could such sweet and wholesome hours
Be reckoned but with herbs and flowers!
-- Andrew Marvell
-
Let's Celebrate Summer
Welcome to our Poetry Page.
Our haven for those who listen to words
that open hearts, imagination, and who allow our feelings be known
about the poems we share - Please join us.
(http://seniorlearn.org/bookclubs/poetry/poetrysummer09.jpg) | Summer time fills our mind-pictures with
long, lazy picnics by the river,
old-fashioned ice cream socials,
a day at the seaside,
parades, flags, fireworks and
burgers hot off the grill.
Poetry can be part of life rather than a thing apart.
Share with us your:
Warm weather poems,
Summer recipes and entertainment that
Celebrate poets and poems,
Summer craft idea using poetry.
Promise to follow through using poetry in
a weekly outdoor happening and
make this summer the best it can be! |
A few Summer Poetry Links:
- Famous Poets and Poems about Summer (http://famouspoetsandpoems.com/thematic_poems/summer_poems.html)
- Summer Poems (http://www.dltk-holidays.com/summer/poems.htm)
- Flower Poems for Gardeners (http://www.gardendigest.com/flowers.htm)
Discussion Leaders: BarbStAubrey (augere@ix.netcom.com) & Fairanna (fairanna@verizon.net)
-
I think I am falling in love with Mary Oliver. "..knows enough to be
perfectly content not knowing". " it is heaven itself to take what is given,
to see what is plain; what the sun lights up willingly;"
Now that is wisdom.
"Wynken, Blynken and Nod" are old favorites. I made a point of finding them
again when my children were small. I hesitated to copy the entire poem of
"The Garden" since it was so long, but I'm glad you did, BARB.
-
Great to see "Wynken, Blyken, Nod". Sweet times all the reading I did to my boys.
-
A SUMMER WOOING
The wind went wooing the rose,
For the rose was fair.
How the rough wind won her, who knows?
But he left her there.
Far away from her grave he blows:
Does the free wind care?
Louise Chandler Moulton
-
The Summer Rain
And now the cordial clouds have shut all in,
And gently swells the wind to say all's well;
The scattered drops are falling fast and thin,
Some in the pool, some in the flower-bell.
I am well drenched upon my bed of oats;
But see that globe come rolling down its stem,
Now like a lonely planet there it floats,
And now it sinks into my garment's hem.
Drip drip the trees for all the country round,
And richness rare distills from every bough;
The wind alone it is makes every sound,
Shaking down crystals on the leaves below.
For shame the sun will never show himself,
Who could not with his beams e'er melt me so;
My dripping locks--they would become an elf,
Who in a beaded coat does gayly go."
- Henry David Thoreau,
-
The wind alone it is makes every sound,
Shaking down crystals on the leaves below.
Those are 2 pretty lines from the Thoreau poem. I like to go out and look at drops on various plants after a rain.
-
I came across these 2 haikus by Paul Kester online. http://www.sondra.net/al/vol8/85rain.htm
Hot summer night rains
Bring voluptuous life to earth.
Hear the corn growing.
Saturated clouds,
Thunder and lightning, boom, flash
Rainbows follow rain.
-
All I have read by Thoreau is "On Walden Pond"; I never knew he wrote any
poetry. I like it.
What do you think of this one by Ralph Waldo Emerson?
Berrying
"May be true what I had heard,
Earth's a howling wilderness
Truculent with fraud and force,"
Said I, strolling through the pastures,
And along the riverside.
Caught among the blackberry vines,
Feeding on the Ethiops sweet,
Pleasant fancies overtook me:
I said, "What influence me preferred
Elect to dreams thus beautiful?"
The vines replied, "And didst thou deem
No wisdom to our berries went?"
I'm still puzzling over the line "What influence me preferred
Elect to dreams thus beautiful?" It's so awkward, I'm not sure
what it means!
-
haiku's are fun the five seven five form is what i use when i do use. . .not often although ihave a page ful at my web page.
claire
-
ok I have one fresh from the pen and paper
california summer
sunshine dries the earth
California's thirsty globe
steals green from grasses
claire
-
Claire: I like that one.
-
ha - a good one Claire.
That is a mouthful Babi isn't it - near as I can tell it is saying -
what influenced me is saying the same as "Pleasant fancies" that "overtook" him- a judgement call about what influences the writer - break - next -
preferred - meaning what struck or impressed the author was preferred by the crowed - a dogmatic choice - break - next -
Elect to dreams - Elect is to choose and so, the influenced pleasent fancies are of the calibre that we choose or elevate to what - elevate to a dream status - And because it is elevated to the status of a dream that makes it beautiful - thus beautiful - he is identifying beautiful as something that is chosen be each of us rather than just by what is dogmatically labled beautiful.
I think the sentence seems odd and constrained because certain words have fallen out of favor - we no longer casually use the word elect in our sentences to mean choice.
Also it helps to know the writings of Emerson who was all about individual freedoms versus the crowd who he says scurries hither and thither. That we as individuals are by no means insignificant.
-
Claire - great haiku.
I can feel the dryness!
-
Your explanation of 'elect' certainly makes sense, BARB. In the first part, tho', the word is 'influence', not 'influenced'. I've re-read it several
times, and I think he means some 'influence ' affecting a person or a course
of evens. This influence 'preferred' him...but 'elect to dreams thus beautiful'?
I'm still puzzled, but that's okay. Fortunately, I don't have to understand
everything. :-\
-
I'm still puzzled, but that's okay. Fortunately, I don't have to understand
everything. :-\
I say Yes, Yes, to that Babi!
-
I did a search and I don't think we had this Mary Oliver so far this summer - this poem puts me right in the midst of remembered brambles. Mary is definitely a wonder.
When the blackberries hang
swollen in the woods, in the brambles
nobody owns, I spend
all day among the high
branches, reaching
my ripped arms, thinking
of nothing, cramming
the black honey of summer
into my mouth; all day my body
accepts what it is. In the dark
creeks that run by there is
this thick paw of my life darting among
the black bells, the leaves; there is
this happy tongue.
- Mary Oliver, August
I remember there was another poem that spoke of how quickly the blackberries
became rather moldy. Or some similar berry.
-
"There is this happy tongue".
Yes! My tongue is happy, too. I read this just after eating rasberries!!
-
blackberries hang swollen in the woods
now that is not only an image it feels juicy. I love it...........
-
I remember this one from way back on the other site when
we did a month of Seamus Heaney - love his work. There's treats for our tastebuds again - I just had blueberries on my yogurt --- yum!!!!!! But here is the rotting berries also
BLACKBERRY PICKING
Late August, given heavy rain and sun
For a full week, the blackberries would ripen.
At first, just one, a glossy purple clot
Among others, red, green, hard as a knot.
You ate that first one and its flesh was sweet
Like thickened wine: summer's blood was in it
Leaving stains upon the tongue and lust for
Picking. Then red ones inked up and that hunger
Sent us out with milk cans, pea tins, jam-pots
Where briars scratched and wet grass bleached our boots.
Round hayfields, cornfields and potato-drills
We trekked and picked until the cans were full
Until the tinkling bottom had been covered
With green ones, and on top big dark blobs burned
Like a plate of eyes. Our hands were peppered
With thorn pricks, our palms sticky as Bluebeard's.
We hoarded the fresh berries in the byre.
But when the bath was filled we found a fur,
A rat-grey fungus, glutting on our cache.
The juice was stinking too. Once off the bush
The fruit fermented, the sweet flesh would turn sour.
I always felt like crying. It wasn't fair
That all the lovely canfuls smelt of rot.
Each year I hoped they'd keep, knew they would not.
-- Seamus Heaney
-
Oh, how disappointing. What happened to the blackberry pies, the jams or
preserves? Why dump all those luscious berries in the byre?!!
Here's one I like better...not about berries but so true of August, half gone
already.
"August rushes by like desert rainfall,
A flood of frenzied upheaval,
Expected,
But still catching me unprepared.
Like a matchflame
Bursting on the scene,
Heat and haze of crimson sunsets.
Like a dream
Of moon and dark barely recalled,
A moment,
Shadows caught in a blink.
Like a quick kiss;
One wishes for more
But it suddenly turns to leave,
Dragging summer away."
- Elizabeth Maua Taylor
-
Takes sugar to make jams and cakes - the poverty in Ireland was what we call abject - the pile in the barn was some effort to prolong a crop much like farmers still pile apples and potatoes today.
I remember hiking in Mexico back in the early 90s and the guide had his 11 year old son with him - we hiked for miles to a cabin he used in the fall to pick from his fruit trees that were planted as if grown up wild - we were there in Spring and the one huge room was loaded with piles of apples in various stages of edibility and fermentation. There was a large front porch that we thought we would unroll our sleeping bags but it became so cold at night that we all quickly scurried inside to sleep among the apples.
-
Here is a good Hiking poem:
Directions
by Billy Collins
You know the brick path in the back of the house,
the one you see from the kitchen window,
the one that bends around the far end of the garden
where all the yellow primroses are?
And you know how if you leave the path
and walk into the woods you come
to a heap of rocks, probably pushed
down during the horrors of the Ice Age,
and a grove of tall hemlocks, dark green now
against the light-brown fallen leaves?
And farther on, you know
the small footbridge with the broken railing
and if you go beyond the you arrive
at the bottom of sheep's head hill?
Well, if you start climbing, and you
might have to grab on to a sapling
when the going gets steep,
you will eventually come to a long stone
ridge with a border of pine trees
which is a high as you can go
and a good enough place to stop.
The best time for this is late afternoon
en the sun strobes through
the columns of trees as you are hiking up,
and when you find an agreeable rock
to sit on, you will be able to see
the light pouring down into the woods
and breaking into the shapes and tones
of things and you will hear nothing
but a sprig of a birdsong or leafy
falling of a cone or t through the trees,
and if this is your day you might even
spot a hare or feel the wing-beats of geese
driving overhead toward some destination.
But it is hard to speak of these things
how the voices of light enter the body
and begin to recite their stories
how the earth holds us painfully against
ts breast made of humus and brambles
how we will soon be gone regard
the entities that continue to return
greener than ever, spring water flowing
through a meadow and the shadows of clouds
passing over the hills and the ground
where we stand in the tremble of thought
taking the vast outside into ourselves.
Still, let me know before you set out.
Come knock on my door
and I will walk with you as far as the garden
with one hand on your shoulder.
I will even watch after you and not turn back
to the house until you disappear
into the crowd of maple and ash,
heading up toward the hill,
percing the ground with your stick.
-
BARB, I love Billy Collins "Directions". "..find an agreeable rock to sit
on.." made me smile. NOthing nicer than an agreeable rock when you need to
sit and look and rest a bit. And the play of sunlight and shadow through
trees is one of my favorite things in the world.
-
I posted this once, but darned if I can find it now. anyway, here it is again. Mysterious, evocative. I feel so MALAGA
The scent of unseen jasmine on the warm night beach.
The tram along the sea-road all the way from town
through its wide open sides drank unseen jasmine down,
Living was nothing all those nights but that strong flower,
whose hidden voice on darkness grew to such mad power
I could have sworn for once I travelled through full peace
And even love at last had perfect calm release,
Only by breathing in the unseen jasmine scent
that ruled us and the summer every hour we went.
The tranquil unrushed wine drunk on the daytime beach
Or from an open room all that our sight could reach
was heat, sea, light, unending image of peace;
and then at last the night brought jasmine's great release--
not images but calm uncovetous content,
the wide-eyed heart alert at rest in June's own scent.
In daytime's humdrum town from small child after child
we bought cluster after cluster of the star-flowers wild
white widowed heads,re-wired on strong weed stalks they'd trimmed
to long green elegance; but still the whole month brimmed
at night along the beach with a strong voice like peace;
and each morning the mind stayed crisp in such release.
Some hint of certainty,still worth longing I could teach,
lies lost in strength of jasmine down a summer beach.
Pearse Hutchison
-
Wow did I just have a journey into a whole pot of learning by looking up the poet who wrote the poem you shared Bellamere -
Amazing - you think or rather I thought I had a grasp on the general areas of history and social life that have existed and then this opens up - I am going to add some of the links that I used that I explored about secret languages - ancient languages - Travellers and who they are...
This all started while reading about the life of Pearce Hutchinson - who I expected to be a new poet and from the poem about Jasmine I was thinking maybe Georgia or the Gulf Coast. I was not prepared for Ireland, Scotland, Portugal and Spain written by a poet with a white beard whose parents were deep into the Troubles in Ireland.
http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Pearse_Hutchinson
http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Galician-Portuguese
http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Fala_language
And can you believe this - a language - a language!! - not a group of words but a whole language for a profession or how would you describe a group of people that perform a certain skill for money - a whole language for Stonecutters
It sounds like other professions had their own language - gives a new picture of how language comes to us - I always thought in terms of areas of the country that people lived and developed a common language - it never occurred to me that those of a certain profession or work would be the creators and owners of a separate language - Wow think of the poets and playwriters and songs that we never hear about that were written in these languages.
http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Fala_dos_arxinas
Looking up Cant at first I thought rather than a language it would be like Hip Hop is to our language today - but it really is a full language - wait till you read the Shelta site that gives the translation of the Lords Prayer in two of these Cants as well as in English and Irish.
http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Cant
http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Shelta_language
At First I was clueless as to the special meaning of Travellers - found a link at the bottom of the page and this wonder comes up - I think we hear the word Tinker or Gypsy rather than Traveler - exploring the site it appears they are the great "unwashed" that the Government wants them to settle down but is not giving them places to settle to the point of even taking homes away from those who had settled and were able to accumulate financial comfort.
http://www.travellersrest.org/Travellers.htm
The page about the "Controversy" gives a description of the problem from the Travellers point of view
http://www.travellersrest.org/Controversy.htm
Then of course had to find a bit about the Thieves Cant - hard to believe they could fool the police of the day - but then you have to wonder if there is a language bond that develops among those in jail today that is separate from their jailers.
http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Thieves%27_cant
Which led me to wondering more about what a Droll was
http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Drolls
I had no idea that it was illegal for a time in England to act on stage - and it is these Puritans that settled America - hmmmm
And here are a few of the poets that Pearce Hutchinson knew their work.
http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Josep_Carner
http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Piaras_Feirit%C3%A9ar
This is his mother's friend
http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Constance_Markievicz
And the infamous internment camp where his father was imprisoned.
http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Frongoch_internment_camp
And the man who helped his father find work
http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/%C3%89amon_de_Valera
Whoa with childhood steeped in the Irish Troubles it is amazing to read the poem you shared Bellamere - to Imagine he still had a soft spot - wow
I recognized the word Synge as an Irish playwriter and poet - and so I put it together that the street that the school was located was probably named after the playwriter who wrote "Playboy of the Western World" - the irony is there is hardly a stronger pile to the Irish Catholic than an Irish Christian Brother and here their school is located on a street named for a Protestant playwright.
http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Synge_Street_CBS
http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/John_Millington_Synge
Well we started this foray with a poet and ended with a poet learning tons in between. Thanks for over an hours research that was an amazing experience.
-
You have the mind of a true polymath. I was content just to llook up Hutchinson to see if he was still alive. I found the poem in a book : Irish Verse" Irish Poetry from the Sixth Century to the Present.
A remainder on the mark=down shelf at Barnes and Noble. Once in a while a treasure shows up there.
-
Nope just curiosity - the kind that they used to say killed the cat - drove my mother and my forth grade teacher crazy. Every sentence ends in a question about some new word, idea, happening, place that must be explored.
-
I admit to a large curiousity bump also, BARB. I was aware of how old
language forms can be retained in isolated communities. Our own 'hill
people' of the Appalachias preserved old English forms right into modern
times.
It seems reasonable that people who live a nomadic type of life would
incorporate words from different languages for their own use. And of
course every trade, skill and profession has its own argot.
I'm currently reading a book called "Raven and Nightingale", in which one college professor uses words so erudite that even other professors need to pause a minute to translate what she just said. (It's an affectation and certainly isn't helpful 'communication'.)
-
Well now it is fitting together why Yeats wrote poetry that most say were about the glories of Ireland and the hero's of Ireland - he was active during the Troubles and during the Easter Rising.
I read the link to Hutchinson's mother's friend, Constance Markievicz http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Constance_Markievicz
And learned she was an artist and had a sister who was also connected to the art world - they were friends with some of Irelands well known writers and artists including Yeats and Lady Gregory [who supported Yeats].
The write-up says that Constance Markievicz came to the cause after renting a cabin that belonged to the poet Padriaic Colum and reading his copy of The Peasant and Sinn Féin
http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Padraic_Colum
It sounds to me like the Rebellion had the art community right in the thick of it. Most important to me is this information helps cement for me Yeats' time in History - I knew he was a later poet than the Romance Poets but I had not put together his writing in context with Irish history. No wonder he wrote so much about Ireland's glory.
I have not been able to find on-line any more poems by Pearce Hutchinson but here is a lovely light poem by Yeats.
TO A CHILD DANCING IN THE WIND
by: W. B. Yeats (1865-1939)
ANCE there upon the shore;
What need have you to care
For wind or water's roar?
And tumble out your hair
That the salt drops have wet;
Being young you have not known
The fool's triumph, nor yet
Love lost as soon as won,
Nor the best labourer dead
And all the sheaves to bind.
What need have you to dread
The monstrous crying of wind?
-
I don't know as I would call it a 'light' poem, BARB. The image of the child
dancing on the shore is lovely, but the poem goes on to refer to griefs...
the fool's triumph, love lost, good men dead. I wonder what memories birthed
the lines, "What need have you to dread the monstrous crying of wind?"
-
Babi reading about the folks during this time in History and following the links it appears that Yeats experienced as they call it - unrequited love - he loved Maud Gonne and she would not marry him. Maud was the women in most of his poems. That is how I interpret this line...
"Love lost as soon as won,"
Here is the link to Maud Gonne that speaks of the her turning down the proposals of marriage from Yeats - Maud was one of the women friends of Constance Markievicz who was a friend of Pearce Hutchinson's mother. http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Maud_Gonne
And then the line - "Nor the best labourer dead" I would think refers to one or more of those who died fighting to reclaim their land, Home Rule and freedom during the Irish "Rising".
And yes, he does speak in this poem of the heart ache and pain however, the vision of a child dancing on the seashore in spite of all that I think is remarkable - to see the sweetness and gentleness in life expressed as a child at the seashore says something about the human spirit that we still believe in the fairy like movement and goodness of a child regardless our suffering.
-
Here is a Yeats poem I remember from High School. We used to love rolling these names around - I went to a Carmelite High School where the priests and brothers were from Ireland - I didn't realize as a teen how recent the death of Yeats - 1939 - but we learned some of the ancient tales and associated his poetry with those tales.
THE HOSTING OF THE SIDHE
HE host is riding from Knocknarea
And over the grave of Clooth-na-Bare;
Caoilte tossing his burning hair,
And Niamh calling Away, come away:
Empty your heart of its mortal dream.
The winds awaken, the leaves whirl round,
Our cheeks are pale, our hair is unbound,
Our breasts are heaving, our eyes are agleam,
Our arms are waving, our lips are apart;
And if any gaze on our rushing band,
We come between him and the deed of his hand,
We come between him and the hope of his heart.
The host is rushing 'twixt night and day,
And where is there hope or deed as fair?
Caoilte tossing his burning hair,
And Niamh calling Away, come away.
Sidhe - Gaelic for wind
Clooth-na-Bare - means the old woman of Bare, but it is a corruption of Cailleac Bare, the old woman of Bare, who, under a similar name appear in the legends of many places
Caoilte - (Cweeltia) one of the last of the Fianna, he was loved by Scathniamh
Fianna of Ireland - a band of legendary soldiers and Finn was the head of them
Niamh of the Golden Hair - one of the Tuatha De Danann and the daughter of Manannan, the god of the sea. Niamh chose Oisin to be her lover and live with her in Tir Na nOg
Nemnach - a well on the Hill of the Sidhe, out of which flowed the stream called Nith
Knocknarea - http://www.stonepages.com/ireland/knocknarea.html
-
to see the sweetness and gentleness in life expressed as a child at the seashore says something about the human spirit that we still believe in the fairy like movement and goodness of a child regardless our suffering.
Beautifully expressed, BARB.
The Yeats poem is lovely to read, but I wouldn't attempt to read it out loud. :-X
Here is an interesting poem I found by someone named Sophia Wellbeloved.
I know that over there,
by the far bank,
under the overhanging trees
the river will be running black
its thick skin pierced by rain,
each puncture makes a milky
rim, and over here, where I
stand, on the side I walk on,
the river will be flowing white
under the clouded sky its skin
gleaming, its wounds arked
by dark ripples, and nothing
crosses from here to there,
though I also know that round
the bend before me
someone is killing time.
-
what great imagery in the poem isn't there Babi
the river will be running black
its thick skin pierced by rain,
each puncture makes a milky
rim,
The last line someone is killing time. leaves you thinking exactly what does she mean. It is an expression we all use and yet, in the context of her imagery the line can take on another meaning as if there was someone actually murdering someone called Time with all the Myth and practical complications associated with Time.
Well I am off to see if there are any pop-up dining tent shelters at either Academy or Walmart for less than $50. Saw some on-line for only $18- starting tomorrow we are on strict water rationing and can only water our lawns one day a week. I have several sun spots in the yard and if I can get a couple of shelters up and then I may even string some line between the trees and hang sheets between the trees and the fence to create shade - most would leave it since the grass is bleached but the deer are chewing up the areas so that I will have several mud holes plus the shelters may keep them from walking under them. We shall see what we shall see - I am off not to play house but to play clouds.
-
And how often does one get to 'play clouds'? :) Good luck with your
efforts to save our lawn, and I hope some rain will be heading your way
very soon.
-
Love the Billy Collins "walk"
And also the scent of jasmine poem.
Both evoke all sorts of memories and scents I remember.
Loved reading about the language, Barbara. Need to look at those sites you linked.
I've missed a couple days here.
That's great: "playing clouds".
Too much to say about these posts starting with the Pearse poem. So I stop. Very rich.
-
The Lion Of The Senate
This death, although we tried to prepare
Has grabbed tightly, people everywhere
Every political figure and every constituent
Lost this iconic figure and his needed involvement
I watched closely and read how he
Organized bipartisanship and caused both sides to agree
No other senator served in this way
Only he made crossing sides seem okay
Forty seven year he worked hard to enact legislation
The Cancer, Disabilities, Civil Rights Acts. Nationality and Immigration
Health Insurance, Children’s Health program, Mental Health Parity
Edward M. Kennedy Serve America Act, most recently
Senator Kennedy worked with President Bush, the two parties combined
Enacted in 2002 an educational Act, No Children Left Behind
Numerous other bills, over 300, in his political odyssey
Are now part of the Lion’s great legacy
Ted passed the baton to Barack before he passed away
Expecting Americans will enjoy Universal Health Care soon, one day
-
My favorite Yeats poem is The Stolen Child; but it breaks my heart at the end. I suspect that "stolen by the fairies' was the answer given to the older children when they came down in the morning and asked "Where's the baby?"in a country of dire poverty where so many babies died.
Too long to reproduce here: This is just the last verse:
Away with us he's going , the solemn-eyed.
He'll hear no more the lowing of the calves on the warm hillside,
Nor the kettle on the hob sing peace into his breast,
Nor watch the brown mice bob round and round the oatmeal chest.
For he's come, the human child, to the waters and the wild,
With a fairy hand-in-hand, from a world more full of weeping
Than he can undersant.
-
So sorry for that typo the last word is "understand"
-
Here is a link Bellemere to The Stolen Child
http://www.poets.org/viewmedia.php/prmMID/19415
Of all those reading the poem on You Tube I thought this read by Malachy McCourt is one of the best.
http://video.google.com/videoplay?docid=-3444913216159463782&ei=NxCYSuIxhbKuAq_vhYgI&hl=en
-
My fading dream is to attend the Yeats Summer School in
Sligo, or even the Yeats Winter Weekend. and tour the sites of his poems.
Here is one about the home of Countess Markiewicz (did I get that right"
IN MEMORY OF EVA GORE BOOTH AND CON MARKEWICZ
The light of evening, Lissadell,
Great windows open to the south,
Two girls in silk kimonos, one a gazelle,
But a raving autumn shears
Blossom from the summer's wreath,
The older is condemned to death,
Pardoned, drags out lonely years
Conspiring among the ignorant.
I know not what the younger dreams,
Some vague utopia and she seems
When withered old and skeleton gaunt
An image of such politics.
Many a time I think to seek
One or the other out and speak
Of that old Georgian mansion, mix
Pictures of the mind, recall
That table and the talk of youth,
Two girls in silk kimonos, both
Beautiful, one a gazelle.
Dear shadows, now you see it all.
All the folly of a fight
With a common wrong or right,
The innocent and the beautiful
Have no enemy but time;
Arise and bid me strike a match;
And strike another till time catch;
Should the conflagration climb,
Run till all the sages know
We the great gazebo built,
They convicted us of guilt;
Bid me strike a match and blow.
Lissadell was not one of theAnglo Irish houses burned ; it still stands and you can go and see it.
-
Dear shadows, now you see it all.
All the folly of a fight
With a common wrong or right,
It's hard to say. Sometimes it seems necessary and right to fight. Perhaps
the judgment of 'folly' depends on whether the fight was successful, or failed.
-
"gazelle" and gazebo" are pretty rare words and he uses them both in one poem. Hmmmm.
I think "the great gazebo" refers to the Anglo Irish culture of Ireland, with its gentry lifestyle , literary achievments, etc. A structure designe d for pleasure. But at their peril, they ignored the hunger and deprivation of the Irish people. and it went up in flames, finally .
-
http://www.lissadellhouse.com/
So many wonderful photos of the house and grounds that the site takes a minute to completely upload.
I think in this poem he is typical of the outlook of his times where as, today we would consider him patriarchal - he seems to be saying these girls/women took up the fight that should not have been theirs since it was their father who was the PM because the affect on them was to strip them of their innocence and beauty.
As the PM, their father is a product of the system of plantations started by the English after the Reformation bringing hoards of English and Scottish Protestants into Ireland to run the plantations. During this time new boroughs were created, all of which were Protestant-dominated assuring the overthrow of the Catholic majority in the Irish Parliament. Then, although 85% of the population was Irish, as Irish Catholics they were banned from the Irish Parliament and so the dark shadow -
Reading history, during the Reformation, the horrors that were used to murder Catholics and priests in Ireland put Auschwitz to shame and to clean all this history with a baptism of fire, as Yeats suggests in his poem, seems appropriate. But yet, acknowledged is, where there is a common roof, like the roof of a gazebo over both sides of the Irish historical troubles, there are no walls separating those affected during these hundreds of years after the system was established - with the children of the perpetrators [who took authority over Ireland] having been born and raised feeling kinship to Ireland.
The poem seems to be saying these two young girls should have been icons to their loveliness rather than either, one being condemned to death and both living out their years wanting change. The Utopia that is addressed in the poem is talking about the younger sister who was a suffragist - that line to me is the key to how Yeats feels about women, which is the underlying conviction for his thinking the women’s beauty and Innocents, visible as young girls was more important and lost to the fight.
Interesting, Yeats does not suggest the window to the south be shut or boarded up but rather the whole is so open on all sides and the pain as well as guilt is beyond sorting out by even the sages so that as the air that swirls through a gazebo heightens a flame the conflagration will blow the system to ashes.
-
There is an effort to confer sainthood on some of the Irish Martyrs. This is an account of a small group of the known horrors during the Reformation - the Catholic Church in Ireland did turn to Rome for help and Rome did send a few 'Doctors' of the Church and as I remember the Jesuits were able to travel between Ireland and Rome during the suppression.
During the suppression there is a partial narrative in the recital of an old Trinitarian friar, written down by one of his brethren, Father Richard Goldie or Goold (Goldæus), an Irish professor at the University of Alcalá.
According to this account, on the first announcement of the king's design, Theobald (Burke?), provincial of the order, came to Dublin with eight other doctors to maintain the pope's supremacy.
They were cast into prison;
Theobald's heart was torn from his living body;
Philip, a writer, was scourged, put into boots filled with oil and salt, roasted till the flesh came away from the bone, and then beheaded;
the rest were hanged or beheaded.
Cornelius, Bishop of Limerick, was beheaded there;
Cormac was shot and stoned to death at Galway;
Maurice and Thomas, brothers-german, hanged on their way to Dublin;
Stephen, stabbed near Wexford;
Peter of Limerick and Geoffrey, beheaded;
John Macabrigus, lay brother, drowned;
Raymond, ex-superior, dragged at a horse's tail in Dublin;
Tadhg O'Brien of Thomond, torn to pieces in the viceroy's presence at Bombriste bridge between Limerick and Kilmallock;
The Dublin community, about fifty, put to various deaths;
those of Adare, cut down, stabbed, or hanged;
those of Galway, twenty, burned to death in their convent or, by another account, six were thrown into a lime-kiln, the rest weighted with stones and cast into the sea;
those of Drogheda, forty, slain, hanged, or thrown into a pit;
at Limerick, over fifty butchered in choir or thrown with weights into the Shannon;
at Cork and Kilmallock, over ninety slain by the sword or dismembered, including William Burke, John O'Hogan, Michael, Richard, and Giollabrighde.
-
Horrible account!!!!
The pics of Lissadel are great/
-
The Last Days of Summer
During the last days of summer
When the earth is dry and still
Wind blows the first fallen leaves
Across the big green hill.
The rose that brought such pleasure
Now bids a fond farewell
As she sheds her velvety petals
Across the hill.
I must say goodbye to summer skies
And I'll miss the daisies that line the hill
With their slow and gentle nods
Seasons come and seasons go
And I know that summer must surrender
To the beauty of autumn
That will fill the earth with wonder
Kana Sky
-
THE LAST DAY OF SUMMER
On the last day of summer, I walk the streets,
the dying breeze in the air carrying salt
from the bay, a stench like money from the mill.
These dark streets cool in the moonlight,
the heat of day fading like a dying star,
tossed aside and forgotten.
Out past 12th street,
I stop at a small bridge over the canal.
Beneath me, the water runs thick and brown,
the moon reflecting back like a god’s eye,
half closed as if asleep. I see my own face
staring back, a boy, 14 years old, with a pudgy
face, round cheeks, eyes like the hollows
of pecan shells, split. My image wavers
in the water, thick as honey.
Who was I then but a child? Was the night mine?
I owned every step I took, tasted the night
air with my tongue and felt astounded
by the freshness, like a fat yellow honeydew.
Above me, the moon rode in the purple
sky as the summer drained from the little town
by the bay. I’d spent another year, walking
beneath the living sky, waiting for the days
to pass, and hoping that I could one day
ride the breeze like the salt and become
someone else’s memory in another place.
Jeff Newberry
-
The Last Days of Summer
by Patricia Parker
The last days of summer are often bittersweet.
No more lightening bugs or the cushioned
feeling of bare feet running through the newly
cut grass.The days shorten. The clouds thicken.
The gentle aroma of the rose is fading. We
have come to the waning days of summer.
The flowers once lovingly tended
have begun their descent back into the earth
once again content to sleep away a cold winter season
knowing nature will revive their beauty in the spring.
The trees that shaded and protected earth all summer
now stand like sentinels, quiet, deep in reverie.
Leaves, once verdant and green, will now prepare
for their annual color display, then fade away.
The early morning creatures will find new homes.
Burrows and tunnels are being readied.
Windows and shades open to the world will be shuttered
As the daylight fades into early evening dark.
The last days of summer usher in new sensations.
North winds replace Southern breezes as
migratory birds prepare for their journey to
a more inviting place.
Each season has its own beginning and end.
The last days of summer will become the first
days of fall and the harvest will heed the
call of winter. It is as it should be.
The neighborhoods once alive with the laughter
and movement of children will suddenly become
quieter. School buses will rumble down city
streets and country lanes carrying their precious
cargo's, tanned and now weighted down with book bags.
The unmistakable aroma of hamburgers sizzling on a
gas grill will soon be replaced by the indoor smells
of stews and casseroles. Corn will be eaten from
a freezer package and the luscious fruits of the
summer will be replaced by pumpkin pies and
rhubarb pies and the last of the canned peaches.
The last days of summer will find the patio chairs
safely stored away and the outdoor torches reluctantly
taken down. The hanging baskets will be admired for
the last time as they give way to a chilly late summer
evening.
No longer anticipating a leisurely Sunday
sipping coffee on the patio, the last days of summer are
often cool and dictate that we read the Sunday paper at
the kitchen table.
From this vantage point, we can watch the earth evolve.
It begins slowly but purposefully as it has for millions
of years. We will enjoy the last days of summer because
its what humans have always done, and we'll remember
the lightening bugs and the feel of the grass beneath
our feet until we can experience it again.
-
My Mother on an Evening in Late Summer
by Mark Strand
1
When the moon appears
and a few wind-stricken barns stand out
in the low-domed hills
and shine with a light
that is veiled and dust-filled
and that floats upon the fields,
my mother, with her hair in a bun,
her face in shadow, and the smoke
from her cigarette coiling close
to the faint yellow sheen of her dress,
stands near the house
and watches the seepage of late light
down through the sedges,
the last gray islands of cloud
taken from view, and the wind
ruffling the moon's ash-colored coat
on the black bay.
2
Soon the house, with its shades drawn closed, will send
small carpets of lampglow
into the haze and the bay
will begin its loud heaving
and the pines, frayed finials
climbing the hill, will seem to graze
the dim cinders of heaven.
And my mother will stare into the starlanes,
the endless tunnels of nothing,
and as she gazes,
under the hour's spell,
she will think how we yield each night
to the soundless storms of decay
that tear at the folding flesh,
and she will not know
why she is here
or what she is prisoner of
if not the conditions of love that brought her to this.
3
My mother will go indoors
and the fields, the bare stones
will drift in peace, small creatures --
the mouse and the swift -- will sleep
at opposite ends of the house.
Only the cricket will be up,
repeating its one shrill note
to the rotten boards of the porch,
to the rusted screens, to the air, to the rimless dark,
to the sea that keeps to itself.
Why should my mother awake?
The earth is not yet a garden
about to be turned. The stars
are not yet bells that ring
at night for the lost.
It is much too late.
-
In Summer
by Paul Laurence Dunbar
Oh, summer has clothed the earth
In a cloak from the loom of the sun!
And a mantle, too, of the skies' soft blue,
And a belt where the rivers run.
And now for the kiss of the wind,
And the touch of the air's soft hands,
With the rest from strife and the heat of life,
With the freedom of lakes and lands.
I envy the farmer's boy
Who sings as he follows the plow;
While the shining green of the young blades lean
To the breezes that cool his brow.
He sings to the dewy morn,
No thought of another's ear;
But the song he sings is a chant for kings
And the whole wide world to hear.
He sings of the joys of life,
Of the pleasures of work and rest,
From an o'erfull heart, without aim or art;
'T is a song of the merriest.
O ye who toil in the town,
And ye who moil in the mart,
Hear the artless song, and your faith made strong
Shall renew your joy of heart.
Oh, poor were the worth of the world
If never a song were heard,—
If the sting of grief had no relief,
And never a heart were stirred.
So, long as the streams run down,
And as long as the robins trill,
Let us taunt old Care with a merry air,
And sing in the face of ill.
-
Oops. I think I would have liked Kana Sky's poem better if she had
avoided that trite "fond farewell".
You have been busy, BARB. That is quite a collection of 'late summer' poems,
and each so different.
-
I am celebrating Babi - in the last 3 days we have had as much as a 10 degree drop in temperature. We were regularly, as the news reminded us 67 days with temps of 104 and 105 sometimes only 101.
The end of last week we had two evenings of rain and since the temp only hit 99 and then 94 and 95 -
Usually those temps are uncomfortable because the humidity is also high when the searing over 100 degrees are with us to burn off the humidity but these lower temps came down from the north with the lowest humidity we have experienced all summer and so it feels like a new season is arriving - it feels like the back of summer is broken -
We could still see a few days of 100 or better because for us summer is not over till about the first week in October but with this slight northerly breeze and lower temps we know that Autumn is really only weeks away.
-
I know you are in the Houston area Babi and have experienced these temps as well - my son is over in Magnolia and works in Houston - his office is at Hobby and the temps there were even hotter than here in Austin - I have not spoken to him since Thursday to find out if y'all got the rain and if the temps are less now than they were all summer.
But Marj I do not know where you live and if you are into the beginning of fall weather - watching the Funeral for Ted Kennedy on C-SPAN it appears that not only was it raining in Boston but it was cold enough for jackets and coats. I forget that in other areas of the country they are into Autumn weather - what about where you are Marj - are you experiencing the chilly days of Autumn?
-
Help me out here if you can - I think Babi probably has made her visit for the day - I am trying to use up enough posts so the new heading will be on top of the next page - unfortunately I missed the last heading for this page but just as well because I don't think I can get 40 Summer posts - well not exactly 40 - I have to count how many more we need.
-
We need 25 more posts - hmmm doubt we can 25 but a few more and then I will put up the new Fall heading that as soon as the new page is turned on post number 680 the heading will be on top of the page.
-
The Earth Laughs in Flowers
- Ralph Waldo Emerson
-
If seeds in the black earth can turn into such beautiful
roses, what might not the heart of man become in its
long journey toward the stars?
- G.K. Chesterton
-
He who wants a rose must respect the thorn.
Persian Proverb
-
Some people are always grumbling because roses have thorns.
I am thankful that thorns have roses.
- Alphonse Karr (1808-1890)
-
I've not been in a poetry mood for a while but I'm back and will be happily catching up on these poems about summer as it fades into fall.
-
I'm on a Kipling kick so here's one of his:
The Way Through the Woods.
They shut the road through the woods
Seventy years ago.
Weather and rain have undone it again,
And now you would never know
There was once a road through the woods
Before they planted the trees.
It is underneath the coppice and heath,
And the thin anemones.
Only the keeper sees
That, where the ring-dove broods,
And the badgers roll at ease,
There was once a road through the woods.
Yet, if you enter the woods
Of a summer evening late,
When the night-air cools on the trout-ringed pools
Where the otter whistles his mate.
(They fear not men in the woods,
Because they see so few)
You will hear the beat of a horse's feet,
And the swish of a skirt in the dew,
Steadily cantering through
The misty solitudes,
As though they perfectly knew
The old lost road through the woods. . . .
But there is no road through the woods.
And another:
September
At dawn there was a murmur in the trees,
A ripple on the tank, and in the air
Presage of coming coolness -- everywhere
A voice of prophecy upon the breeze.
Up leapt the Sun and smote the dust to gold,
And strove to parch anew the heedless land,
All impotently, as a King grown old
Wars for the Empire crumbling 'neath his hand.
One after one the lotos-petals fell,
Beneath the onslaught of the rebel year,
In mutiny against a furious sky;
And far-off Winter whispered: -- "It is well!
"Hot Summer dies. Behold your help is near,
"For when men's need is sorest, then come I."
-
I love it :-*
"Hot Summer dies. Behold your help is near,
"For when men's need is sorest, then come I."
-
Welcome to our Autumn Poetry Page.
A haven for those who listen to the words
that open hearts, imagination, and our feelings
that we share about the poems we post - Please Join Us.
(http://seniorlearn.org/bookclubs/poetry/poetryleaves.jpg)
|
Poetry can be part of life
rather than a thing apart.
Share with us
Poems about the end
of the natural year.
Tell us
How you celebrate
a poet's life and poems.
Autumn holidays -
Tell us about Poetry in
Fall parties and gift giving.
|
A few Poetry Links:
- Famous Poets and Poems about Autumn (http://famouspoetsandpoems.com/thematic_poems/autumn_poems.html)
- Fall Poetry (http://www.dltk-holidays.com/fall/fallpoetry.htm)
- Poems for Autumn (http://www.scrapbook.com/poems/cat/5.html)
Discussion Leaders: BarbStAubrey (augere@ix.netcom.com) & Fairanna (fairanna@verizon.net)
-
This poem for me tells the story of forgetting summer -
If You Forget Me
I want you to know
one thing.
You know how this is:
if I look
at the crystal moon, at the red branch
of the slow autumn at my window,
if I touch
near the fire
the impalpable ash
or the wrinkled body of the log,
everything carries me to you,
as if everything that exists,
aromas, light, metals,
were little boats
that sail
toward those isles of yours that wait for me.
Well, now,
if little by little you stop loving me
I shall stop loving you little by little.
If suddenly
you forget me
do not look for me,
for I shall already have forgotten you.
If you think it long and mad,
the wind of banners
that passes through my life,
and you decide
to leave me at the shore
of the heart where I have roots,
remember
that on that day,
at that hour,
I shall lift my arms
and my roots will set off
to seek another land.
But
if each day,
each hour,
you feel that you are destined for me
with implacable sweetness,
if each day a flower
climbs up to your lips to seek me,
ah my love, ah my own,
in me all that fire is repeated,
in me nothing is extinguished or forgotten,
my love feeds on your love, beloved,
and as long as you live it will be in your arms
without leaving mine.
Pablo Neruda
-
Autumn for me since 911 always brings a little sadness, as summer heat slowly fades, and brisk mornings have me pulling out my warm robe to come down and make the coffee. My grand daughters each have a birthday in Sept., one on the 10th and one on the 12th, so that is my way of realizing Autumn is near. My daughter in law did not want a Sept. 11th birthday for either of them, so her doctor allowed her to pick the day to induce her. The day after 911 occurred I sat down in total disbelief and wrote this poem. It has been published in an Anthology called Visions From Within, part of the Under a Quicksilver Moon series by The International Library of Poetry.
Copyright 2002 by the International Library of Poetry as a compilation.
Staying the Faith
I try to comprehend that horrible Tuesday,
My insecure mind wants to lead me far away.
Lost are the innocent children, men and women,
Not just Americans, all races and religions.
I need to feel comfort and safety again,
Yet I know this is far from the end.
More tears will be shed, more time of despair,
More lives lost as we strike through the air.
We have to retaliate, this I know.
The price to pay for justice will not be low.
Numbers surpass thousands lost to this date,
Too high a price to pay in the name of hate.
I pray for the dead and families left behind,
Seems God's love as I know it, is not the terrorist's same kind.
Seeing the countries we'll attack I'm certain,
Are filled with fear while the killers hide in caves and behind curtains.
After witnessing evil in such great mass,
I need my faith to remain steadfast.
Annabella Marie Reinhart
AKA bellamarie
-
Thanks goodness you have your faith to lean on Bellemere - Congratulations on having one of your poems published - that is a special feeling of accomplishment isn't it.
We haven't experienced the "Brisk" mornings yet that would require a warm robe but we are thankful this week the temps are in the mid nineties - sounds hot but for us it is a relief from triple digits with the result everyone is outside again.
This Auden poem is a bit long but too perfect to pass up - I think it better to give it a post of its own.
-
September 1, 1939
by W. H. Auden
I sit in one of the dives
On Fifty-second Street
Uncertain and afraid
As the clever hopes expire
Of a low dishonest decade:
Waves of anger and fear
Circulate over the bright
And darkened lands of the earth,
Obsessing our private lives;
The unmentionable odour of death
Offends the September night.
Accurate scholarship can
Unearth the whole offence
From Luther until now
That has driven a culture mad,
Find what occurred at Linz,
What huge imago made
A psychopathic god:
I and the public know
What all schoolchildren learn,
Those to whom evil is done
Do evil in return.
Exiled Thucydides knew
All that a speech can say
About Democracy,
And what dictators do,
The elderly rubbish they talk
To an apathetic grave;
Analysed all in his book,
The enlightenment driven away,
The habit-forming pain,
Mismanagement and grief:
We must suffer them all again.
Into this neutral air
Where blind skyscrapers use
Their full height to proclaim
The strength of Collective Man,
Each language pours its vain
Competitive excuse:
But who can live for long
In an euphoric dream;
Out of the mirror they stare,
Imperialism's face
And the international wrong.
Faces along the bar
Cling to their average day:
The lights must never go out,
The music must always play,
All the conventions conspire
To make this fort assume
The furniture of home;
Lest we should see where we are,
Lost in a haunted wood,
Children afraid of the night
Who have never been happy or good.
The windiest militant trash
Important Persons shout
Is not so crude as our wish:
What mad Nijinsky wrote
About Diaghilev
Is true of the normal heart;
For the error bred in the bone
Of each woman and each man
Craves what it cannot have,
Not universal love
But to be loved alone.
From the conservative dark
Into the ethical life
The dense commuters come,
Repeating their morning vow;
"I will be true to the wife,
I'll concentrate more on my work,"
And helpless governors wake
To resume their compulsory game:
Who can release them now,
Who can reach the deaf,
Who can speak for the dumb?
All I have is a voice
To undo the folded lie,
The romantic lie in the brain
Of the sensual man-in-the-street
And the lie of Authority
Whose buildings grope the sky:
There is no such thing as the State
And no one exists alone;
Hunger allows no choice
To the citizen or the police;
We must love one another or die.
Defenceless under the night
Our world in stupor lies;
Yet, dotted everywhere,
Ironic points of light
Flash out wherever the Just
Exchange their messages:
May I, composed like them
Of Eros and of dust,
Beleaguered by the same
Negation and despair,
Show an affirming flame.
-
Haiku
a breeze blows
leaves of all different colors
flutter to the ground
Rebekah Slodounik
Oh scarlet autumn!
that profound punctuation
to shamrock summer
Carol Nation
Yellow autumn moon ...
unimpressed the scarecrow stands
simply looking bored
ISSA -- 1763-1827
autumn dusk
scarecrow points
to the rising moon
first autumn trees
begin to blush
before disrobing
Philip K Noble
-
Jackie they are great - my favoite is:
Yellow autumn moon ...
unimpressed the scarecrow stands
simply looking bored
the image brings a smile to my face.
-
I'm so glad to hear y'all got a break in the weather, BARB. Yeah, we
got rain weeks before you did. Almost daily rain for the past two weeks,
I would guess.
No time for a poem. My daughter needs the computer back for her work.
See you later.
-
Emily Dickinson
High from the earth I heard a bird;
He trod upon the trees
As he esteemed them trifles,
And then he spied a breeze,
And situated softly
Upon a pile of wind
Which in a perturbation
Nature had left behind.
A joyous-going fellow
I gathered from his talk,
Which both of benediction
And badinage partook,
Without apparent burden,
I learned, in leafy wood
He was the faithful father
Of a dependent brood;
And this untoward transport
His remedy for care,—
A contrast to our respites.
How different we are
-
Yesterday, September 2 was the anniversary of the Birthday of Eugene Fields a writer of children's poems. Here is one of his poems fitting the fall season when apple picking, baking into a pie and eating it is high on our agenda.
Apple-Pie and Cheese
Full many a sinful notion
Conceived of foreign powers
Has come across the ocean
To harm this land of ours;
And heresies called fashions
Have modesty effaced,
And baleful, morbid passions
Corrupt our native taste.
O tempora! O mores!
What profanations these
That seek to dim the glories
Of apple-pie and cheese!
I'm glad my education
Enables me to stand
Against the vile temptation
Held out on every hand;
Eschewing all the tittles
With vanity replete,
I'm loyal to the victuals
Our grandsires used to eat!
I'm glad I've got three willing boys
To hang around and tease
Their mother for the filling joys
Of apple-pie and cheese!
Your flavored creams and ices
And your dainty angel-food
Are mighty fine devices
To regale the dainty dude;
Your terrapin and oysters,
With wine to wash 'em down,
Are just the thing for roisters
When painting of the town;
No flippant, sugared notion
Shall my appetite appease,
Or bate my soul's devotion
To apple-pie and cheese!
The pie my Julia makes me
(God bless her Yankee ways!)
On memory's pinions takes me
To dear Green Mountain days;
And seems like I see Mother
Lean on the window-sill,
A-handin' me and brother
What she knows 'll keep us still;
And these feelings are so grateful,
Says I, "Julia, if you please,
I'll take another plateful
Of that apple-pie and cheese!"
And cheese! No alien it, sir,
That's brought across the sea,--
No Dutch antique, nor Switzer,
Nor glutinous de Brie;
There's nothing I abhor so
As mawmets of this ilk--
Give me the harmless morceau
That's made of true-blue milk!
No matter what conditions
Dyspeptic come to feaze,
The best of all physicians
Is apple-pie and cheese!
Though ribalds may decry 'em,
For these twin boons we stand,
Partaking thrice per diem
Of their fulness out of hand;
No enervating fashion
Shall cheat us of our right
To gratify our passion
With a mouthful at a bite!
We'll cut it square or bias,
Or any way we please,
And faith shall justify us
When we carve our pie and cheese!
De gustibus, 't is stated,
Non disputandum est.
Which meaneth, when translated,
That all is for the best.
So let the foolish choose 'em
The vapid sweets of sin,
I will not disabuse 'em
Of the heresy they're in;
But I, when I undress me
Each night, upon my knees
Will ask the Lord to bless me
With apple-pie and cheese!
Eugene Field
-
Apple Pie and Cheese. Making me drool.
I know we are done with summer poems BUT , this one came in an e-mail
today and it is a stunner by Mary Oliver - so must share it, Gals.
Song of the Builders
On a summer morning
I sat down
on a hillside
to think about God -
a worthy pastime.
Near me, I saw
a single cricket;
it was moving the grains of the hillside
this way and that way.
How great was its energy,
how humble its effort.
Let us hope
it will always be like this,
each of us going on
in our inexplicable ways
building the universe.
~ Mary Oliver ~
(Why I Wake Early)
-
I do love Emily Dickinson. I don't think I've ever read a poem of
hers I didn't like. And I wonder if Eugene Field would think me decadent
and unpatriotic if I prefer my apple pie warm, with ice cream?
Have I thanked you for introducing me to Mary Oliver, MARj? I have
been delighted to make her acquaintance.
To start off the new season...here's John Updike's "September". I
think he has caught it all.
"The breezes taste
Of apple peel.
The air is full
Of smells to feel-
Ripe fruit, old footballs,
Burning brush,
New books, erasers,
Chalk, and such.
The bee, his hive,
Well-honeyed hum,
And Mother cuts
Chrysanthemums.
Like plates washed clean
With suds, the days
Are polished with
A morning haze."
- John Updike, September
-
I guess we all have our favorite when it comes to pie and especially apple pie - I prefer an apple pie with a crumb topping made with pecans and I prefer the filling to have raisins among the apples. Don't care for hot apple pie and ice cream does a number on me as does whipped cream [lactose intolarent] and like you Babi cheese on apple pie seems strange - I've heard of it but not a favorite - although, when we talk favorites I cannot say apple pie is top on my list.
Here is a new poet for me - Denise Levertov - interesting life story and I do like this September poem. It is not the same old same old as she talks about the sea and the road to the sea. I am thinking her sea is the sea of the historical accumulated humanity and as individuals we are on the road to that sea of history.
September 1961
This is the year the old ones,
the old great ones
leave us alone on the road.
The road leads to the sea.
We have the words in our pockets,
obscure directions. The old ones
have taken away the light of their presence,
we see it moving away over a hill
off to one side.
They are not dying,
they are withdrawn
into a painful privacy
learning to live without words.
E. P. "It looks like dying"-Williams: "I can't
describe to you what has been
happening to me"-
H. D. "unable to speak."
The darkness
twists itself in the wind, the stars
are small, the horizon
ringed with confused urban light-haze.
They have told us
the road leads to the sea,
and given
the language into our hands.
We hear
our footsteps each time a truck
has dazzled past us and gone
leaving us new silence.
One can't reach
the sea on this endless
road to the sea unless
one turns aside at the end, it seems,
follows
the owl that silently glides above it
aslant, back and forth,
and away into deep woods.
But for us the road
unfurls itself, we count the
words in our pockets, we wonder
how it will be without them, we don't
stop walking, we know
there is far to go, sometimes
we think the night wind carries
a smell of the sea...
-
Oh, I am moved:
They are not dying,
they are withdrawn
into a painful privacy
learning to live without words.
-
No author's name on this one but here is the link: http://www.friendship-poems.com/poems.php?id=1129022
by SilentSuicide
I watch the seasons change from summer to winter.
The leaves fall off the trees, as the same tree begins to die.
Flowers hide beneath the ground, or they die as well.
We lay awake chilly, the heater is broken.
Such a drastic change.
We all have grown to know so well.
however i also watch you and I.
A season of friendship, that shall never die.
The grass of our connection, never loses its green.
No matter how much glistening white snow pounds it.
The branch's on our trees still hang high.
When some of the leaves slowly fall.
I compare you to the seasons, my friend.
We all come to face changes in our lives.
The seasons, are inevitable.
our friendship, is everlasting.
The heater is always working were we stand.
Burning soothingly throughout the winter nights.
Spring approaches once again
With showers of joy we reached another season as friends.
I'll admit, friend, i know i have put you through parole.
Think not of such things, and what can become of us.
Don't you see? Don't you believe?
The things we can do, the things we can achieve.
I watched the seasons change from summer to fall
The leaves start to fall once again.
We stand together and smile.
At another season we will face together.
-
This one by Robert Frost is new to me:
Going For Water
The well was dry beside the door,
And so we went with pail and can
Across the fields behind the house
To seek the brook if still it ran;
Not loth to have excuse to go,
Because the autumn eve was fair
(Though chill), because the fields were ours,
And by the brook our woods were there.
We ran as if to meet the moon
That slowly dawned behind the trees,
The barren boughs without the leaves,
Without the birds, without the breeze.
But once within the wood, we paused
Like gnomes that hid us from the moon,
Ready to run to hiding new
With laughter when she found us soon.
Each laid on other a staying hand
To listen ere we dared to look,
And in the hush we joined to make
We heard, we knew we heard the brook.
A note as from a single place,
A slender tinkling fall that made
Now drops that floated on the pool
Like pearls, and now a silver blade.
Robert Frost
-
Frost can be almost whimsical:
Gathering Leaves
Spades take up leaves
No better than spoons,
And bags full of leaves
Are light as balloons.
I make a great noise
Of rustling all day
Like rabbit and deer
Running away.
But the mountains I raise
Elude my embrace,
Flowing over my arms
And into my face.
I may load and unload
Again and again
Till I fill the whole shed,
And what have I then?
Next to nothing for weight,
And since they grew duller
From contact with earth,
Next to nothing for color
.
Next to nothing for use.
But a crop is a crop,
And who's to say where
The harvest shall stop?
Robert Frost
-
Welcome to our Autumn Poetry Page.
A haven for those who listen to the words
that open hearts, imagination, and our feelings
that we share about the poems we post - Please Join Us.
(http://seniorlearn.org/bookclubs/poetry/poetryleaves.jpg)
|
Poetry can be part of life
rather than a thing apart.
Share with us
Poems about the end
of the natural year.
Tell us
How you celebrate
a poet's life and poems.
Autumn holidays -
Tell us about Poetry in
Fall parties and gift giving.
|
A few Poetry Links:
- Famous Poets and Poems about Autumn (http://famouspoetsandpoems.com/thematic_poems/autumn_poems.html)
- Fall Poetry (http://www.dltk-holidays.com/fall/fallpoetry.htm)
- Poems for Autumn (http://www.scrapbook.com/poems/cat/5.html)
Discussion Leaders: BarbStAubrey (augere@ix.netcom.com) & Fairanna (fairanna@verizon.net)
-
"September, 1961" sounds like an elegy, lamenting the loss of some
personal heroes or guides of the poet. One wonders who E.P., Williams and
H.D. were.
They have told us
the road leads to the sea,
and given the language into our hands.
It sounds as though they must have been writers, perhaps poets. What
about your list of poets, BARB. Do you find an E.P., an H.D. or Wiliams
dying or no longer able to write in 1961?
Oh, I must object to the "suicide", JACKIE. The leaves fall, but the
tree does not die. And these words to his friend: "Don't you see? Don't you believe?
The things we can do, the things we can achieve." This poet seems to be
placing heavy expectations on that friendship. I find myself wanting to
take a careful step backwards!
I hadn't read "Going For Water", either, and I love it. Same for the
leaf raking poem. Frost is a great favorite.
-
the word suicide is part of her on-line name - she wants to become a published poet - my take on her Pseudo Nam is that she wants to change by destroying who she was - in affect suicide - to become who she aspires.
And yes, a Eulogy in many ways - many folks see Autumn as the dying of our natural world - of course that does not take into consideration half the planet but then most of these myths written into literature and poetry are born from a canon of western literature where the greats, from the Greeks to today, lived in Europe and North America.
As to the three folks - Williams is easy - in 1961 his long time compainion Marlot died and Tennessee Williams went into a 10 year depression when he did not write anything.
E.P. has to be Ezra Pound and I had to find out what happened in his life in 1961 - sure enough he too was experiencing depression and while visiting a Yale psychologist who later edited Pound's radio broadcasts, he sat silently while being recorded by Doobs for 3 hours. At the time this was big news.
H.D. is Hilda Doolittle who died in 1961 - here is one of her poems.
PEAR TREE
by: Hilda Doolittle (1886-1961)
SILVER dust
lifted from the earth,
higher than my arms reach,
you have mounted,
O silver,
higher than my arms reach
you front us with great mass;
no flower ever opened
so staunch a white leaf,
no flower ever parted silver
from such rare silver;
O white pear,
your flower tufts,
thick on the branch,
bring summer and ripe fruits
in their purple hearts.
-
Here is a Tennessee Williams poem...
Heavenly Grass
My feet took a walk in heavenly grass.
All day while the sky shone clear as glass.
My feet took a walk in heavenly grass,
All night while the lonesome stars rolled past.
Then my feet come down to walk on earth,
And my mother cried when she give me birth.
Now my feet walk far and my feet walk fast,
But they still got an itch for heavenly grass.
But they still got an itch for heavenly grass.
-
THE GARDEN
by: Ezra Pound (1885-1972)
LIKE a skein of loose silk blown against a wall
She walks by the railing of a path in Kensington Gardens,
And she is dying piece-meal
of a sort of emotional anemia.
And round about there is a rabble
Of the filthy, sturdy, unkillable infants of the very poor.
They shall inherit the earth.
In her is the end of breeding.
Her boredom is exquisite and excessive.
She would like some one to speak to her,
And is almost afraid that I
will commit that indiscretion.
-
BARB, you're a wonder. Tennessee Williams and Ezra Pound! I've never
heard of Hilda Doolittle, tho', and I can't say "The Pear Tree" greatly
impresses me.
Ezra Pound...it's amazing how much he has gotten into those few lines.
"Her boredom is exquisite and excessive." Such a perfect little sneer.
-
Autumn
The leaves are falling, falling as if from far up,
as if orchards were dying high in space.
Each leaf falls as if it were motioning "no."
And tonight the heavy earth is falling
away from all other stars in the loneliness.
We're all falling. This hand here is falling.
And look at the other one. It's in them all.
And yet there is Someone, whose hands
infinitely calm, holding up all this falling.
Rainer Maria Rilke
-
Here is an Emily Dickinson; notice that she includes her ubiquitous bees!
INDIAN SUMMER
Emily Dickinson [1830-1886]
These are the days when birds come back,
A very few, a bird or two,
To take a backward look.
These are the days when skies put on
The old, old sophistries of June, -
A blue and gold mistake.
Oh, fraud that cannot cheat the bee,
Almost thy plausibility
Induces my belief,
Till ranks of seeds their witness bear,
And softly through the altered air
Hurries a timid leaf!
Oh, sacrament of summer days,
Oh, last communion in the haze,
Permit a child to join,
Thy sacred emblems to partake,
Thy consecrated bread to break,
Taste thine immortal wine!
-
Diane Glancy is an American Indian poet.
Indian Summer
There’s a farm auction up the road.
Wind has its bid in for the leaves.
Already bugs flurry the headlights
between cornfields at night.
If this world were permanent,
I could dance full as the squaw dress
on the clothesline.
I would not see winter
in the square of white yard-light on the wall.
But something tugs at me.
The world is at a loss and I am part of it
migrating daily.
Everything is up for grabs
like a box of farm tools broken open.
I hear the spirits often in the garden
and along the shore of corn.
I know this place is not mine.
I hear them up the road again.
This world is a horizon, an open sea.
Behind the house, the white iceberg of the barn.
-
Another view:
September
How lovely the world is
In September
Warm air
Leaves just turning gold
Summer still lingering
Autumn coming nearer
It is a time of bittersweet endings
And bittersweet beginnings
It seems that every September
The world takes a deep breath
Shakes off the August heat
Prepares for a long winter
Knowing no one will feel this way again
Until next
September.
Nina Dringo
-
And, in memory:
If Only
by Adam
Take a snapshot view of your world
One that is sedate and serene
You’re at the top and it’s not a dream
You look out and everything’s fine
And in a New York minute you’re spun on a dime
Suddenly you are face to face
With the limits of Company ambition
And the scars of America’s political marketplace
Ever close your eyes
Ever think why?
Sit, really think and listen
Find a reason for so many to die
No sign of life, it’s all gone
Take a walk in an empty room
Memories come rushing up to loved ones now
Sadness is mixed with war and gloom
You know it never ceases to amaze you and me
This world where we just exist
Is absolutely full of maniacs and crazies
Who demand protection from a well-produced list
You know I can’t help thinking
That one day soon
We will all wake up
We will all be on the moon
Soaring above the heavens
Looking back on what has been
Seeing things we’ve never really seen
Thinking how it all could have been
If only the Moon had stayed up
If only the Sun hadn’t woke
If everyone were late for work
They would have been warned off by the smoke
If Only
-
One more:
Firefighter's Prayer
by David Cochrane
Our training took place on stairs
In a brick-built tower leading nowhere
With glassless windows issuing false smoke
The concrete crumbling to fine dust
With the incessant passage of rubber booted feet
Sweltering equipment to the scene of some imagined fire.
Hours over years spent on such stairs
The action of climbing them so grained into my mind
That the flutter of fear seems superficial by comparison.
And this Tuesday morning
In my heavy gear and helmet
Stairs lined by the subdued and stunned
Elegant in morning pressed clothes and fresh deodorant
Eyes eloquent in their despair for me
They shuffle down as I lumber sweating up
Each stair the rhythm of my mantra
Ah Jesus,
Ah Jesus,
Ah Jesus,
Ah
-
Wow - you shared for us to read quite a few wonders - Today 9/11 the Firefighter's Prayer was perfect to read -
A rainy day here with a few downpours - we need the rain but it makes me feel melancholy - even took a nap - I better get ready because we are supposed to have a wet fall and winter - we really need the rain - the lakes are lower then they have ever been since they were created in the late 1930s - they are finding roofs and pieces of the few towns that were covered up when the dams filled the river and formed the chain of lakes.
Of all the poems Jackie my favorite is Diane Clancy's Indian Summer - these lines will stay with me...
The world is at a loss and I am part of it
migrating daily.
Everything is up for grabs
like a box of farm tools broken open.
-
I go,
thou stayest--
two autumns.
Buson
-
Down here in Texas, that gorgeous blue sky of Autumn appears in October.
September is just beginning to edge off from 'too d--- hot!'.
"Adam" doesn't specifically say so, but don't you think his poem is also
about 9/ll? "If everyone were late for work they would have been warned off by the smoke." Too bad the 'maniacs and crazies' don't appear with tell-tale signs anyone could recognize.
"The 'Firefighters Prayer' is painfully eloquent. At that point, what more could
one say?
-
Adam's poem was in a web site for 911 poems.
-
Autumn Day
Lord: it is time. The summer was immense.
Lay your shadow on the sundials
and let loose the wind in the fields.
Bid the last fruits to be full;
give them another two more southerly days,
press them to ripeness, and chase
the last sweetness into the heavy wine.
Whoever has no house now will not build one
anymore.
Whoever is alone now will remain so for a long
time,
will stay up, read, write long letters,
and wander the avenues, up and down,
restlessly, while the leaves are blowing.
Rainer Maria Rilke
-
Late autumn.
my neighbor-
how does he live, I wonder?
Buson
-
In the Japanese tradition autumn Haiku are always sad:
Autumn evening.
A crow
settles on the bare branch.
Basho
In that one word, settles, Basho conveys, to me anyway, the feeling of late autumn.
But I haven't found a poem that conveys the feeling of early autumn. Since I was around schools and universities for so long, Autumn starts with new beginnings, glorious leaves, and crip air that tastes like wine.
-
Here is one with joy entwined with the sadness from a famous Indian Poet who assisted Ghandi during her life in the early part of the 20th century.
Autumns Song
Like a joy on the heart of a sorrow,
The sunset hangs on a cloud;
A golden storm of glittering sheaves,
Of fair and frail and fluttering leaves,
The wild wind blows in a cloud.
Hark to a voice that is calling
To my heart in the voice of the wind:
My heart is weary and sad and alone,
For its dreams like the fluttering leaves have gone,
And why should I stay behind?
Sarojini Naidu
-
Emily is not too depressing but again we are in mid-autumn when the leaves have turned
Nature XXVII, Autumn
by Emily Dickinson
The morns are meeker than they were,
The nuts are getting brown;
The berry's cheek is plumper,
The rose is out of town.
The maple wears a gayer scarf,
The field a scarlet gown.
Lest I should be old-fashioned,
I'll put a trinket on.
-
(http://www.egreenway.com/months/images/June39b.jpg)
"Equal dark, equal light
Flow in Circle, deep insight
Blessed Be, Blessed Be
The transformation of energy!
So it flows, out it goes
Three-fold back it shall be
Blessed Be, Blessed Be
The transformation of energy!"
-
JOANK, I think it is the years of starting a new school season every
Autumn that gives us that sense of new beginnings. That, and the
invigorating change from the heat of summer to that crisp air you spoke
of. October is one of my favorite times of the year.
BARB, even after reading that Dickinson poem so many times, I still
smile when I read "The rose is out of town", and am amused at the idea
of putting on a trinket, since the maple is wearing a gayer scarf.
Fall is Here
Helen H. Moore
Fall is here.
Another year
is coming to an end.
Summer's finished,
Summer's gone,
Winter's round the bend.
Fall is piles of crunchy leaves,
orange, gold, and red.
Fall is sweaters with long sleeves
and blankets on the bed.
Fall is footbell,
Fall is pumpkins,
Fall's where summer ends.
And
Fall is coming back to school,
and seeing all my friends
-
Such a rich treasure trove of words to ponder, assimilate and enjoy.
-
Sunset
Slowly the west reaches for clothes of new colors
which it passes to a row of ancient trees.
You look, and soon these two worlds both leave you
one part climbs toward heaven, one sinks to earth.
leaving you, not really belonging to either,
not so hopelessly dark as that house that is silent,
not so unswervingly given to the eternal as that thing
that turns to a star each night and climbs-
leaving you (it is impossible to untangle the threads)
your own life, timid and standing high and growing,
so that, sometimes blocked in, sometimes reaching out,
one moment your life is a stone in you, and the next, a star.
Rainer Maria Rilke
-
Does it sometimes seem to you that Rainer Maria Rilke has a lot of 'tangled threads' in himself, and that his poetry serves to help him try to untangle some of them?
-
Could be Bibi - however, he is considered now one of the best - how faithful to his words are the translations I do not know because I no longer know my German -
When I was a child before WWII we talked German at home but not since - and where I understand some German it no longer flows off my tongue and certainly what I did know was a child's vocabulary. All to say I do not know enough to know how good the translations are but I have a book ordered that has his 'Duino Elegies' in German on one side of the page and in English on the other.
So many are talking about his work here of late that I thought it was time to become more acquainted with his poetry.
-
Rilke is a name that has appeared many times in literature though I can't recall a single instance right now. His words are not quoted as much as "Rilke says . . ." Funny, I have never read much of his work.
-
"All Quiet On The Western Front" is probably Rilke's best known work, JACKIE.
For some reason, tho', I've never read it. When I first heard of it, many years
ago, I was just reluctant to read it. I can't even tell you why; it was simply a
personal reaction.
-
These Germans - sure is easy to mix them up - All Quiet on the Western Front was written by a WWI German Vet, Erich Maria Remarque
Rainer Maria Rilke was born in Prague back when it was Bohemia and lived most of his adult life in Paris, Trieste and caught in Germany during WWI he worked with records till his discharge when he moved to his beloved Switzerland, where he died in 1926. He traveled several times to Russia with his married lady love and his poetry is often showing the difference to the human spirit in a communistic controlled state versus freedom. His poetry reflects the classical symbolism and motifs of the ancient gods.
-
End of Summer
by James Richardson September 3, 2007
Just an uncommon lull in the traffic
so you hear some guy in an apron, sleeves rolled up,
with his brusque sweep brusque sweep of the sidewalk,
and the slap shut of a too thin rental van,
and I told him no a gust has snatched from a conversation
and brought to you, loud.
It would be so different
if any of these were missing is the feeling
you always have on the first day of autumn,
no, the first day you think of autumn, when somehow
the sun singling out high windows,
a waiter settling a billow of white cloth
with glasses and silver, and the sparrows
shattering to nowhere are the Summer
waving that here is where it turns
and will no longer be walking with you,
traveller, who now leave all of this behind,
carrying only what it has made of you.
Already the crowds seem darker and more hurried
and the slang grows stranger and stranger,
and you do not understand what you love,
yet here, rounding a corner in mild sunset,
is the world again, wide-eyed as a child
holding up a toy even you can fix.
How light your step
down the narrowing avenue to the cross streets,
October, small November, barely legible December.
-
Embers
Poor summer, it doesn't know it's dying.
A few days are all it has. Still, the lake
is with me, its strokes of blue-violet
and the fiery sun replacing loneliness.
I feel like an animal that has found a place.
This is my burrow, my nest, my attempt
to say, I exist. A rose can't shut itself
and be a bud again. It's a malady,
wanting it. On the shore, the moon sprinkles
light over everything, like a campfire,
and in the green-black night, the tall pines
hold their arms out as God held His arms
out to say that He was lonely and that
He was making Himself a man.
--Henri Cole
-
September
By Ella Wheeler Wilcox
My life's long radiant Summer halts at last,
And lo! beside my path way I behold
Pursuing Autumn glide: nor frost nor cold
Has heralded her presence; but a vast
Sweet calm that comes not till the year has passed
Its fevered solstice, and a tinge of gold
Subdues the vivid colouring of bold
And passion-hued emotions. I will cast
My August days behind me with my May,
Nor strive to drag them into Autumn's place,
Nor swear I hope when I do but remember.
Now violet and rose have had their day,
I'll pluck the soberer asters with good grace
And call September nothing but September.
-
Thanks for the info. in Rilke, BARB. I knew very little about him, only
that he served on the German side in the war.
I haven't read anyhing by James Richardson before. I like him. I like
his images and he gives a freshness to an old, classic theme.
Ah, Ms. Wilcox is talking about us, Ladies..
I will cast
My August days behind me with my May,
Nor strive to drag them into Autumn's place,
Nor swear I hope when I do but remember.
Now violet and rose have had their day,
I'll pluck the soberer asters with good grace
And call September nothing but September.
-
Sense Of Something Coming
I am like a flag in the center of open space.
I sense ahead the wind which is coming, and must live
it through.
while the things of the world still do not move:
the doors still close softly, and the chimneys are full
of silence,
the windows do not rattle yet, and the dust still lies down.
I already know the storm, and I am troubled as the sea.
I leap out, and fall back,
and throw myself out, and am absolutely alone
in the great storm.
Translated by Robert Bly
Rainer Maria Rilke
-
Has that beautiful song 'Remember' been posted already? Just in case it
hasn't, I'm posting it now.
"REMEMBER”
Music: Harvey Schmidt
Lyrics: Tom Jones
Try to remember the kind of September
When life was slow and oh, so mellow.
Try to remember the kind of September
When grass was green and grain was yellow.
Try to remember the kind of September
When you were a tender and callow fellow.
Try to remember, and if you remember,
Then follow.
Follow, follow, follow, follow, follow,
Follow, follow, follow, follow.
Try to remember when life was so tender
That no one wept except the willow.
Try to remember when life was so tender
That dreams were kept beside your pillow.
Try to remember when life was so tender
That love was an ember about to billow.
Try to remember, and if you remember,
Then follow.
Follow, follow, follow, follow, follow,
Follow, follow, follow, follow.
Deep in December, it's nice to remember,
Although you know the snow will follow.
Deep in December, it's nice to remember,
Without a hurt the heart is hollow.
Deep in December, it's nice to remember,
The fire of September that made us mellow.
Deep in December, our hearts should remember
And follow.
-
There are some songs that fit a particular voice so well. I can hear Tom Jones singing as I read the words. So lovely to recall. Thank you for the warm glow I'm feeling.
-
Falling Stars
Do you remember still the falling stars
that like swift horses through the heavens raced
and suddenly leaped across the hurdles
of our wishes--do you recall? And we
did make so many! For there were countless numbers
of stars: each time we looked above we were
astounded by the swiftness of their daring play,
while in our hearts we felt safe and secure
watching these brilliant bodies disintegrate,
knowing somehow we had survived their fall.
Translated by Albert Ernest Flemming
Rainer Maria Rilke
-
??? Oh, that wasn't me that asked the question about the trilogy, MARJ.
That was Pedln. Whatever...you've posted the answer.
Perry Como is another who sang that song beautifully, JACKIE. His is the
voice I 'hear' when I think about it.
I especially liked that last Rilke poem, BARB. So much softer than some of
his others.
-
Barb: That one is a 10 for sure! The images are so strong. The words just miss that frisson, maybe the problem with translating is never quite nailing the spirit of the poem.
A song Tom Jones "owns" is Green Green Grass of Home.
-
Welcome to our Autumn Poetry Page.
A haven for those who listen to the words
that open hearts, imagination, and our feelings
that we share about the poems we post - Please Join Us.
(http://seniorlearn.org/bookclubs/poetry/poetryleaves.jpg)
|
Poetry can be part of life
rather than a thing apart.
Share with us
Poems about the end
of the natural year.
Tell us
How you celebrate
a poet's life and poems.
Autumn holidays -
Tell us about Poetry in
Fall parties and gift giving.
|
A few Poetry Links:
- Famous Poets and Poems about Autumn (http://famouspoetsandpoems.com/thematic_poems/autumn_poems.html)
- Fall Poetry (http://www.dltk-holidays.com/fall/fallpoetry.htm)
- Poems for Autumn (http://www.scrapbook.com/poems/cat/5.html)
Discussion Leaders: BarbStAubrey (augere@ix.netcom.com) & Fairanna (fairanna@verizon.net)
My memories of Walter Huston do not support an image of him singing this song on Broadway but he did indeed introduce it.
September Song
(K. Weill, M. Anderson)
When I was a young man courting the girls
I played me a waiting game
If a maid refused me with tossing curls
I'd let the old Earth make a couple of whirls
While I plied her with tears in lieu of pearls
And as time came around she came my way
As time came around, she came
When you meet with the young girls early in the Spring
You court them in song and rhyme
They answer with words and a clover ring
But if you could examine the goods they bring
They have little to offer but the songs they sing
And the plentiful waste of time of day
A plentiful waste of time
Oh, it's a long, long while from May to December
But the days grow short when you reach September
When the autumn weather turns the leaves to flame
One hasn't got time for the waiting game
Oh, the days dwindle down to a precious few
September, November
And these few precious days I'll spend with you
These precious days I'll spend with you
-
Ah, JACKIE, I agree with you on "The Green Green Grass of Home. I hadn't thought of that song in a long while. And "September Song" is one of my all-time favorites. I'm glad I have those songs that is can still 'hear' in my mind.
Some wonderful new singers have been emerging from shows like "America
Has Talent" and I've been been sad that I'll never hear them. But the old-timers
are still there, in my head.
-
here we go...like y'all Walter Huston just does not come to mind singing and known for the September Song.
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=wkWn4--RmEk&feature=fvw
-
Autumn
by Grace Paley
1
What is sometimes called a
tongue of flame
or an arm extended burning
is only the long
red and orange branch of
a green maple
in early September reaching
into the greenest field
out of the green woods at the
edge of which the birch trees
appear a little tattered tired
of sustaining delicacy
all through the hot summer re-
minding everyone (in
our family) of a Russian
song a story
by Chekhov or my father
2
What is sometimes called a
tongue of flame
or an arm extended burning
is only the long
red and orange branch of
a green maple
in early September reaching
into the greenest field
out of the green woods at the
edge of which the birch trees
appear a little tattered tired
of sustaining delicacy
all through the hot summer re-
minding everyone (in
our family) of a Russian
song a story by
Chekhov or my father on
his own lawn standing
beside his own wood in
the United States of
America saying (in Russian)
this birch is a lovely
tree but among the others
somehow superficial
-
Barb: birch trees
appear a little tattered tired of sustaining delicacy
all through the hot summer
How apt! So nice. what a contrast between "sustaining" and "delicacy".
-
If we're sharing memories of "Septenber Song", how about "Autumn Leaves" with Nat King Cole.
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=9IDUxk9sSXI&feature=related (http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=9IDUxk9sSXI&feature=related)
(my cd of it has a better accompaniment.
Here's the jazz version with Stan Getz.
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=pnxeKl-Kbqw&feature=related (http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=pnxeKl-Kbqw&feature=related)
-
Last night a cool, damp wind swept in, and for the first time we felt the summer heat was truly over. It inspired me to go find a wind poem. Here's
one by our old favorite, Emily Dickinson.
XXIV.
THE WIND.
Of all the sounds despatched abroad,
There's not a charge to me
Like that old measure in the boughs,
That phraseless melody
The wind does, working like a hand
Whose fingers brush the sky,
Then quiver down, with tufts of tune
Permitted gods and me.
When winds go round and round in bands,
And thrum upon the door,
And birds take places overhead,
To bear them orchestra,
I crave him grace, of summer boughs,
If such an outcast be,
He never heard that fleshless chant
Rise solemn in the tree,
As if some caravan of sound
On deserts, in the sky,
Had broken rank,
Then knit, and passed
In seamless company.
-
Personally, I love fall. It brings back such wonderful memories; the smells of the bonfires, the rustle of the dying leaves underfoot, the brilliant colors and the laughter of children in the evening. I hate halloween but love the fall. My daughter hates fall because it reminds her of death . So for her (and us) I offer this poem by Susan Coolridge.
by Susan Coolidge
"I'll tell you how the leaves came down,"
The great tree to his children said,
"You're getting sleepy, Yellow and Brown,
Yes, very sleepy, little Red.
It is quite time to go to bed."
"Ah!" begged each silly, pouting leaf,
"Let us a little longer stay;
Dear Father Tree, behold our grief;
Tis such a very pleasant day
We do not want to go away."
So, for just one more merry day
To the great tree the leaflets clung,
Frolicked and danced, and had their way,
Upon the autumn breezes swung,
Whispering all their sports among,--
"Perhaps the great tree will forget,
And let us stay until the spring,
If we all beg, and coax, and fret."
But the great tree did no such thing;
He smiled to hear their whispering.
"Come, children, all to bed," he cried;
And ere the leaves could urge their prayer,
He shook his head, and far and wide,
Fluttering and rustling everywhere,
Down sped the leaflets through the air.
I saw them; on the ground they lay,
Golden and red, a huddled swarm,
Waiting till one from far away,
White bedclothes heaped upon her arm,
Should come to wrap them safe and warm.
The great bare tree looked down and smiled,
"Good-night, dear little leaves," he said.
And from below each sleepy child
Replied, "Good-night," and murmured,
"It is so nice to go to bed!"
Don't you love it? It is only good night not good-bye.
-
Two wonderful poems - Yes, Alf the concept of goodnight and going to bed is cozy and makes me think of the first night that the quilts have to be piled on - even though we had a cold front that Babi talks about it is still not cold enough for more than the one quilt or comforter that was folded all summer on the foot of the bed.
No orange, yellow or red leaves here but thank goodness rain - lots of rain - the lakes are still at their historic lows and are still falling in spite of all the rain. Our draught was so severe that the ground is still soaking up every drop that falls from the sky.
I talked last evening to my daughter who lives in the mountains of western North Carolina and there was a nip in the air along with leaves just tinging with the colors that will be in another week or two. I bet those who live further north are each day are seeing a change in the trees.
Babi I love the lines from the Dickinson poem -
Like that old measure in the boughs,
That phraseless melody
Her phrase tufts of tune caight my attention - I noticed the turn of phrase it allows us to slow down the poem since many of us expected to read tufts of time
-
Since this is the season for us to plant bulbs I was prompted to find this poem...
THE COUNTRY INCIDENT
By May Sarton
Absorbed in planting bulbs, that work of hope,
I was startled by a loud human voice,
“Do go on working while I talk. Don’t stop!”
And I was caught upon the difficult choice—
To yield the last half hour of precious light,
Or to stay on my knees, absurd and rude;
I willed her to be gone with all my might,
This kindly neighbor who destroyed a mood;
I could not think of next spring any more,
I had to re-assess the way I live.
Long after I went in and closed the door,
I pondered on the crude imperative.
What it is to be caught up in each day
Like a child fighting imaginary wars,
Converting work into this passionate play,
A rounded whole made up of different chores
Which one might name haphazard meditation.
And yet an unexpected call destroys
Or puts to rout my primitive elation:
Why be so serious about mere joys?
Is this where some outmoded madness lies,
Poet as recluse? No, what comes to me
Is how my father looked out of his eyes,
And how he fought for his own passionate play.
He could tear up unread and throw away
Communications from officialdom,
And, courteous in every other way,
Would not brook anything that kept him from
Those lively dialogues with man’s whole past
That were his intimate and fruitful pleasure.
Impetuous, impatient to the last,
“Be adamant, keep clear, strike for your treasure!”
I hear the youthful ardor in his voice
(And so I must forgive a self in labor).
I feel his unrepentant smiling choice,
(And so I ask forgiveness of my neighbor).
May Sarton (1912-1995) was born in Belgium, and immigrated to the US during World War I. She attended one of the country’s first progressive grade schools, and received a scholarship to Vassar, which she declined to pursue acting. After failing as an actress, Sarton dedicated her energy to writing.
I thought this was a nice web site about bulbs bringing to our attention that Wordsworth's Daffodil poem is as a result of hundreds of bulbs that probably spread year after year but the start had to be planted by someone. Makes me wonder who that someone was.
http://www.piurl.com/1u2d
-
Couldn't resist including this on our poetry page when I read it this morning - in a few short lines he says nearly everything every poet said that we shared in the last two days. His skill is amazing...
Nothing Gold Can Stay
Robert Frost (1923)
Nature’s first green is gold,
Her hardest hue to hold.
Her early leaf’s a flower;
But only so an hour.
Then leaf subsides to leaf.
So Eden sank to grief,
So dawn goes down to day.
Nothing gold can stay.
-
One of my most favorites!
-
I think it is the unexpected that makes Dickinson's poems such a joy,
BARB. She always has her own whimsical take on things.
I love the Sarton poem. "Converting work into this passionate play,
A rounded whole made up of different chores." What a lovely way to
look at the day's work.
I recognize that Frost poem; I have it in his book "Seasons". It's a
lovely book, with lovely photographs of the various seasons.
-
The Harvest Moon
The flame-red moon, the harvest moon,
Rolls along the hills, gently bouncing,
A vast balloon,
Till it takes off, and sinks upward
To lie on the bottom of the sky, like a gold doubloon.
The harvest moon has come,
Booming softly through heaven, like a bassoon.
And the earth replies all night, like a deep drum.
So people can't sleep,
So they go out where elms and oak trees keep
A kneeling vigil, in a religious hush.
The harvest moon has come!
And all the moonlit cows and all the sheep
Stare up at her petrified, while she swells
Filling heaven, as if red hot, and sailing
Closer and closer like the end of the world.
Till the gold fields of stiff wheat
Cry `We are ripe, reap us!' and the rivers
Sweat from the melting hills.
Ted Hughes
-
I knew as I was reading the poem sounded familiar and sure enough our old friend Ted Hughes - thanks Jackie - we spent a month focused on his work back a couple of years ago.
Here is another poet from our past - Joy Harjo
Postcolonial Tale
by Joy Harjo
Every day is a reenactment of the creation story. We emerge from dense unspeakable material, through the shimmering power of
dreaming stuff.
This is the first world, and the last.
Once we abandoned ourselves for television, the box that separates the dreamer from the dreaming. It was as if we were stolen, put into a bag carried on the back of a whiteman who pretends to own the earth and the sky. In the sack were all the people of the world. We fought until there was a hole in the bag.
When we fell we were not aware of falling. We were driving to work, or to the mall. The children were in school learning subtraction with guns, although they appeared to be in classes.
We found ourselves somewhere near the diminishing point of civilization, not far from the trickster's bag of tricks.
Everything was as we imagined it. The earth and stars, every creature and leaf imagined with us.
The imagining needs praise as does any living thing. Stories and songs are evidence of this praise.
The imagination conversely illumines us, speaks with us, sings with us.
Stories and songs are like humans who when they laugh are indestructible.
No story or song will translate the full impact of falling, or the inverse power of rising up.
Of rising up.
-
I find my mind resisting the idea of the 'bottom of the sky'. It 'does
not compute'! Do cows and sheep stare at a full moon, I wonder? My, this
poem does have me mentally blinking my eyes, JACKIE. ;)
Joy Harjo, now... I stopped a while there and just considered what she
was saying, esp. in light of the title, "Postcolonial Tale". " It was as if we were stolen, put into a bag carried on the back of a whiteman who pretends to own the earth and the sky."
Wonderful how a poem can cut right to the heart of a matter.
-
Hughes images are not easy, are they? But the idea of
The flame-red moon, the harvest moon,
Rolls along the hills, gently bouncing,
A vast balloon,
Till it takes off, and sinks upward
To lie on the bottom of the sky,
caught me and wouldn't let me go. When we read Hughes did we talk about this one? I can't remember if I was there for the discussion.
-
Seems to me Jackie back then we did a lot of sharing without much commenting - but it was those phrases that I remembered from the poem - I loved the concept then and still do because the Harvest moon is low in the sky and where I am high on the edge of a mesa that is Northwest Hills in Austin therefore I do not see the moon against a higher hill but rather over a low cityscape the harvest moon hovers low and comes up higher, larger and closer and then back down where as, sometimes the moon makes a huge arch high in the sky and sets in the west but in Autumn there is no traveled high arch from east to west.
And Yes, Joy Harjo can bring it to us with impact because of her words - here is another of her poems.
EQUINOX
I must keep from breaking into the story by force
for if I do I will find myself with a war club in my hand
and the smoke of grief staggering toward the sun,
you nation dead beside you.
I keep walking away though it has been an eternity
and from each drop of blood
springs up sons and daughters, trees,
a mountain of sorrows, of songs.
I tell you this from the dusk of a small city in the north
not far from the birthplace of cars and industry.
Geese are returning to mate and crocuses have
broken through the frozen earth.
Soon they will come for me and I will make my stand
before the jury of destiny. Yes, I will answer in the clatter
of the new world, I have broken my addiction to war
and desire. Yes, I will reply, I have buried the dead
and made songs of the blood, the marrow
-
Powerful, BARB. Joy Harjo does not write poems to be taken lightly. I'd be
interested to know something of her background. I'm going to look her up.
-
I see that Miss Harjo also writes songs. And we have something in common,
a Cherokee ancestry, tho' my portion is only about an eighth.
Joy Harjo (born Tulsa, Oklahoma, May 9, 1951) is an American poet, musician, and author of Native American Canadian ancestry. Known primarily as a poet, Harjo has also taught at the college level, played tenor saxophone with a band called Poetic Justice, edited literary journals, and written screenplays. She is a member of the Muscogee (Creek) Nation of Oklahoma and is of Cherokee descent. She is a graduate of the Iowa Writers' Workshop at the University of Iowa.
-
Yes, we did a month of her poetry I guess two years ago now, it was in the early fall of the year and as a result I read several books about the Muscogee (Creek) Nation and the difference between a red stick town and a white stick town.
All her poetry is powerful stuff - I bet you could find a used edition of one of her books on Amazon for a low price - that is how I buy most of my books - I add the $4. shipping in my head and if the total is less then the new book and it is a good used copy I go for it. In all these years I was only taken twice and each time when I notified Amazon they refunded my money even though that is a loss to them since the money went to the book seller.
-
Here is another of her poems.
IT'S RAINING IN HONOLULU
There is a small mist at the brow of the mountain,
each leaf of flower, of taro, tree and bush shivers with ecstasy.
And the rain songs of all the flowering ones who have called for the rain
can be found there, flourishing beneath the currents of singing.
Rain opens us, like flowers, or earth that has been thirsty for more than a season.
We stop all of our talking, quit thinking, or blowing sax to drink the mystery.
We listen to the breathing beneath our breathing.
This is how the rain became rain, how we became human.
The wetness saturates everything, including the perpetrators of the second overthrow.
We will plant songs where there were curses
-
Interesting to learn that she and I are distant cousins, of a sort. My GGM was an Alabama Creek, from that stubborn band who resisted the move to Oklahoma. For many years they lived in dire poverty but presently fare better due to the casino they built in Atmore, the home of my father's family. At some point after his birth the framily moved to Mobile where I was born and lived until my eighth year when we came to California, San Jose to be exact. Now I live in Oregon where my MILs family established themselves; I followed my sister whose son successfully established himself in business.
-
Barb: There are no Joy Harjo poetry books in my library but I would like to read more of her work. Have you any recommendations where I should start?
-
Jackie the books of Joy Harjo's poetry that I have and Amazon sells used for less than half the price are: [remember when calculating the cost to add the shipping]
http://www.amazon.com/Mad-Love-War-Wesleyan-Poetry/dp/081951182X/ref=sr_1_9?ie=UTF8&s=books&qid=1254096062&sr=8-9
http://www.amazon.com/Woman-Who-Fell-Sky-Poems/dp/039331362X/ref=sr_1_3?ie=UTF8&s=books&qid=1254096062&sr=8-3
http://www.amazon.com/gp/product/0816511136/ref=ox_ya_oh_product
I also purchased and read:
"Deerskins and Duffels: Creek Indian Trade with Anglo-America, 1685-1815 (Indians of the Southeast) "
"A Sacred Path : The Way of the Muscogee Creeks"
"Road to Disappearance: A History of the Creek Indians (Civilization of the American Indian)"
"The Earth Shall Weep: A History of Native America by James Wilson"
"The Nature of Native American Poetry"
"American Indian Trickster Tales"
"Rabbit's Wish for Snow: A Native American Legend"
And the fabulous read that pulled everything together for me -
"Reimagining Indians: Native Americans through Anglo Eyes, 1880-1940"
A few years ago I read most every thing Scott Momaday wrote and also read Leslie Marmon Silko - I was communcating with someone from New Mexico who knew how Native American literature is constructed - she explained how the concept of time is different than our western way of describing time - that the past and future is alongside the present so as you are reading they are all the same circling back on each other - native American literature timeline includes the past and future seemlessly as if part of the present in the story.
I pick up bits of that in Joy Harjo's poetry - I also learned from one of the books I read in the list above that Harjo is a common name among the Muscogee, like Smith is a common anglo name.
There is a well known Muscogee Creek poet whose work I found on the Internet - Alex Posey - he lived before the tribes was forced out of the eastern states after the treaty of Fort Jackson after the Red Sticks war.
I thought the history of the Red Sticks villiages and the White Sticks villiages to be facinating.
-
BARB: are you also into Native American music? I was in a store that sells goods made by Native Americans and bought a CD of what I thought was NA music -- turns out to be new age. Although I like it, I would like to try something more authentic.
-
Joan I do not know much about Native American music - most of what I see available at the Pow Wows is Flutes and Cd's with Flute music that does sound new age. Traditional music the only thing I know about is the community drum and the various rattles that are tied to the angles and legs of the dancers - many of the original rattles I understand were made from Turtle Shells - when the Flute was played - what ceremony or dance or maybe for just the sound of it - I do not know but it would be fun to research and explore wouldn't it.
This Cd with flutes sounds interesting from the sample
http://www.amazon.com/Tribal-Winds-Native-American-Flutes/dp/B000002M7V/ref=pd_krex_fa_t_dp_img
Wikipedia has some information about the Native American Flute http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Native_American_flute
And here are other sites with information on the history of the Native American flute
http://cedarmesa.com/flutehistory.html#History
http://www.native-american-flutes.com/
http://www.native-languages.org/flutes.htm
I could be dead wrong but I wouldn't be a bit surprised to learn that the playing of the flute has something to do with sending the breath of life into being and the drum is expressing the heart beat of the earth. If I am wrong it was a nice thought... ;)
-
Thanks for that clue about 'seamless' time in Native American poetry, BARB. It explains the shifts I was seeing in her poems. It seems to me that this line
expresses so much of their spirituality..
We listen to the breathing beneath our breathing.
-
Barb: That is an impressive list of references. My library has a book which she edited: Reinventing the enemy's language : contemporary native women's writing of North America Sounds like a good read to me.
-
owww Jackie what a great book you have available - I looked it up on Amazon and couldn't stop reading the excerpts - found a copy for 1.35 plus shipping and so please let us hear from you the bits from the book that catch your attention - when my copy arrives I will let you know - from an outside source the arrival date is often 2 or more weeks later.
Babi on days like this and in fact during any of the days in Fall it often feels as if we can hear the earth breathing doesn't it - but to be conscious of the breathing below the breathing - wow - Living in the city even though the sound of the highway traffic does not reach us I realize there is a low almost inaudible sound as if the earth were vibrating and I know that it is the traffic on the roads moving through and around town. I think we have to get out of town to really be in touch again with who we are.
Have y'all been watching the PBS special on the National Parks - I never read any of the books written by Muir but his quotes sound like the thoughts in the Native American poetry we read.
I know very little about Shintoism - I do not know how much is translated into English - However, I would love to compare the Japanese holiness with nature to the Native American's view.
The English Romantic Poets do not sound as if they are at one with nature but rather observers of Nature and use what they observe to further a philosophical concept - even Dickinson writes about nature as an Allegory.
Ownership is a funny concept - if you own most believe they have the right to do what they want with what they own - and if they rent they still feel they have the right to do what they want only someone else picks up the tab - I guess it is only when we see ourselves as a seemless part of nature that we get close to respecting nature but even then there are so many of us who do not respect our bodies much less love ourselves - a conundrum.
Here is the wonderful web site by Joy Harjo http://www.joyharjo.com/Home.html
-
Well, noise is no longer a problem for me, but I do miss the stars. All I can see
is two or three of the brightest ones, and I know that past all the city/industry
lights there are millions of them up there.
Isn't Shinto an ancestor worship? I know the Japanese paint wonderful
landscapes, but I was unaware of any 'holiness with nature' aspect. Incredible, isn't it, with all we have learned over the years, how very little we know.
-
Babi here is a web site with a brief composit of Shintoism - http://www.religioustolerance.org/shinto.htm
Yes, you are right on, ancestor worship is part of Shinto practices.
I remember seeing several TV specials of Shinto Shrines located in mountains - I am not sure if their priests are called monks or what but I remember there was all this with wrapping and tying long pieces of cloth in certain configurations including how for some holy days the cloth was wrapped to hold on some sort of black hat - but most of all I remember a God status is given to certain trees, rocks, even a stream bed - not the same as the Native American view of nature but still a greater connection than most religions that stem from Abraham which seems to be all about the word and making the case for a single God head.
Here is a nice site that explains a bit about Shinto and nature http://godquest.org/shintoism.htm
-
Now I remember here is some brief information and then the photo of the two rocks that were married -
Shinto gods are called kami.
The Sun Goddess Amaterasu
is considered Shinto's most important kami.
Sacred places:
waterfalls,
streams,
mountains,
sacred straw rope,
stretched between the gateway, torii.
http://www.japan-guide.com/g4/4303_01.jpg
-
Ah back to our theme of Autumn with a few Japanese poems centered in nature.
In the autumn fields
mingled with the pampas grass
flowers are blooming
should my love too, spring forth
or shall we never meet?
On Kasuga plain
between those patches of snow
just beginning to sprout,
glimpsed, the blades of grass,
like those glimpses of you.
The autumn breeze rises
on the shore at Fukiage--
and those white chrysanthemums
are they flowers? or not?
or only breakers on the beach?
-
A book i read and reread many years ago has left me with two powerful images of Japan and its ties to Nature. Shogun tells how a British sea captain and his crew are swept onshore in Japan when their ship is destroyed in a storm, Japan at that time had had no contact with Westerners. There were many areas of social conflict, chief being that Brits never bathed and Japanese bathed at least once daily. As the captain assimilates he learns to seek repose by observing the rocks in a rock garden and waiting for them to grow. http://www.piurl.com/1uJK
The second example: the entire village assembled every evening to watch the sunset together.
http://www.piurl.com/1uJM
-
Thanks for the links, BARB. I see the love of nature is considered
a 'noble virtue'. I can buy that.
The Japanese poem on Autumn seems to reflect more Western themes and
style than most I have read. Not that I've read very much Japanese poetry.
I think I had begun to believe all their poems were five lines. ;)
"Shogun" was a great book. It's been so long since I read it, I could
probably read it again with equal enjoyment.
-
English Poet, 1793-1864
Autumn by John Clare
The thistle-down's flying, though the winds are all still,
On the green grass now lying, now mounting the hill,
The spring from the fountain now boils like a pot;
Through stones past the counting it bubbles red hot.
The ground parched and cracked is like overbaked bread,
The greensward all wracked is, bents dried up and dead.
The fallow fields glitter like water indeed,
And gossamers twitter, flung from weed unto weed.
Hill tops like hot iron glitter bright in the sun,
And the rivers we're eying burn to gold as they run;
Burning hot is the ground, liquid gold is the air;
Whoever looks round sees Eternity there.
-
Chinese Poet (Southern Dynasties 386-589)
Midnight Song of the Seasons: Autumn Song
Collection, Yuefu
The autumn wind enters through the window,
The gauze curtain starts to flutter and fly.
I raise my head and look at the bright moon,
And send my feelings a thousand miles in its light.
-
Japanese Poet (Early Tenth Century)
When autumn came
My eyes clearly
Could not see it, yet
In the sound of the wind
I felt it.
By Fujiwara no Toshiyuki
-
Muscogee Creek Poet, 1873-1908
Autumn
IN the dreamy silence
Of the afternoon, a
Cloth of gold is woven
Over wood and prairie;
And the jaybird, newly
Fallen from the heaven,
Scatters cordial greeting,
And the air is filled with
Scarlet leaves, that, dropping
Rise again, as ever,
With a useless sigh for
Rest--and it is Autumn.
By Alexander Lawrence Posey
-
Welcome to our Autumn Poetry Page.
A haven for those who listen to the words
that open hearts, imagination, and our feelings
that we share about the poems we post - Please Join Us.
(http://seniorlearn.org/bookclubs/poetry/poetryleaves.jpg)
|
Poetry can be part of life
rather than a thing apart.
Share with us
Poems about the end
of the natural year.
Tell us
How you celebrate
a poet's life and poems.
Autumn holidays -
Tell us about Poetry in
Fall parties and gift giving.
|
A few Poetry Links:
- Famous Poets and Poems about Autumn (http://famouspoetsandpoems.com/thematic_poems/autumn_poems.html)
- Fall Poetry (http://www.dltk-holidays.com/fall/fallpoetry.htm)
- Poems for Autumn (http://www.scrapbook.com/poems/cat/5.html)
Discussion Leaders: BarbStAubrey (augere@ix.netcom.com) & Fairanna (fairanna@verizon.net)
-
In the sound of the wind
I felt it.
What imagery. Sublime
-
What I thought interesting was how the English poem was from the point of view of an observer where as the Chinese, Japanese and Native American poets wrote as if they were 'within' and a part of what the English poet could only describe.
I am trying to adopt that change of focus and see what other changes that point of view brings about in me. It takes listening and feeling teh pulse of the day rather than simply observing the sun, wind, trees, grass etc. Already I notice a stillness that I think I have known was there and I have been filling my brain with sounds to ward off the stillness because I think I am not ready for the Autumn of my life.
Thinking about it from that point of view I cannot stop it but I am missing out - there are so many quiet activities that my hands have time for now and there are many visits and notes I can write now that I did not have time for in the Summer of my life - that rather than feeling I need to keep Summer as long as possible I can embrace Autumn and feel the luxury of stillness punctuated by the wind and rain - I am anxious now for the next 'norther' as we call a cold front - just so I can listen and feel as if I was part of the wind and rain and see what comes up for me.
-
Barb: I have often wondered how it would feel to know that i was living where my ancestors had lived for thousands of years. It is not a stretch to believe in one's ownership. We, however, live where and among people whose history stretches back to times before there were whites. They lived in Nature since their survival depended on it - not conquerors but companions. Charles de Lint writes urban fantasies which incorporate much of the mythology and folklore of these first settlers in such a way that I can, feebly, feel some of that awe and fear and worship of Mother Nature. Mother, symbol of sharing, spreading out the bounty, respecting all with no concept of higher or lower order.
I like your image of living in the autumn of your life with the faster, more frantic times comprising summer. Spring does equate with childhood. And winter is both the cessation of life, being placed beneath the blanket, also the beginning of life, being swaddled within the blanket. Very lyrical.
-
I wonder where John Clare lived? "burning hot ground" is not something
I'd associate with Autumn. I do like Posey's jaybird as he 'scatters
cordial greeting'.
I think the following poem fits in well with the last posts from both Barb and Jackie.
A Song In October
Clouds gather, treetops toss and sway;
But pour us wine, an old one!
That we may turn this dreary day
To golden; yes, to golden!
What if the storm outside destroy
Alike Christian and heathen?
Nature must sweep the old away
To bring on a new season.
What if some aching dread we feel?
Lift glasses, all, and ring them!
True hearts, we know, will never quail
Whatever fortune brings them!
Clouds gather, treetops toss and sway;
But pour us wine, an old one!
That we may turn this dreary day
To golden, yes, to golden!
Autumn has come, but never fear,
Wait but a little while yet,
Spring will be here, the skies will clear,
And fields stand deep in violets.
The heavenly blue of fresh new days
Oh, friend, you must employ them
Before they pass away. Be brave!
Enjoy them; oh, enjoy them!
-
Fields stand deep in violets
What a picture those words create.
Who wrote that poem, Babi?
-
Oops! When I copied that poem, I picked up a lot of other stuff, too. In
deleting what I didn't want, I must have accidentally deleted the poet's name
as well. He is Theodor Storm.
-
That's almost funny, Babi.
-
"Almost" has killed many a comic, JACKIE. I'm glad I wasn't fishing for a joke.
;D
-
Cannot figure out what is going on with me - I was so miserable Yesterday I was sure I had the beginning stages of the flu - today after long bed rest, homeopathic meds for flu and lots of fluids I am feeling better - I wonder if the norther that blew in here brought some allergens that I had a massive reaction to. Well another day of rest because I am still not tip top but feeling better than Yesterday.
this one because it makes me laugh which is such good medicine.
As Soon as Fred Gets Out of Bed by Jack Prelutsky
As soon as Fred gets out of bed,
his underwear goes on his head.
His mother laughs, "Don't put it there,
a head's no place for underwear!"
But near his ears, above his brains,
is where Fred's underwear remains.
At night when Fred goes back to bed,
he deftly plucks it off his head.
His mother switches off the light
and softly croons, "Good night! Good night!"
And then, for reasons no one knows,
Fred's underwear goes on his toes.
And this one because it is a fun way of describing my plight only I will not be going out to play.
Sick
by Shel Silverstein
"I cannot go to school today,"
Said little Peggy Ann McKay,
"I have the measles and the mumps,
A gash, a rash, and purple bumps.
My mouth is wet, my throat is dry,
I'm going blind in my right eye.
My tonsils are as big as rocks,
I've counted sixteen chicken pox
And there's one more--that's seventeen,
And don't you think my face looks green?
My leg is cut, my eyes are blue--
It might be instamatic flu.
I cough and sneeze and gasp and choke,
I'm sure that my left leg is broke--
My hip hurts when I move my chin,
My belly button's caving in,
My back is wrenched, my ankle's sprained,
My 'pendix pains each time it rains.
My nose is cold, my toes are numb,
I have a sliver in my thumb.
My neck is stiff, my voice is weak,
I hardly whisper when I speak.
My tongue is filling up my mouth,
I think my hair is falling out.
My elbow's bent, my spine ain't straight,
My temperature is one-o-eight.
My brain is shrunk, I cannot hear,
There is a hole inside my ear.
I have a hangnail, and my heart is--what?
What's that? What's that you say?
You say today is---Saturday?
G'bye, I'm going out to play!"
-
;D
I well remember my mother once asking me how it was that she had to
wake me up on school mornings, but that I woke up bright and early on the
weekends. I calmly explained that even when I was sleeping, I knew when it
was Saturday. The odd thing is, it was perfectly true. :)
-
‘Day breaks: the whole of yesterday went falling’
by Pablo Neruda
Day breaks: the whole of yesterday went falling
among fingers of light and eyes of dream,
tomorrow will arrive with green footsteps:
no one holds back the river of dawn.
No one holds back the river of your hands,
the eyes of your dream, beloved.
You are the tremor of time that runs
between light on end and darkened sunlight.
And the sky closes over you its wings
lifts you and brings you to my arms
with exact, mysterious courtesy.
For this I sing to the day and the moon,
to the sea, to time, to every planet,
to your diurnal voice, to your nocturnal flesh.
-
Autumn leaf, Spring Leaf
each autumn leaf
trailing the wind
a lost dream
each spring leaf
that takes leave
a lost hope
john tiong chunghoo
-
"Day breaks: the whole of yesterday went falling
among fingers of light and eyes of dream,
tomorrow will arrive with green footsteps:
no one holds back the river of dawn."
I love that.
-
Hear! Hear!
-
Autumn
by Judy Lewis
A stand of birches, icy white barked,
Shed their leaves like golden rain
Amid the fog of haunted autumn
Death may be a whispered message
In the swirl of ghostly mist
Yet eruptions of violent color
Hot with red and sulphur yellow
Are the mimics of our own season
I much prefer the bite of October
To the cloying scent of pollen rich May
This does not feel like green life dying
More like creation changing its mind
And redesigning the complexion of life
Painting foliage, softening jawlines
Into new expressive art forms
I have travelled a long way for this view
It is the destination I always had in mind
Uncovering bright mysteries in the act
Of abandoning our first seasons skin
Hold me fast for it is best to be well rooted
When we stand bare boned in the cold of winter
-
Autumn Haiku
By Peter Desmond
fallen yellow leaves
lie in the bowl of the street
like cornflakes
-
Seven Autumn Haiku
This Autumn’s beauty
Is not in the fallen leaves
But in their falling
Gnarled fence posts framing
Primrose and morning glory
Climbing vines of wire
Moon on waterfall
Cascades to the stream below
Splash of falling stars
Autumn pine needles
Flying like frightened sparrows
Songs the sounds of rain
Cold winds of Autumn
And trees bow low before it
Weeping crimson tears
Sparrows cry warnings
Beneath the hawk's silent wings
Death waits patiently
The first frost of Fall
Finds the last rose of Summer
Cold stars fall as snow
Mark Riesenberger
-
Jackie you have shared with us a wonderful table of Autumn - I especially enjoy
Cold winds of Autumn
And trees bow low before it
Weeping crimson tears
Reading your bounty and I realize I have never seen the moon on a waterfalls to have in my mind's eye a picture of how the splashing from a waterfalls would appear as if stars or sparkles.
The lines in the Judy Lewis poem that struck me are:
I much prefer the bite of October
To the cloying scent of pollen rich May
Here, we do not get a bite in the air unless a 3 day Norther pushes through - for the most part October is mellow with long wispy clouds and great swaths of various sublet colored grasses broken by outcroppings of limestone.
Our short sleeve October weather put fashion conscious young women in a bind before we had an attractive regional line of clothes in answer to the featured fall fashions from New York and Paris.
In this part of the country April is the shooting riot of wildflowers that charms us while every thing in nature is in a hurry to be born in May, from fawns to tomatoes before the stillness of our long hot summer sun bakes the earth with every dawn.
The air of May is thick and heavy like a silo stored full where as October the air is warm and mellow with regular rain showers filling in cracks in the dried out soil and washing out the dry creek beds. This year for some reason the weather was just right for the growth of mounds of golden lantana. Every other front yard reminds us of fall with a large mound of deep yellow cascading over curbs, driveways and front door steps.
In most of Texas, October is the start of Hunting season and gardens here in Central Texas, that were caged from the deer produce every kind of red, green and yellow pepper. Kitchens are filled with the aroma of a simmering pot of Chili and deer meat stew. Here is a fun poem that expresses Fall in this part of the country.
FIVE WORDS
Maria Campo
I was walking down Hennepin Avenue
when the green light turned red.
With my foot midair
I landed on the moon and holy cow!
Smoke came up from a crater near by,
and the scent, mmm...
the scent of chili filled the air
leaving me in a puzzle ...
should I go back home now
or have dinner first?
-
Hope you are feeling better, Barbara!
Those 2 poems about illness were so cute.
The haiku always make my heart sing. They are just so much more than words - more than I can express as a thought about they make me feel.
- this poem from Panhala this morning, while not about fall, sure had me sit up and take notice - was feeling absolutely glum about life challenges that seem to have taken over my mood. Do not like feeling "heavy" and overwhelmed. Not that I think being a Pollyanna is wise but one can certainly cut loose the albatross . Kind of mixing metaphors I think. ;D
Ode To Gaiety
Go gloom
Begone glum and grim
Off with the drab drear and grumble
It's time
its pastime
to come undone and come out laughing
time to wrap killjoys in wet blankets
and feed them to the sourpusses
Come frisky pals
Come forth wily wags
Loosen your screws and get off your rocker
Untie the strait lacer
Tie up the smarty pants
Tickle the crosspatch with josh and guffaw
Share quips and pranks with every victim
of grouch pomposity or blah
Woe to the bozo who says No to
tee hee ho ho and ha ha
Boo to the cleancut klutz who
wipes the smile off his face
Without gaiety
freedom is a chastity belt
Without gaiety
life is a wooden kimono
Come cheerful chums
Cut up and carry on
Crack your pots and split your sides
Boggle the bellyacher
Convulse the worrywart
Pratfall the prissy poos and the fuddy duds
Take drollery to heart or end up a deadhead
at the guillotine of the mindless
Be wise and go merry round
whatever you cherish
what you love to enjoy what you live to exert
And when the high spirits
call your number up
count on merriment all the way to the countdown
Long live hilarity euphoria and flumadiddle
Long live gaiety
for all the laity
~ James Broughton ~
(Glees)
-
James Broughton (November 10, 1913 – May 17, 1999) was an American poet, and poetic filmmaker. He was part of the San Francisco Renaissance. He was an early bard of the Radical Faeries.
http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/James_Broughton
-
"the river of your hands" is an image I find puzzling, BARB. I can't make
sense of it. I love these lines, though"
And the sky closes over you its wings
lifts you and brings you to my arms
with exact, mysterious courtesy.
Love these, too, JACKIE: Hold me fast for it is best to be well rooted
When we stand bare boned in the cold of winter
MARJV, the big grin on my face is from "Ode to Gaiety", especially the
bit about "wrap killjoys in wet blankets and feed them to the sourpusses"!
(y'all have me in a colorful mood this morning)
-
What a nice start to my day. Gaiety is too often missing when I call the role of my emotions. I vow to seek out its hiding place and bring it up to muster.
Babi: I was enchanted by those two lines also. As to "river of your hands" it suggests to me the ebb and flow of the hands of those people who can't talk without their hands moving in accompaniment to their words. Sometimes a poem is a series of images, like vignettes, rather than a story with a beginning, a middle, and an end. At least that's how I read them, skipping from image to image. I alway feel like I'm missing something, the thread, that unites the images but that doesn't lessen my enjoyment of the individual elements.
Margv: Haiku is either exactly right or it is a meaningless string of words. But when it's right, ah, then . . .
-
Marj thanks for the Ode To Gaiety - I have sent it on to several friends and family members - it is great - even sent it to my grandsons. Sometimes we have to laugh through the tears and the ode certainly helps that process...
-
Can't remember if I posted this here before. Kind of an autumn feeling without the melancholy.
Autumn in New York!
Why does it seem so inviting?
Autumn in New York,
It brings the thrill of firstnighting.
Glittering crowds and shimmering clouds
In canyons of steel; they're making me feel
I'm home.
Autumn in New York!
It brings the promise of new love!
Autumn in New York
is often mingled with pain.
Dreamers with empty hands may sigh for exotic lands.
Autumn in New York! It's good to live it again.
best expressed by Ella Fitzgerald and Louis Armstrong)
-
You can take your choice at this Youtube page to see/hear "Autumn in New York".
Glad the poem eilicited some grins and sharings. It gave me perspective. All I had wanted to do that day was crawl back in bed.
http://www.youtube.com/results?search_query=autumn+in+new+york&search_type=&aq=1&oq=autumn+in+
-
This isn't a poem, but prose is often as lovely as poetry.
"October is nature's funeral month. Nature glories in death more than in life. The month of departure
is more beautiful than the month of coming - October than May. Every green thing loves to
die in bright colors."
- Henry Ward Beecher
-
This is long but Babi your post reminded me of this poem by Edgar Allan Poe:
To -- -- --. Ulalume: A Ballad
The skies they were ashen and sober;
The leaves they were crisp'd and sere—
The leaves they were withering and sere;
It was night in the lonesome October
Of my most immemorial year;
It was hard by the dim lake of Auber,
In the misty mid region of Weir—
It was down by the dank tarn of Auber,
In the ghoul-haunted woodland of Weir.
Here once, through an alley Titanic,
Of cypress, I roamed with my Soul—
Of cypress, with Psyche, my Soul.
These were days when my heart was volcanic
As the scoriac rivers that roll—
As the lavas that restlessly roll
Their sulphurous currents down Yaanek
In the ultimate climes of the pole—
That groan as they roll down Mount Yaanek
In the realms of the boreal pole.
Our talk had been serious and sober,
But our thoughts they were palsied and sere—
Our memories were treacherous and sere—
For we knew not the month was October,
And we marked not the night of the year—
(Ah, night of all nights in the year!)
We noted not the dim lake of Auber—
(Though once we had journeyed down here)—
We remembered not the dank tarn of Auber,
Nor the ghoul-haunted woodland of Weir.
And now, as the night was senescent
And star-dials pointed to morn—
As the star-dials hinted of morn—
At the end of our path a liquescent
And nebulous lustre was born,
Out of which a miraculous crescent
Arose with a duplicate horn—
Astarte's bediamonded crescent
Distinct with its duplicate horn.
And I said—"She is warmer than Dian:
She rolls through an ether of sighs—
She revels in a region of sighs:
She has seen that the tears are not dry on
These cheeks, where the worm never dies,
And has come past the stars of the Lion
To point us the path to the skies—
To the Lethean peace of the skies—
Come up, in despite of the Lion,
To shine on us with her bright eyes—
Come up through the lair of the Lion,
With love in her luminous eyes."
But Psyche, uplifting her finger,
Said—"Sadly this star I mistrust—
Her pallor I strangely mistrust:—
Oh, hasten! oh, let us not linger!
Oh, fly!—let us fly!—for we must."
In terror she spoke, letting sink her
Wings till they trailed in the dust—
In agony sobbed, letting sink her
Plumes till they trailed in the dust—
Till they sorrowfully trailed in the dust.
I replied—"This is nothing but dreaming:
Let us on by this tremulous light!
Let us bathe in this crystalline light!
Its Sybilic splendor is beaming
With Hope and in Beauty to-night:—
See!—it flickers up the sky through the night!
Ah, we safely may trust to its gleaming,
And be sure it will lead us aright—
We safely may trust to a gleaming
That cannot but guide us aright,
Since it flickers up to Heaven through the night."
Thus I pacified Psyche and kissed her,
And tempted her out of her gloom—
And conquered her scruples and gloom:
And we passed to the end of the vista,
But were stopped by the door of a tomb—
By the door of a legended tomb;
And I said—"What is written, sweet sister,
On the door of this legended tomb?"
She replied—"Ulalume—Ulalume—
'Tis the vault of thy lost Ulalume!"
Then my heart it grew ashen and sober
As the leaves that were crispèd and sere—
As the leaves that were withering and sere,
And I cried—"It was surely October
On this very night of last year
That I journeyed—I journeyed down here—
That I brought a dread burden down here—
On this night of all nights in the year,
Oh, what demon has tempted me here?
Well I know, now, this dim lake of Auber—
This misty mid region of Weir—
Well I know, now, this dank tarn of Auber—
In the ghoul-haunted woodland of Weir."
Said we, then—the two, then—"Ah, can it
Have been that the woodlandish ghouls—
The pitiful, the merciful ghouls—
To bar up our way and to ban it
From the secret that lies in these wolds—
From the thing that lies hidden in these wolds—
Had drawn up the spectre of a planet
From the limbo of lunary souls—
This sinfully scintillant planet
From the Hell of the planetary souls?"
A master of meter and atmosphere - only after I looked up some of the words did I learn that Poe originated many of the words - I remember when I first read this as a Teen I would sprinkle my sentences with words like 'bediamonded' and 'liquescent' and if I forgot an errend I would say something like 'my mind floated the Lethe'. Poe's poem for me had just enough dread and mystery and just enough gray gloom to match October.
Although, 'To Kill a Mockingbird' was written when I was much older after seeing the movie and then reading the book it is another literary vision of October that comes to mind. Not only are the children 'Trick and Treating' the night Boo comes to their assistance but the atmosphere of the story along with the mumbling and grumbling ending of an era is so much like October.
-
Want to read that one carefully. Looks good at a glance. Have to scurry to teeth cleaning. We could make up some of our own words - to quote Poe -"begone to the wold Dr Periodontist."
-
Ah, yes, Ulalume. It's lines like "the misty mid region of Weir— " that
really grab me in Poe's poems. His constant rephrasing of a line makes
his poems much longer, of course, and I sometimes like it and sometimes don't.
-
Henry Wadsworth Longfellow
The Song of Hiawatha
Excerpt from Part II
The Four Winds
But the fierce Kabibonokka
Had his dwelling among icebergs,
In the everlasting snow-drifts,
In the kingdom of Wabasso,
In the land of the White Rabbit.
He it was whose hand in Autumn
Painted all the trees with scarlet,
Stained the leaves with red and yellow;
He it was who sent the snow-flake,
Sifting, hissing through the forest,
Froze the ponds, the lakes, the rivers,
Drove the loon and sea-gull southward,
Drove the cormorant and curlew
To their nests of sedge and sea-tang
In the realms of Shawondasee.
Once the fierce Kabibonokka
Issued from his lodge of snow-drifts
From his home among the icebergs,
And his hair, with snow besprinkled,
Streamed behind him like a river,
Like a black and wintry river,
As he howled and hurried southward,
Over frozen lakes and moorlands.
There among the reeds and rushes
Found he Shingebis, the diver,
Trailing strings of fish behind him,
O'er the frozen fens and moorlands,
Lingering still among the moorlands,
Though his tribe had long departed
To the land of Shawondasee.
Cried the fierce Kabibonokka,
"Who is this that dares to brave me?
Dares to stay in my dominions,
When the Wawa has departed,
When the wild-goose has gone southward,
And the heron, the Shuh-shuh-gah,
Long ago departed southward?
I will go into his wigwam,
I will put his smouldering fire out!"
And at night Kabibonokka,
To the lodge came wild and wailing,
Heaped the snow in drifts about it,
Shouted down into the smoke-flue,
Shook the lodge-poles in his fury,
Flapped the curtain of the door-way.
Shingebis, the diver, feared not,
Shingebis, the diver, cared not;
Four great logs had he for firewood,
One for each moon of the winter,
And for food the fishes served him.
By his blazing fire he sat there,
Warm and merry, eating, laughing,
Singing, "O Kabibonokka,
You are but my fellow-mortal!"
Then Kabibonokka entered,
And though Shingebis, the diver,
Felt his presence by the coldness,
Felt his icy breath upon him,
Still he did not cease his singing,
Still he did not leave his laughing,
Only turned the log a little,
Only made the fire burn brighter,
Made the sparks fly up the smoke-flue.
From Kabibonokka's forehead,
From his snow-besprinkled tresses,
Drops of sweat fell fast and heavy,
Making dints upon the ashes,
As along the eaves of lodges,
As from drooping boughs of hemlock,
Drips the melting snow in spring-time,
Making hollows in the snow-drifts.
Till at last he rose defeated,
Could not bear the heat and laughter,
Could not bear the merry singing,
But rushed headlong through the door-way,
Stamped upon the crusted snow-drifts,
Stamped upon the lakes and rivers,
Made the snow upon them harder,
Made the ice upon them thicker,
Challenged Shingebis, the diver,
To come forth and wrestle with him,
To come forth and wrestle naked
On the frozen fens and moorlands.
Forth went Shingebis, the diver,
Wrestled all night with the North-Wind,
Wrestled naked on the moorlands
With the fierce Kabibonokka,
Till his panting breath grew fainter,
Till his frozen grasp grew feebler,
Till he reeled and staggered backward,
And retreated, baffled, beaten,
To the kingdom of Wabasso,
To the land of the White Rabbit,
Hearing still the gusty laughter,
Hearing Shingebis, the diver,
Singing, "O Kabibonokka,
You are but my fellow-mortal!"
-
How did he do it? The meter is almost a drum beat, slow but inexorable. What a master he was!
-
Personally I love the autumn. I spoke yesterday with my 10 yr. old grand-daughter Hope who told me that this too was her favorite season, so I sent her this poem by Jacqueline Bouvier.
I love the Autumn,
And yet I cannot say
All the thoughts and things
That make me feel this way.
I love walking on the angry shore,
To watch the angry sea;
Where summer people were before,
But-- now there's only me.
I love wood fires at night
That have a ruddy glow.
I stare at the flames
And think of long ago.
I love th feeling down inside me
That says to run away
To come and ge a gypsy
And laugh the gypsy way.
The tangy tast of apples,
The snowy mist at morn,
The wanderlust inside you
When you hear the huntsman's horn.
Nostalgia--- that's the Autumn,
Dreaming through September
Just a million lovely things
I always will remember.
-
I had no idea that Jackie Kennedy wrote and had published poetry - I found this site that features the poem - I copied the link because the photos on the site are wonderful
http://greyhorsematters.blogspot.com/2009/09/autumn.html
Another cold and rainy day - we feel conflicted - we need rain so badly but it is getting wearisome with all these gray days. Finally today had to turn on the heat - ohhh and auggg how I hate it when the hot air is rolling through the house.
I know I am a baby but then quoting Marilu Henner, "Babies act out when they're hungry, cold, tired. They do this for survival." Therefore, I do believe my survival skills must rival the best of us. ;)
-
Barb: Move over, make room for me in your cradle!
-
Cold and tired, yes. I confess I rarely require myself to go hungry any longer
than it takes to get to the kitchen. ;)
Here's a poem by Gerard Manley Hopkins. The style seems old-fashioned,
but how can you not like 'barbarous in beauty' and 'sillk-sack clouds'?
Hurrahing in Harvest
Summer ends now; now, barbarous in beauty, the stooks rise
Around; up above, what wind-walks! what lovely behaviour
Of silk-sack clouds! has wilder, wilful-wavier
Meal-drift moulded ever and melted across skies?
I walk, I lift up, I lift up heart, eyes,
Down all that glory in the heavens to glean our Saviour;
And eyes, heart, what looks, what lips yet give you a
Rapturous love’s greeting of realer, of rounder replies?
And the azurous hung hills are his world-wielding shoulder
Majestic - as a stallion stalwart, very-violet-sweet! -
These things, these things were here and but the beholder
Wanting; which two when they once meet,
The heart rears wings bold and bolder
And hurls for him, O half hurls earth for him off under his feet.
Gerard Manley Hopkins
-
It's that time:
The First Snowfall
by James Russell Lowell
The snow had begun in the gloaming,
And busily all the night
Had been heaping field and highway
With a silence deep and white.
Every pine and fir and hemlock
Wore ermine too dear for an earl,
And the poorest twig on the elm-tree
Was ridged inch deep with pearl.
From sheds new-roofed with Carrara
Came Chanticleer's muffled crow,
The stiff rails were softened to swan's-down,
And still fluttered down the snow.
I stood and watched by the window
The noiseless work of the sky,
And the sudden flurries of snow-birds,
Like brown leaves whirling by.
I thought of a mound in sweet Auburn
Where a little headstone stood;
How the flakes were folding it gently,
As did robins the babes in the wood.
Up spoke our own little Mabel,
Saying, "Father, who makes it snow?"
And I told of the good All-father
Who cares for us here below.
Again I looked at the snow-fall,
And thought of the leaden sky
That arched o'er our first great sorrow,
When that mound was heaped so high.
I remembered the gradual patience
That fell from that cloud-like snow,
Flake by flake, healing and hiding
The scar of our deep-plunged woe.
And again to the child I whispered,
"The snow that husheth all,
Darling, the merciful Father
Alone can make it fall!"
Then, with eyes that saw not, I kissed her;
And she, kissing back, could not know
That my kiss was given to her sister,
Folded close under deepening snow.
-
First Snow
by Louise Glück
Silence Like a child, the earth’s going to sleep,
or so the story goes.
But I’m not tired, it says.
And the mother says, You may not be tired but I’m tired—
You can see it in her face, everyone can.
So the snow has to fall, sleep has to come.
Because the mother’s sick to death of her life
and needs silence.
-
This one coulde be written today with the exception of the word "Alsace"; make it Kabul to be timely.
Snow in Alsace
Richard Wilbur
The snow came down last night like moths
Burned on the moon; it fell till dawn,
Covered the town with simple cloths.
Absolute snow lies rumpled on
What shellbursts scattered and deranged,
Entangled railings, crevassed lawn.
As if it did not know they'd changed,
Snow smoothly clasps the roofs of homes
Fear-gutted, trustless and estranged.
The ration stacks are milky domes;
Across the ammunition pile
The snow has climbed in sparkling combs.
You think: beyond the town a mile
Or two, this snowfall fills the eyes
Of soldiers dead a little while.
Persons and persons in disguise,
Walking the new air white and fine,
Trade glances quick with shared surprise.
At children's windows, heaped, benign,
As always, winter shines the most,
And frost makes marvelous designs.
The night guard coming from his post,
Ten first-snows back in thought, walks slow
And warms him with a boyish boast:
He was the first to see the snow.
-
This was written by a Navajo
First Snowfall
Tommy Smith
The snow has come at last:
Coming down in soft flakes
Caressing my face with tenderness
As if it were telling me,
"You are the first I've touched."
And, as I walk along,
The snowflakes seem to sing
A song that has never been heard,
A song that has never been sung.
Unheard. Unsung! Except in my heart
-
Welcome to our Autumn Poetry Page.
A haven for those who listen to the words
that open hearts, imagination, and our feelings
that we share about the poems we post - Please Join Us.
(http://seniorlearn.org/bookclubs/poetry/poetryleaves.jpg)
|
Poetry can be part of life
rather than a thing apart.
Share with us
Poems about the end
of the natural year.
Tell us
How you celebrate
a poet's life and poems.
Autumn holidays -
Tell us about Poetry in
Fall parties and gift giving.
|
A few Poetry Links:
- Famous Poets and Poems about Autumn (http://famouspoetsandpoems.com/thematic_poems/autumn_poems.html)
- Fall Poetry (http://www.dltk-holidays.com/fall/fallpoetry.htm)
- Poems for Autumn (http://www.scrapbook.com/poems/cat/5.html)
Discussion Leaders: BarbStAubrey (augere@ix.netcom.com) & Fairanna (fairanna@verizon.net)
Lovely - What a treat in Poetry tonight
You must be witnessing the first snowfall of the season Jackie - of all the poems the one written by Tommy Smith hit my heart but then it may be that the other poems only softened me up for the hit.
Interesting how we admire a snow covered world and yet snow like any blanket or quilt can cover a sick and broken body and at other times, like a quilt tucked around us it makes us feel snug and safe in its muffled stillness.
I feel of late as if there is something in the air and I am waiting for the other shoe to drop - I am seeing this town go quiet - no one is driving again except to and from their jobs - the stores are empty including Wal-Mart. I had a old client call me Sunday. She has all sorts of patents in specialized computer technology that went with her advanced degrees in Math and Science however, she was fired last year and she called to tell me she finally found a job; Part Time at the local HEB which is a Texas Grocery chain earning $10. an hour making the salads.
With that heavy dense and soggy feeling poetry is like Alice's rabbit hole and Babi the language in a Hopkins poem swirls around my tongue and then encircles my head - I am in awe of his use of language and what reading his work does for my spirit.
-
Poetry can do that, can't it, Barb? It speaks for us when we haven't the
words to speak for ourselves. Both the Wilbur and the Gluck poems are sad, heavy. But Autumn is often like that, isn't it, especially when it turns
wet and chill.
The stores here still seem to be busy, but they are cutting staff and people are losing jobs, or hours. The smaller, marginal businesses are failing. I am surprised that your friends high-tech patents are not able to support her. I simply assumed that anything in that line must be highly profitable. I have noticed, in my lifetime, that things constanly fluctuate.
Like a pendulum, a constant upswing to downswing. It does help me,
in the bad times, to be confident that the upswing will come.
-
Patents in the High Tech industry are useful for 10 minutes - there is always a new young fresh from a college campus techie who comes up with something even better - what having patents does show is the level and investment in someones education and t heir competency that was used up in 15 to 20 years max by a large company and then thrown on the heap. Thanks goodness she never married and has no family but this is the same tale for many a family where the techie is in their 40s with school age children. We thought the tech industry was immune to this free fall in the economy but not so.
Pantoum Of The Great Depression
Donald Justice
Our lives avoided tragedy
Simply by going on and on,
Without end and with little apparent meaning.
Oh, there were storms and small catastrophes.
Simply by going on and on
We managed. No need for the heroic.
Oh, there were storms and small catastrophes.
I don't remember all the particulars.
We managed. No need for the heroic.
There were the usual celebrations, the usual sorrows.
I don't remember all the particulars.
Across the fence, the neighbors were our chorus.
There were the usual celebrations, the usual sorrows
Thank god no one said anything in verse.
The neighbors were our only chorus,
And if we suffered we kept quiet about it.
At no time did anyone say anything in verse.
It was the ordinary pities and fears consumed us,
And if we suffered we kept quiet about it.
No audience would ever know our story.
It was the ordinary pities and fears consumed us.
We gathered on porches; the moon rose; we were poor.
What audience would ever know our story?
Beyond our windows shone the actual world.
We gathered on porches; the moon rose; we were poor.
And time went by, drawn by slow horses.
Somewhere beyond our windows shone the actual world.
The Great Depression had entered our souls like fog.
And time went by, drawn by slow horses.
We did not ourselves know what the end was.
The Great Depression had entered our souls like fog.
We had our flaws, perhaps a few private virtues.
But we did not ourselves know what the end was.
People like us simply go on.
We had our flaws, perhaps a few private virtues,
But it is by blind chance only that we escape tragedy.
And there is no plot in that; it is devoid of poetry.
-
Instructions for Living - Lakota
Friend do it this way - that is,
whatever you do in life,
do the very best you can
with both your heart and mind.
And if you do it that way,
the Power Of The Universe
will come to your assistance,
if your heart and mind are in Unity.
When one sits in the Hoop Of The People,
one must be responsible because
All of Creation is related.
And the hurt of one is the hurt of all.
And the honor of one is the honor of all.
And whatever we do effects everything in the universe.
If you do it that way - that is,
if you truly join your heart and mind
as One - whatever you ask for,
that's the Way It's Going To Be.
- Spoken wisdom by White Buffalo Calf Woman -
-
It is not yet snowing here, but watching a baseball playoff game at the Colorado Rockies stadium, a game that had been snowed out the day before, it seemed like time. Snow has already fallen on Mt Hood, but didn't last. The glacier is visibly shrinking. Forecast of snow this week lifts my spirit. The cycle will continue, at least for a while longer.
The Lakotas, as if wishing could make it so.
-
"And whatever we do effects everything in the universe."
Isn't it interesting that a development in scientific thought can be
found in a Lakota philolosophy?
Hmmm. Wishing isn't going to make it so, JACKIE, as we well know. But
I think the Lakota had something more focused in mind. They see it as a
tap on some 'Power'. Actually, it reminds me of a scripture, "If two of
you shall agree on earth concerning anything, it will be done for you."
That might not be an exact quote, but it's close.
-
If two of you shall agree on earth concerning anything, it will be done for you.
Funny how my mind converted that into "wishing can make it so"
-
I think the ticket is the last lines -
if you truly join your heart and mind
as One - whatever you ask for,
that's the Way It's Going To Be.
- in that the prayer has more to do with us as individuals than waiting, or looking, or expecting others to be as we would like them to be.
As to nature, who knows what power we have but to believe with heart and mind - that maybe enough to alter the universe. We have learned that the flutter of the wings of a butterfly in Madagascar affects the weather in the US and so if our hearts and minds prompt us towards movement the air around us will push out and affect the weather in the Atlantic. I am not sure of the air streams to know the story but it would be easy enough to look up.
But then prayer has been proved to work and so to wish is like a silent prayer - again the power of a wish/prayer can make something happen. http://1stholistic.com/Prayer/hol_prayer_proof.htm
And so to me if we are alive we are in the hoop therefore, we have the power to make a difference which means, with our thoughts/prayers that come from our unified heart and mind we affect the universe. We just have to get our hearts and minds to line up and pray.
-
Circle of Seasons
by wolvscry
Everythings calm in the forest,things in a deep slumber
The green man had put everything away for the end of summer
I hear nothing as I sit,no chirp,no stir
In the groves where I lay,the rocks and vines making a calming twine around the focal point
The perfect cradle of warmth and life lay in a willow joint
the long green tears of the willow make a curtain around me
and I as I lay deep in trance I listen to the world come to life around me
the leaves rustle in the newly re-born wind
I hear the pitter patter of paws,
the scraping of claws
I hear the nearby waves crash upon the shore
light and life burst out from the forest core
and then back to its normal state snow falls,
the forest has started winter a little late,
the newly awoken beings will soon go back into slumber
and again nothing will stir,
only to be brought back to life again by lifes allure
the seasons go on is a circle
-
Everyone Needs Someone
People need people and friends need friends
And we all need love for a full life depends
Not on vast riches or great acclaim,
Not on success or on worldly fame,
But just in knowing that someone cares
And holds us close in their thoughts and prayers-
For only the knowledge that we're understood
Makes everyday living feel wonderfully good,
And we rob ourselves of life's greatest need
When we "lock up our hearts" and fail to heed
The outstretched hand reaching to find
A kindred spirit whose heart and mind
Are lonely and longing to somehow share
Our joys and sorrows and to make us aware
That life's completeness and richness depends
On the things we share with our loved ones and friends.
-Helen Steiner Rice
-
Circle of Life
Music by elton john - Lyrics by tim rice - from the Lion King
From the day we arrive on the planet
And blinking, step into the sun
There’s more to be seen than can ever be seen
More to do than can ever be done
Some say eat or be eaten
Some say live and let live
But all are agreed as they join the stampede
You should never take more than you give
In the circle of life
It’s the wheel of fortune
It’s the leap of faith
It’s the band of hope
Till we find our place
On the path unwinding
In the circle, the circle of life
Some of us fall by the wayside
And some of us soar to the stars
And some of us sail through our troubles
And some have to live with the scars
There’s far too much to take in here
More to find than can ever be found
But the sun rolling high through the sapphire sky
Keeps great and small on the endless round
-
How fortunate I feel to have found this community where I can express much of my inner self and know that there is a caring ear and heart to hear me. Much more intimate than my other associations is this one, so dear to me and so sadly missed when I thought it was lost.
-
I'll drink to that, JACKIE. (Is milk acceptable? :) )
-
I know first hand the tech industry is not immune - my younger son in mid 40s lost his
computer software design job 2 weeks ago! Not nice at all. Sorry your friend had to take a job like that, Barb. But- anything is better than nothing the way our economy is going. So what is the Dow Jones went over 10,000. Doesn't affect the bad job situation here in Michigan.
Barb, you wrote: And so to me if we are alive we are in the hoop therefore, we have the power to make a difference which means, with our thoughts/prayers that come from our unified heart and mind we affect the universe. We just have to get our hearts and minds to line up and pray
To that I add AMEN!
The Lakota Woman is fantastic!
-
What I find difficult it getting my heart and mind on the same track - there is that tiny voice that alwasy wants its say - and then to get a positive vibe going is another trick when there is so much need - but then there has always been need it is just now the need is closer to home.
Well onward - Here is Sonnet 73 by William Shakespeare (1609)
That time of year thou mayst in me behold
When yellow leaves, or none, or few, do hang
Upon those boughs which shake against the cold,
Bare ruined choirs, where late the sweet birds sang.
In me thou see’st the twilight of such day
As after sunset fadeth in the west;
Which by and by black night doth take away,
Death’s second self, that seals up all in rest.
In me thou see’st the glowing of such fire,
That on the ashes of his youth doth lie,
As the deathbed whereon it must expire,
Consumed with that which it was nourished by.
This thou perceiv’st, which makes thy love more strong,
To love that well which thou must leave ere long.
-
Oh here is a winner in my book...
Autumn Movement
Carl Sandburg (1918)
I cried over beautiful things knowing no beautiful thing lasts.
The field of cornflower yellow is a scarf at the neck of the copper sunburned woman, the mother of the year, the taker of seeds.
The northwest wind comes and the yellow is torn full of holes, new beautiful things come in the first spit of snow on the northwest wind, and the old things go, not one lasts.
-
Oh, thanks for remembering one of my favorite Shakespearean sonnets,
BARB. "Bare ruined choirs, where late the sweet birds sang". He is still
the Master. And Sandburg is another!
-
An Autumn Rain-Scene by Thomas Hardy
There trudges one to a merry-making
With sturdy swing,
On whom the rain comes down.
To fetch the saving medicament
Is another bent,
On whom the rain comes down.
One slowly drives his herd to the stall
Ere ill befall,
On whom the rain comes down.
This bears his missives of life and death
With quickening breath,
On whom the rain comes down.
One watches for signals of wreck or war
From the hill afar,
On whom the rain comes down.
No care if he gain a shelter or none,
Unhired moves on,
On whom the rain comes down.
And another knows nought of its chilling fall
Upon him aat all,
On whom the rain comes down.
-
What an interesting poem. I can just imagine someone sitting at a
window, watching the passersby.
Here's a brief one on rain that suits me well:
Souls And Rain-Drops by Sidney Lanier
Light rain-drops fall and wrinkle the sea,
Then vanish, and die utterly.
One would not know that rain-drops fell
If the round sea-wrinkles did not tell.
So souls come down and wrinkle life
And vanish in the flesh-sea strife.
One might not know that souls had place
Were't not for the wrinkles in life's face.
-
Oh, Babi, I like that comparison of wrinkles.
-
Me, too, Jackie. I was just thinking. The wrinkles on my face generally follow
laugh lines. But what do I call the ones on my body? ??? ;D
-
Wrinkles And Crinkles
They say that behind
every line and wrinkle
there lays a story to be had there.
With all the wrinkles and crinkles
that line my face,
there should be
a couple of novels worth there.
David Harris
Oh this is a fun web page on being wrinkled - have a laugh http://www.lovethissite.com/wrinkle/
-
Barb: Someone has been spying on me! How else could this describe my life in such detail? Love it. :D
-
"Autumn Movement" is just wonderful. I want to hug it. ;D
-
Great site. She's obviously moved on to my house.
-
Autumn Daybreak by Edna St. Vincent Millay
Cold wind of autumn, blowing loud
At dawn, a fortnight overdue,
Jostling the doors, and tearing through
My bedroom to rejoin the cloud,
I know—for I can hear the hiss
And scrape of leaves along the floor—
How may boughs, lashed bare by this,
Will rake the cluttered sky once more.
Tardy, and somewhat south of east,
The sun will rise at length, made known
More by the meagre light increased
Than by a disk in splendour shown;
When, having but to turn my head,
Through the stripped maple I shall see,
Bleak and remembered, patched with red,
The hill all summer hid from me.
-
A Song of an Autumn Night. by Wang Wei
Under the crescent moon a light autumn dew
Has chilled the robe she will not change --
And she touches a silver lute all night,
Afraid to go back to her empty room.
-
Living in the Mountain on an Autumn Night by Wang Wei
After fresh rain on the empty mountain
comes evening and the cold of autumn.
The full moon burns through the pines.
A brook transparent over the stones.
Bamboo trees crackle as washerwomen go home
and lotus flowers sway as fisherman's boat slips downriver.
Though the fresh smell of grass is gone,
a prince is happy in these hills.
-
Magnolia Hermitage by Wang Wei
The autumn hills hoard scarlet from the setting sun.
Flying birds chase their mates,
Now and then patches of blue sky break clear --
Tonight the evening mists find nowhere to gather.
-
I was bemused by the image of window in the Millay poem, open not only to the wind but to the leaves as well. It's hard to imagine a window without a screen, isn't it? But of course, at one time all windows must have been like that. How else could our heros and heroines lean out of their windows?
Interesting. In the first poem, Wang depicts the crescent moon as
chilling; in the second the full moon burns. I like his imagery.
-
Barb: Four for four! It is rare that I can be so moved by all the poems we post lin a day but this set hits all my buttons. maybe a phrase, maybe an image, maybe the whole, there's something in each one that I will treasure. Thank you.
-
Here is a great run down on how to memorize a poem
http://poetry.about.com/cs/textarchives/ht/howmemorizepoem.htm?nl=1
-
Hi, everyone. I am here for the first time. It is a wonderful site. When I first saw it listed, I assumed it was for people to share poetry they had written. Glad I was wrong!
My father recited poetry all of his life. I memorized much of it, just by hearing him. As a result I fell in love with poetry. He had a book, called: ''1001 Favorite Poems". A few years ago, I looked for that book, but apparently it is out of print.
I am happy to have found you.
Sheila
-
Hi, Shiela, I'm glad you found the site. Stay around and talk to us.
Barb, thanks for the Shakespeare, which I've always loved, and the Hardy, which is new to me. Here's one I like:
The Oak
by Lord Alfred Tennyson (1809-1892)
Live thy life,
Young and old,
Like yon oak,
Bright in spring,
Living gold;
Summer-rich
Then; and then
Autumn-changed,
Soberer hued
Gold again.
All his leaves
Fall'n at length,
Look, he stands,
Trunk and bough,
Naked strength.
-
Seems like all I'm finding lately are winter poems. Or very, very long
poems which I'm too lazy to type. Not to mention my fingers are cold.
It's between weather here; some wet days, some nice days, too warm to turn on the central heating, chill enough to bring out the area heater
at night.
-
We've gotten into the fall rainy season; snow level on Mt Hood getting lower each new storm.
Hope this is not a repeat but it's worth it if it is:
James Whitcomb Riley. 1853–1916
"When the Frost is on the Punkin"
WHEN the frost is on the punkin and the fodder's in the shock,
And you hear the kyouck and gobble of the struttin' turkey-cock,
And the clackin' of the guineys, and the cluckin' of the hens,
And the rooster's hallylooyer as he tiptoes on the fence;
O, it's then the time a feller is a-feelin' at his best, 5
With the risin' sun to greet him from a night of peaceful rest,
As he leaves the house, bareheaded, and goes out to feed the stock,
When the frost is on the punkin and the fodder's in the shock.
They's something kindo' harty-like about the atmusfere
When the heat of summer's over and the coolin' fall is here— 10
Of course we miss the flowers, and the blossoms on the trees,
And the mumble of the hummin'-birds and buzzin' of the bees;
But the air's so appetizin'; and the landscape through the haze
Of a crisp and sunny morning of the airly autumn days
Is a pictur' that no painter has the colorin' to mock— 15
When the frost is on the punkin and the fodder's in the shock.
The husky, rusty russel of the tossels of the corn,
And the raspin' of the tangled leaves as golden as the morn;
The stubble in the furries—kindo' lonesome-like, but still
A-preachin' sermuns to us of the barns they growed to fill; 20
The strawstack in the medder, and the reaper in the shed;
The hosses in theyr stalls below—the clover overhead!—
O, it sets my hart a-clickin' like the tickin' of a clock,
When the frost is on the punkin and the fodder's in the shock.
Then your apples all is gethered, and the ones a feller keeps 25
Is poured around the cellar-floor in red and yaller heaps;
And your cider-makin's over, and your wimmern-folks is through
With theyr mince and apple-butter, and theyr souse and sausage too!...
I don't know how to tell it—but ef such a thing could be
As the angels wantin' boardin', and they'd call around on me— 30
I'd want to 'commodate 'em—all the whole-indurin' flock—
When the frost is on the punkin and the fodder's in the shock.
-
So Glad You Found us serenesheila - sometimes we do share a poem we have written but mostly we share poems that we read that we would like others to know about and enjoy.
Babi I know - I have had the heat on several days this week - we need the rain so badly but the cold grey days have slowed me down.
Pat Tennyson's Oak sounds like a kaleidoscope of color doesn't it. Tucked among the Live Oak in this part of the country we do have some Post Oak and Red Oak that bring us color. They have not turned yet but when they do the color is a deep maroon. I like to cut a small branch of leaves and add a few pine cones and pears to the center of my table - starts to get me in the mood for the Holidays that are just around the corner.
Jackie just saw your post - I love it - "And the rooster's hallylooyer as he tiptoes on the fence;" how much f un. Another wonderful line "And the raspin' of the tangled leaves as golden as the morn;"
-
Here is a poignant poem about an Oak...
The Fallen Oak
Giovanni Pascoli
Where shade once was, the oak tree in a sprawl
Of death no longer writhes against the wind.
The people say: I see now. It was tall!
And here and there slight nests of spring now find
Themselves dependent on a severed height.
The people say: I see now. It was kind!
The people praise. The people cut. Twilight
Comes and they haul their loads off. Through mid-air
A cry... a blackcap crying out in flight,
Seeking a nest that is no longer there.
-
Hi, Sheila: great to see you here.
-
After Apple-Picking
My long two-pointed ladder's sticking through a tree
Toward heaven still,
And there's a barrel that I didn't fill
Beside it, and there may be two or three
Apples I didn't pick upon some bough.
But I am done with apple-picking now.
Essence of winter sleep is on the night,
The scent of apples: I am drowsing off.
I cannot rub the strangeness from my sight
I got from looking through a pane of glass
I skimmed this morning from the drinking trough
And held against the world of hoary grass.
It melted, and I let it fall and break.
But I was well
Upon my way to sleep before it fell,
And I could tell
What form my dreaming was about to take.
Magnified apples appear and disappear,
Stem end and blossom end,
And every fleck of russet showing clear.
My instep arch not only keeps the ache,
It keeps the pressure of a ladder-round.
I feel the ladder sway as the boughs bend.
And I keep hearing from the cellar bin
The rumbling sound
Of load on load of apples coming in.
For I have had too much
Of apple-picking: I am overtired
Of the great harvest I myself desired.
There were ten thousand thousand fruit to touch,
Cherish in hand, lift down, and not let fall.
For all
That struck the earth,
No matter if not bruised or spiked with stubble,
Went surely to the cider-apple heap
As of no worth.
One can see what will trouble
This sleep of mine, whatever sleep it is.
Were he not gone,
The woodchuck could say whether it's like his
Long sleep, as I describe its coming on,
Or just some human sleep.
Robert Frost
This poem validates Frost's authenticity in farming subjects. It pokes a big hole in romantic fantasies of growing your own food, getting close to the land
-
Welcome to our Autumn Poetry Page.
A haven for those who listen to the words
that open hearts, imagination, and our feelings
that we share about the poems we post - Please Join Us.
(http://seniorlearn.org/bookclubs/poetry/poetryleaves.jpg)
|
Poetry can be part of life
rather than a thing apart.
Share with us
Poems about the end
of the natural year.
Tell us
How you celebrate
a poet's life and poems.
Autumn holidays -
Tell us about Poetry in
Fall parties and gift giving.
|
A few Poetry Links:
- Famous Poets and Poems about Autumn (http://famouspoetsandpoems.com/thematic_poems/autumn_poems.html)
- Fall Poetry (http://www.dltk-holidays.com/fall/fallpoetry.htm)
- Poems for Autumn (http://www.scrapbook.com/poems/cat/5.html)
Discussion Leaders: BarbStAubrey (augere@ix.netcom.com) & Fairanna (fairanna@verizon.net)
And Frost in a whimsical mood:
The Cow in Apple Time
Robert Frost
Something inspires the only cow of late
To make no more of a wall than an open gate,
And think no more of wall-builders than fools.
Her face is flecked with pomace and she drools
A cider syrup. Having tasted fruit,
She scorns a pasture withering to the root.
She runs from tree to tree where lie and sweeten.
The windfalls spiked with stubble and worm-eaten.
She leaves them bitten when she has to fly.
She bellows on a knoll against the sky.
Her udder shrivels and the milk goes dry.
-
:D a drunken cow - fun - Jackie have to insert the heading in your post.
-
Thanks for the welcomes. I really relate to the fallen oak. A few weeks ago, I had two, large trees removed from my yard. One in front, and one in back. A week later, we had the worst rain and wind storm. that I can remember. Trees were blown down, all over the county. I was thankful my trees were gone.
However, I really miss the one in my backyard!!! I loved that tree. It has needed to be removed for several years. But, My living room window looked out on that tree. I enjoyed watching the leaves turn every fall. And the squirrels scamper up and down the tree, for food for the winter. Watching the leaves drop, knowing new ones would return in the spring. Then, the birds building nests in the spring. Sighhhhh I feel as if an old friend has died.
Sheila
-
I know some people don't appreciate James Whitcome Riley, JACKIE, but I always loved that poem with it's down-home country twang. And thanks for the Robert Frost poem about apple-picking; that is one I hadn't seen before.
Oh, SHEILA, I would, too. We lost a tree to a storm 2-3 years ago, and I still see the stub of it with regret. I could never be content living
without trees around me.
Here's one that echoes with me.
OCTOBER TREES, by Siegfried Sassoon
"How innocent were these Trees, that in
Mist-green May, blown by a prospering breeze,
Stood garlanded and gay;
Who now in sundown glow
Of serious color clad confront me with their show
As though resigned and sad,
Trees, who unwhispering stand umber, bronze, gold;
Pavilioning the land for one grown tired and old;
Elm, chestnut, aspen and pine, I am merged in you,
Who tell once more in tones of time,
Your foliaged farewell."
-
Loosing a tree is devastating isn't it Babi - even the least of trees much less an Oak - I have two China Berries that need to come down. Regardless that most think of them as a nuisance tree I love that they attract butterflies to their purple spring blossoms and birds to the cluster of fall fruit. Also, they are the last of the China Berries that were all over the yard when the house was first built. And then the biggie - with the summers consistently for days climbing over 100 loosing any natural shade is catastrophic -
Something about this poem reminds me of your Oaks that you had to remove Shelia.
Tell the Bees
by Sarah Lindsay
Tell the bees. They require news of the house;
they must know, lest they sicken
from the gap between their ignorance and our grief.
Speak in a whisper. Tie a black swatch
to a stick and attach the stick to their hive.
From the fortress of casseroles and desserts
built in the kitchen these past few weeks
as though hunger were the enemy, remove
a slice of cake and lay it where they can
slowly draw it in, making a mournful sound.
And tell the fly that has knocked on the window all day.
Tell the redbird that rammed the glass from outside
and stands too dazed to go. Tell the grass,
though it's already guessed, and the ground clenched in furrows;
tell the water you spill on the ground,
then all the water will know.
And the last shrunken pearl of snow in its hiding place.
Tell the blighted elms, and the young oaks we plant instead.
The water bug, while it scribbles
a hundred lines that dissolve behind it.
The lichen, while it etches deeper
its single rune. The boulders, letting their fissures widen,
the pebbles, which have no more to lose,
the hills—they will be slightly smaller, as always,
when the bees fly out tomorrow to look for sweetness
and find their way
because nothing else has changed.
-
With Halloween upon us we must read... ;) :D 8)
The Hag
Robert Herrick (1648)
The Hag is astride,
This night for to ride;
The Devill and shee together:
Through thick, and through thin,
Now out, and then in,
Though ne’r so foule be the weather.
A Thorn or a Burr
She takes for a Spurre:
With a lash of a Bramble she rides now,
Through Brakes and through Bryars,
O’re Ditches, and Mires,
She followes the Spirit that guides now.
No Beast, for his food,
Dares now range the wood;
But husht in his laire he lies lurking:
While mischiefs, by these,
On Land and on Seas,
At noone of Night are working,
The storme will arise,
And trouble the skies;
This night, and more for the wonder,
The ghost from the Tomb
Affrighted shall come,
Cal’d out by the clap of the Thunder.
-
Babi & Barb: Trees have a very special place in my emotions. The two poems you have gifted to me today are very precious. I can't thank you enough.
-
SHEILA: I know how you feel. Trees are very special to me, to. A few months ago, the management cut down the lemon tree outside of my window. Since I rent the apartment, I had no say. Now, instead of looking out on green leaves and birds, I see other apartments. I cried for days.
Wonderful Annafair remembered that I told her how much I missed the Autumn leaves since moving to California, and sent me some. Here is Nat King Cole singing "Autumn Leaves.
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=9IDUxk9sSXI (http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=9IDUxk9sSXI)
-
I had heard, from a book, of course, the old beekeeper tradition of
informing the bees of a death in the house. As far as I could tell, it
was deemed a courtesy to the bees.
The 'Hag' was fun. I've never before heard midnight described as the
'noone of night'. You've made my morning!
Oh, JOAN, what a pity. Even tho' you 'had no say', I hope you at least
told the management what a difference it made to you and how much it distressed you. They might think more carefully before making such a
decision the next time. Meanwhile, perhaps you could at least shut out
the view of the other apartments with one of those transparent glass
paintings, featuring lovely leaves.
-
How wonderful to know that many of you, feel as I do about trees! I had thought that probably no one else cried when a tree came down. I live 15 miles NE of Sacramento, California. Sacto is called "the city of trees". They are everywhere, except in my yard. I just received an offer from the local power company, offering a free tree. I plan to accept.
Thank you, Babi, and Batb St., for the poems about trees. I remember reading a poem, that said: "I think that I shall never see, a poem lovely as a tree". I cannot remember the rest of the poem, or the poet who wrote it.
Sheila
-
That is Joyce Kilmer's "Trees", Sheila. You should have no trouble at
all finding it.
-
TREES
by Joyce Kilmer (1886-1918)
THINK that I shall never see
A poem lovely as a tree.
A tree whose hungry mouth is prest
Against the earth's sweet flowing breast;
A tree that looks at God all day,
And lifts her leafy arms to pray;
A tree that may in Summer wear
A nest of robins in her hair;
Upon whose bosom snow has lain;
Who intimately lives with rain.
Poems are made by fools like me,
But only God can make a tree.
-
Forever Honored by the Tree
by Emily Dickinson
Forever honored by the Tree
Whose Apple Winterworn
Enticed to Breakfast from the Sky
Two Gabriels Yestermorn.
They registered in Nature's Book
As Robins -- Sire and Son --
But Angels have that modest way
To screen them from Renown.
-
Tree at my Window
by Robert Frost
Tree at my window, window tree,
My sash is lowered when night comes on;
But let there never be curtain drawn
Between you and me.
Vague dream-head lifted out of the ground,
And thing next most diffuse to cloud,
Not all your light tongues talking aloud
Could be profound.
But tree, I have seen you taken and tossed,
And if you have seen me when I slept,
You have seen me when I was taken and swept
And all but lost.
That day she put our heads together,
Fate had her imagination about her,
Your head so much concerned with outer,
Mine with inner, weather.
-
A Dream of Trees
There is a thing in me that dreamed of trees,
A quiet house, some green and modest acres
A little way from every troubling town,
A little way from factories, schools, laments.
I would have time, I thought, and time to spare,
With only streams and birds for company,
To build out of my life a few wild stanzas.
And then it came to me, that so was death,
A little way away from everywhere.
There is a thing in me still dreams of trees.
But let it go. Homesick for moderation,
Half the world's artists shrink or fall away.
If any find solution, let him tell it.
Meanwhile I bend my heart toward lamentation
Where, as the times implore our true involvement,
The blades of every crisis point the way.
I would it were not so, but so it is.
Who ever made music of a mild day?
––Mary Oliver
-
Advice from a Tree
By Ilan Shamir
Dear Friend,
Stand Tall and Proud
Sink your roots deeply into the Earth
Reflect the light of a greater source
Think long term
Go out on a limb
Remember your place among all living beings
Embrace with joy the changing seasons
For each yields its own abundance
The Energy and Birth of Spring
The Growth and Contentment of Summer
The Wisdom to let go of leaves in the Fall
The Rest and Quiet Renewal of Winter
Feel the wind and the sun
And delight in their presence
Look up at the moon that shines down upon you
And the mystery of the stars at night.
Seek nourishment from the good things in life
Simple pleasures
Earth, fresh air, light
Be content with your natural beauty
Drink plenty of water
Let your limbs sway and dance in the breezes
Be flexible
Remember your roots
Enjoy the view!
-
Barb: quite a treasure trove today. So many ways to impart treeness. However, something in me Loves the Frost. Each line, each thought, is more precious than the last. But this takes the prize:
Vague dream-head lifted out of the ground,
And thing next most diffuse to cloud,
-
Recently Sherman Alexie was on a local talk show. Can't remember much but I'm determined to read his works. He won the National Book Award and has two books out this year. Face and War Dances and my library has them both.
-
Thanks for the intro Jackie - a poet whose work I am not familiar - here is an example -
On the Amtrak from Boston to New York City
The white woman across the aisle from me says 'Look,
look at all the history, that house
on the hill there is over two hundred years old, '
as she points out the window past me
into what she has been taught. I have learned
little more about American history during my few days
back East than what I expected and far less
of what we should all know of the tribal stories
whose architecture is 15,000 years older
than the corners of the house that sits
museumed on the hill. 'Walden Pond, '
the woman on the train asks, 'Did you see Walden Pond? '
and I don't have a cruel enough heart to break
her own by telling her there are five Walden Ponds
on my little reservation out West
and at least a hundred more surrounding Spokane,
the city I pretended to call my home. 'Listen, '
I could have told her. 'I don't give a shit
about Walden. I know the Indians were living stories
around that pond before Walden's grandparents were born
and before his grandparents' grandparents were born.
I'm tired of hearing about Don-fucking-Henley saving it, too,
because that's redundant. If Don Henley's brothers and sisters
and mothers and father hadn't come here in the first place
then nothing would need to be saved.'
But I didn't say a word to the woman about Walden
Pond because she smiled so much and seemed delighted
that I thought to bring her an orange juice
back from the food car. I respect elders
of every color. All I really did was eat
my tasteless sandwich, drink my Diet Pepsi
and nod my head whenever the woman pointed out
another little piece of her country's history
while I, as all Indians have done
since this war began, made plans
for what I would do and say the next time
somebody from the enemy thought I was one of their own.
Sherman Alexie
-
Barb: Frisson! I can't wait until I get my call from the library to pick up his books. Thank you
-
The Story of Civilization has been active as a discussion group for eight years. We are now talking and reading about Italy during the Renaissance years.
Things happen in this period of history that change the way of the world forever. They are happening again in our discussion.
Come share with us this discussion of one of the most significant periods in the history of the world. You'll be glad you came and you will gain in understanding why we are where we are today.
On Sunday, we will have a celebration of eight years of discussion, and of making our way in only eight years from living in caves to the glories of the Renaissance.
For Seniorlearn members, go to http://seniorlearn.org/forum/index.php?topic=64.360
If you’re not a member, go to http://seniorlearn.org/forum/index.php?action=help
-
What a delightful Dickinson poem, BARB. I hadn't seen that one before.
I love it! And don't we all know about being 'taken and tossed' by that
inner weather of Frost's.
Mr. Alexie sounds quite heated and bitter. I guess I didn't realize there
were still Native Americans who feel the old wrongs so strongly.
-
My family has Creek Indian in its genealogy which may or may not have contriubuted to the thread of alcoholism which continues in each generation. My father was the son of a half-breed,, as it must have been termed in those days. He had demons which pursued him as he fled into the false safety of the bottle. I would not be surprised to learn that my father had belonged to the Klan; he was full of vitriol about other races, religions, countries. Bitter doesn't begin to describe my feelings about the treatment my ancestors must have endured. So it is no stretch for me to identify in some small part with Alexie. Alexie has the facility with language to help us see through his eyes. I feel it is important to know more about the barriers we erect between ourselves and the other parts of the society we share. Sorry, Babi. I didn't realize that I was so defensive about this subject.
-
Barb thank you for the poem. I love it:) Who is Ilan Shamir?
-
I like The Hag too
-
Babi there is a Pow Wow in Houston on November 21 - why not consider attending - not only will the wonderful native traditions be on display as well as the intense pride Native Americans have for their veterans where you may see at the Veterans Pow Wow dance 3 generation in the same family holding the hand of a younger 4th generation male who will follow when he is old enough.
But most of all during a Pow Wow we hear how Today, even with many a tribe represented by Native American Attorneys, tribes are still not able to get the compensation promised by the government who acted for the people who are mostly white people and today, tribes still fight to keep corporations that want the use of their land, often to string electricity or to mine minerals or graze cattle or dam water so it does not flow into native lands. This is an on-going fight and in spite of Native American's educated in the law tribes still do not receive the compensation owed. Some Native Americans are angry that land rights given to their grandfathers was blantantly taken by unscrupulous whites and our government has done nothing to help them get back their heritage. I think visiting a Pow Wow may bring out in a non-threatening manner the lack of justice still experienced by Native Americans.
bluebird - glad you found us and welcome - here is a link to a bio of Ilan Shamir
http://www.treegreetings.com/PressPacket/Ilan_Shamir_bio.pdf
And here is another "Tree" poem describing autumn.
The Tree of Scarlet Berries
by Amy Lowell
The rain gullies the garden paths
And tinkles on the broad sides of grass blades.
A tree, at the end of my arm, is hazy with mist.
Even so, I can see that it has red berries,
A scarlet fruit,
Filmed over with moisture.
It seems as though the rain,
Dripping from it,
Should be tinged with colour.
I desire the berries,
But, in the mist, I only scratch my hand on the thorns.
Probably, too, they are bitter.
-
No apology needed, JACKIE. One's reactions to wrongs take own a new
dimension when they hit close to home.
I have Cherokee blood myself, and find myself proud to know they developed
a written language. It might be fun to see the dances at the PowWow, BARB,
but being deaf means I can only learn something new from reading. I do
know the Native Americans are still fighting for rights, but we are seeing
more victories now.
Here is a Cherokee prayer:
As I walk the trail of life
in the fear of the wind and rain,
grant O Great Spirit
that I may always walk
like a man
-
Babi: That is beautiful.
-
for a second time this fall we return to the poetry of Native Americans - here is a contemporary prayer written near the end of this Chief's life.
ALL IS FINISHED
I wanted to give something of my past
To my Grandson.
I told him that I would sing
The sacred Wolf Song over him.
In my song I appealed to the wolf
To come and preside over us,
While I perform the Wolf Ceremony.
So that the bondage between my Grandson
and the wolf would be life long.
I SANG.
IN MY VOICE WAS THE HOPE
THAT CLINGS TO EVERY HEARTBEAT.
I SANG.
IN MY WORDS WERE THE POWERS
I INHERITED FROM MY FOREFATHERS.
I SANG.
IN MY CUPPED HANDS LAY A SPRUCE SEED..
THE LINK TO CREATION.
I SANG.
IN MY EYES, SPARKLED LOVE.
And the song floated
On the Sun's rays from tree to tree.
When I had ended,
It was if the whole world
Listened with us
To hear the wolf's reply.
We waited a long time
But none came.
Again I SANG,
Humbly
But as invitingly as I could,
Until my throat ached
And my voice gave out.
All of a sudden
I realized why no wolves had heard
My SACRED SONG.
There were none left!
My heart filled with tears.
I could no longer
Give my Grandson
Faith in the past, our past.
I...wept in silence.
ALL IS FINISHED!
CHIEF DAN GEORGE SALISH
(1899-1981)
-
Oh, no!
-
That is a terribly sad poem, BARB. What a heartbreaking end to a lifetime.
I've found a simple November kind of poem, that may soothe us
a bit.
"How silently they tumble down
And come to rest upon the ground
To lay a carpet, rich and rare,
Beneath the trees without a care,
Content to sleep, their work well done,
Colors gleaming in the sun.
At other times, they wildly fly
Until they nearly reach the sky.
Twisting, turning through the air
Till all the trees stand stark and bare.
Exhausted, drop to earth below
To wait, like children, for the snow."
- Elsie N. Brady, Leaves
-
Babi: Perfect antidote.
-
Here is another whimsy by Frost; was it posted earlier?
Gathering Leaves
by Robert Frost
Spades take up leaves
No better than spoons,
And bags full of leaves
Are light as balloons.
I make a great noise
Of rustling all day
Like rabbit and deer
Running away.
But the mountains I raise
Elude my embrace,
Flowing over my arms
And into my face.
I may load and unload
Again and again
Till I fill the whole shed,
And what have I then?
Next to nothing for weight,
And since they grew duller
From contact with earth,
Next to nothing for color.
Next to nothing for use.
But a crop is a crop,
And who's to say where
The harvest shall stop?
-
The more I thought of the loss of wolves the more confused I became - I started by saying in my head "If Only..." but then realized there were two cultures and the feeding of a growing nation at stake. We think of greed and yet, when wolves roamed most ranchers could not afford the loss of an animal worth hundreds of dollars. All sorts of social and moral issues come to play as the maintenance of an increased populating takes the culture of another.
My thoughts included how much sadness over loss is part of our weekly diet once we are of a certain age. Loss of being fully able with unlimited energy, the loss of being in the center of building a family. For some of us the loss of loved ones, the loss of place, if not literally then the town has changed we hardly recognize where we live - on and on the little and large sadness's are part of aging.
For me even the church service is so changed that I feel I am attending a circus rather than anything that brings me closer to a love of God. That is when I feel futile and bury myself in the music and readings that transport my spirit to another place.
When I was in my "If only..." phase I wondered if there was any poems written that talked of 'If only,,,' and found this from Emily Dickinson which sounds like a poem of unrequited love.
If you were coming in the fall
If you were coming in the fall,
I'd brush the summer by
With half a smile and half a spurn,
As housewives do a fly.
If I could see you in a year,
I'd wind the months in balls,
And put them each in separate drawers,
Until their time befalls.
If only centuries delayed,
I'd count them on my hand,
Subtracting till my fingers dropped
Into Van Diemen's land.
If certain, when this life was out,
That yours and mine should be,
I'd toss it yonder like a rind,
And taste eternity.
But now, all ignorant of the length
Of time's uncertain wing,
It goads me, like the goblin bee,
That will not state its sting.
Van Diemen's Land is now Tasmania.
-
Conrad Aiken had experienced death as no child should and yet he wrote this poem.
Morning Song of Senlin
It is morning, Senlin says, and in the morning
When the light drips through the shutters like the dew,
I arise, I face the sunrise,
And do the things my father learned to do.
Stars in the purple dusk above the rooftops
Pale in the saffron mist and seem to die
And I myself upon a swiftly tilting planet
Stand before a glass and tie my tie,
Vine leaves tap my window,
Dew-drops sing to the garden stones,
The robin chirps in the chinaberry tree
Repeating three clear tones.
It is morning. I stand by the mirror
And tie my tie once more.
While waves far off in a pale rose twilight
Crash on a white sand shore.
I stand by a mirror and comb my hair:
How small and white my face! -
The green earth tilts through a sphere of air
And bathes in a flame of space.
There are houses hanging above the stars
And stars hung under a sea...
And a sun far off in a shell of silence
Dapples my walls for me...
It is morning, Senlin says, and in the morning
Should I not pause in the light to remember god?
Upright and firm I stand on a star unstable,
He is immense and lonely as a cloud.
I will dedicate this moment before my mirror
To him alone, for him I will comb my hair.
Accept these humble offerings, cloud of silence!
I will think of you as I descend the star.
Vine leaves tap my window,
The snail track shines on the stones.
Dew-drops flash from the chinaberry tree
Repeating two clear tones.
It is morning, I awake from a cloud of silence,
Shining I rise from the starless waters of sleep.
The walls are about me still as in the evening,
I am the same, and the same name still I keep.
The earth revolves around with me, yet makes no motion,
The stars pale silently in a coral sky.
In a whistling void I stand before my mirror,
Unconcerned, and tie my tie.
There are horses neighing on far-off hills
Tossing their long white manes,
And mountains flash in the rose-white dusk,
Their shoulders black with the rains...
It is morning. I stand by the mirror
And surprise my soul once more;
The blue air rushes above my ceiling,
There are suns beneath my floor...
... it is morning, Senlin says, I ascend from darkness
And depart on the winds of space for I know not where,
My watch is wound, a key is in my pocket,
And the sky is darkened as I descend the stair.
There are shadows across the windows, clouds in heaven,
And a god among the stars; and I will go
Thinking of him as I might think of daybreak
And humming a tune I know...
Vine-leaves tap at the window,
Dew-drops sing to the garden stones,
The robin chirps in the chinaberry tree
Repeating three clear tones.
-
Ahhh and a true master writes -- William Butler Yeats
The Song of Wandering Aengus
I went out to the hazel wood,
Because a fire was in my head,
And cut and peeled a hazel wand,
And hooked a berry to a thread;
And when white moths were on the wing,
And moth-like stars were flickering out,
I dropped the berry in a stream
And caught a little silver trout.
When I had laid it on the floor
I went to blow the fire aflame,
But something rustled on the floor,
And some one called me by my name:
It had become a glimmering girl
With apple blossom in her hair
Who called me by my name and ran
And faded through the brightening air.
Though I am old with wandering
Through hollow lands and hilly lands,
I will find out where she has gone,
And kiss her lips and take her hands;
And walk among long dappled grass,
And pluck till time and times are done
The silver apples of the moon,
The golden apples of the sun.
-
The name, Conrad Aiken, is a familiar one but I find I know nothing about him. This poem has piqued my curiosity and I will be reading more. These poems fit my somber mood as the sun continues its southward trek and the days grow darker, grayer, wetter with rain and fog. I'm going to get some of those daylight bulbs to see if I respond to "sunlight" in a more positive frame of mind. Retirement is becoming more like a "sentence" than an adventure and gloomy fall/winter weather doesn't help.
-
BARB, the Dickinson and the Aiken both held me spellbound. What great poems. Yeats transformation of fish to girl left me a bit bewildered; not
my idea of a romantic thought. ;) And of course,...says my practical mind..how can one hook a fish with a berry?
-
On Monday I was treated to a two volcano day. Due east was Mt. Hood; slightly south and east was Mt. Jefferson. So my thoughts turned to poetry. I found this one:
I Have Never Seen "Volcanoes"
By Emily Dickinson
I have never seen "Volcanoes" --
But, when Travellers tell
How those old -- phlegmatic mountains
Usually so still --
Bear within -- appalling Ordnance,
Fire, and smoke, and gun,
Taking Villages for breakfast,
And appalling Men --
If the stillness is Volcanic
In the human face
When upon a pain Titanic
Features keep their place --
If at length the smouldering anguish
Will not overcome --
And the palpitating Vineyard
In the dust, be thrown?
If some loving Antiquary,
On Resumption Morn,
Will not cry with joy "Pompeii"!
To the Hills return!
-
Emily Dickinson - A still -- Volcano -- Life --
A still -- Volcano -- Life --
That flickered in the night --
When it was dark enough to do
Without erasing sight --
A quiet -- Earthquake Style --
Too subtle to suspect
By natures this side Naples --
The North cannot detect
The Solemn -- Torrid -- Symbol --
The lips that never lie --
Whose hissing Corals part -- and shut --
And Cities -- ooze away --
-
Welcome to our Autumn Poetry Page.
A haven for those who listen to the words
that open hearts, imagination, and our feelings
that we share about the poems we post - Please Join Us.
(http://seniorlearn.org/bookclubs/poetry/poetryleaves.jpg)
|
Poetry can be part of life
rather than a thing apart.
Share with us
Poems about the end
of the natural year.
Tell us
How you celebrate
a poet's life and poems.
Autumn holidays -
Tell us about Poetry in
Fall parties and gift giving.
|
A few Poetry Links:
- Famous Poets and Poems about Autumn (http://famouspoetsandpoems.com/thematic_poems/autumn_poems.html)
- Fall Poetry (http://www.dltk-holidays.com/fall/fallpoetry.htm)
- Poems for Autumn (http://www.scrapbook.com/poems/cat/5.html)
Discussion Leaders: BarbStAubrey (augere@ix.netcom.com) & Fairanna (fairanna@verizon.net)
Volcano (Haiku)
by Chuck Keller
Sometimes the pressure is more than nature allows.
Snow covered peaceful
peaks where tranquility lives
'til pressure explodes
-
The bare limbs of the
trees shiver in the wind and
speak in semaphore
Charles de Lint
-
"November comes
And November goes,
With the last red berries
And the first white snows.
With night coming early,
And dawn coming late,
And ice in the bucket
And frost by the gate.
The fires burn
And the kettles sing,
And earth sinks to rest
Until next spring."
- Clyde Watson
-
"The sky is streaked with them
burning hole in black space --
like fireworks, someone says
all friendly in the dark chill
of Newcomb Hollow in November,
friends known only by voices.
We lie on the cold sand and it
embraces us, this beach
where locals never go in summer
and boast of their absence. Now
we lie eyes open to the flowers
of white ice that blaze over us
and seem to imprint directly
on our brains. I feel the earth,
rolling beneath as we face out
into the endlessness we usually
ignore. Past the evanescent
meteors, infinity pulls hard."
- Marge Piercy, Leonids Over Us
-
"Yet one smile more, departing, distant sun!
One mellow smile through the soft vapory air,
Ere, o'er the frozen earth, the loud winds run,
Or snows are sifted o'er the meadows bare.
One smile on the brown hills and naked trees,
And the dark rocks whose summer wreaths are cast,
And the blue gentian-flower, that, in the breeze,
Nods lonely, of her beauteous race the last.
Yet a few sunny days, in which the bee
Shall murmur by the hedge that skirts the way,
The cricket chirp upon the russet lea,
And man delight to linger in thy ray.
Yet one rich smile, and we will try to bear
The piercing winter frost, and winds, and darkened air."
- William Cullen Bryant, Autum
-
Oh my Jackie you found and shared a treasure trove - I love the Lunt and William Cullen Bryant's Autum
Every line of Autumn is a wonder - I wanted to say this or that line was special but I couldn't stop - the next line was too good not to mention - each line is a wonderment and so I am repeating the entire poem again.
Autumn
Yet one smile more, departing, distant sun!
One mellow smile through the soft vapory air,
Ere, o'er the frozen earth, the loud winds run,
Or snows are sifted o'er the meadows bare.
One smile on the brown hills and naked trees,
And the dark rocks whose summer wreaths are cast,
And the blue gentian-flower, that, in the breeze,
Nods lonely, of her beauteous race the last.
Yet a few sunny days, in which the bee
Shall murmur by the hedge that skirts the way,
The cricket chirp upon the russet lea,
And man delight to linger in thy ray.
Yet one rich smile, and we will try to bear
The piercing winter frost, and winds, and darkened air.
-
The two Dickenson poems seem quite a departure from her usual
style. I didn't know quite what to make of them. It was a comfort to
relax again into William Cullen Bryant.
-
That is how I felt about the Bryant. It stands as a whole, can not be reduced any further.
-
I just looked at had my sox knocked off - the WJB poem is a Sonnet - look - it is 14 lines where ever other line, in groups of 4, rhyme the last word of the line and then the last two lines rhyme - t here are several forms of Sonnets but the ABAB CDCD EFEF GG is one of the forms.
Was WCB in Congress? Did we actually have a poet in Congress? I need to look this person up and build a structure around who he was.
Aha I was thinking William Jennings Bryan - here is the link to a Bio for WCB http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/William_Cullen_Bryant
Yes and here is the link from Wikipedia for William Jennings Bryan - one thing mixing up the two men I did not realize how recent in our history WJB was on the national scene http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/William_Jennings_Bryan
And here is the link defining the makeup of the various Sonnet forms - sure enough the Shakespeare form is what WCB used to create his poem Autumn
http://www.writing.upenn.edu/~afilreis/88/sonnet.html
Oh this is a nice bit - an excerpt from a book it looks like - however it is a nice bit that gets us closer to the man - http://online.wsj.com/article/SB121388985835788805.html
-
Here is another WCB Autumn poem - this time not a Sonnet and I just do not think it compares to his Autumn Sonnet - Thanks Jackie again for finding and sharing it.
My Autumn Walk
By William Cullen Bryant
ON woodlands ruddy with autumn
The amber sunshine lies;
I look on the beauty round me,
And tears come into my eyes.
For the wind that sweeps the meadows
Blows out of the far Southwest,
Where our gallant men are fighting,
And the gallant dead are at rest.
The golden-rod is leaning,
And the purple aster waves,
In a breeze from the land of battles,
A breath from the land of graves.
Full fast the leaves are dropping
Before that wandering breath;
As fast, on the field of battle,
Our brethren fall in death.
Beautiful over my pathway
The forest spoils are shed;
They are spotting the grassy hillocks
With purple and gold and red.
Beautiful is the death-sleep
Of those who bravely fight
In their country’s holy quarrel,
And perish for the Right.
But who shall comfort the living,
The light of whose homes is gone:
The bride that, early widowed,
Lives broken-hearted on;
The matron whose sons are lying
In graves on a distant shore;
The maiden, whose promised husband
Comes back from the war no more?
I look on the peaceful dwellings
Whose windows glimmer in sight,
With croft and garden and orchard,
That bask in the mellow light;
And I know that, when our couriers
With news of victory come,
They will bring a bitter message
Of hopeless grief to some.
Again I turn to the woodlands,
And shudder as I see
The mock-grape’s blood-red banner
Hung out on the cedar-tree;
And I think of days of slaughter,
And the night-sky red with flames,
On the Chattahoochee’s meadows,
And the wasted banks of the James.
Oh, for the fresh spring-season,
When the groves are in their prime,
And far away in the future
Is the frosty autumn-time!
Oh, for that better season,
When the pride of the foe shall yield,
And the hosts of God and Freedom
March back from the well-won field;
And the matron shall clasp her first-born
With tears of joy and pride;
And the scarred and war-worn lover
Shall claim his promised bride!
The leaves are swept from the branches;
But the living buds are there,
With folded flower and foliage,
To sprout in a kinder air.
-
Mention of Thanatopsis led me to look it up. Here is the last verse; he wrote this at 17!
So live, that when thy summons comes to join
The innumerable caravan which moves
To that mysterious realm, where each shall take 75
His chamber in the silent halls of death,
Thou go not, like the quarry-slave at night,
Scourged to his dungeon, but, sustained and soothed
By an unfaltering trust, approach thy grave
Like one who wraps the drapery of his couch 80
About him, and lies down to pleasant dreams.
-
Jackie this link to the poem is a study link that is close to being an annotated version...interesting...no clodhopper rhyming words is he...
http://www.vcu.edu/engweb/webtexts/Bryant/thanatopsis.html
-
I first read 'Thanatopsis' in high school. It so impressed me; I'm sure it
had a good deal to do with stirring up my appreciation of poetry.
Here's a November poem. I can't say it fits my part of the country, but
it does match my more romantic ideas of approaching winter, snow and all.
"November comes
And November goes,
With the last red berries
And the first white snows.
With night coming early,
And dawn coming late,
And ice in the bucket
And frost by the gate.
The fires burn
And the kettles sing,
And earth sinks to rest
Until next spring."
- Clyde Watson
-
How stereotypical that vision is to all of us though we live far from the New England winters it describes. Until I moved to Oregon 5 years ago I had never lived where there was more snow than once a decade, maybe, and then it only dusted the ground.
-
Under the Harvest Moon
by Carl Sandburg
Under the harvest moon,
When the soft silver
Drips shimmering
Over the garden nights,
Death, the gray mocker,
Comes and whispers to you
As a beautiful friend
Who remembers.
Under the summer roses
When the flagrant crimson
Lurks in the dusk
Of the wild red leaves,
Love, with little hands,
Comes and touches you
With a thousand memories,
And asks you
Beautiful, unanswerable questions.
-
The Harvest Moon
by Ted Hughes
The flame-red moon, the harvest moon,
Rolls along the hills, gently bouncing,
A vast balloon,
Till it takes off, and sinks upward
To lie on the bottom of the sky, like a gold doubloon.
The harvest moon has come,
Booming softly through heaven, like a bassoon.
And the earth replies all night, like a deep drum.
So people can't sleep,
So they go out where elms and oak trees keep
A kneeling vigil, in a religious hush.
The harvest moon has come!
And all the moonlit cows and all the sheep
Stare up at her petrified, while she swells
Filling heaven, as if red hot, and sailing
Closer and closer like the end of the world.
Till the gold fields of stiff wheat
Cry `We are ripe, reap us!' and the rivers
Sweat from the melting hills.
-
Hurrahing In Harvest
by Gerard Manley Hopkins
Summer ends now; now, barbarous in beauty, the stooks arise
Around; up above, what wind-walks! what lovely behaviour
Of silk-sack clouds! has wilder, wilful-wavier
Meal-drift moulded ever and melted across skies?
I walk, I lift up, I lift up heart, eyes,
Down all that glory in the heavens to glean our Saviour;
And, éyes, heárt, what looks, what lips yet gave you a
Rapturous love's greeting of realer, of rounder replies?
And the azurous hung hills are his world-wielding shoulder
Majestic—as a stallion stalwart, very-violet-sweet!—
These things, these things were here and but the beholder
Wanting; which two when they once meet,
The heart rears wings bold and bolder
And hurls for him, O half hurls earth for him off under his feet
-
Ah, Gerard Manley Hopkins. "..barbarous in beauty", indeed. What a way he has with words. The wind-walks, and the 'wilder, wilful wavier-'.
Here's one of those so simple, so lovely little poems.
The snow is melting
by Kobayashi Issa
The snow is melting
and the village is flooded
with children.
-
Berlin Wall
A stone from the
broken Berlin wall
Whispered last night;
Don't look at me with such hatred
My wounds are the mark of history.
I was prepared to bear
Your razor edged pain,
You could have carved me
As Jesus too.......
? Dr. Padmesh Gupta
-
Mending Wall
Something there is that doesn't love a wall,
That sends the frozen-ground-swell under it,
And spills the upper boulders in the sun;
And makes gaps even two can pass abreast.
The work of hunters is another thing:
I have come after them and made repair
Where they have left not one stone on stone,
But they would have the rabbit out of hiding,
To please the yelping dogs. The gaps I mean,
No one has seen them made or heard them made,
But at spring mending-time we find them there.
I let my neighbor know beyond the hill;
And on a day we meet to walk the line
And set the wall between us once again.
We keep the wall between us as we go.
To each the boulders that have fallen to each.
And some are loaves and some so nearly balls
We have to use a spell to make them balance:
"Stay where you are until our backs are turned!"
We wear our fingers rough with handling them.
Oh, just another kind of outdoor game,
One on a side. It comes to little more:
He is all pine and I am apple-orchard.
My apple trees will never get across
And eat the cones under his pines, I tell him.
He only says, "Good fences make good neighbors."
Spring is the mischief in me, and I wonder
If I could put a notion in his head:
"Why do they make good neighbors? Isn't it
Where there are cows? But here there are no cows.
Before I built a wall I'd ask to know
What I was walling in or walling out,
And to whom I was like to give offence.
Something there is that doesn't love a wall,
That wants it down!" I could say "Elves" to him,
But it's not elves exactly, and I'd rather
He said it for himself. I see him there,
Bringing a stone grasped firmly by the top
In each hand, like an old-stone savage armed.
He moves in darkness as it seems to me,
Not of woods only and the shade of trees.
He will not go behind his father's saying,
And he likes having thought of it so well
He says again, "Good fences make good neighbors."
-- Robert Frost.
-
Frost has always le mot juste.
-
THE THINGS THAT MAKE A SOLDIER GREAT
Edgar Guest
The things that make a soldier great and send him out to die,
To face the flaming cannon's mouth nor ever question why,
Are lilacs by a little porch, the row of tulips red,
The peonies and pansies, too, the old petunia bed,
The grass plot where his children play, the roses on the wall:
'Tis these that make a soldier great.
He's fighting for them all.
'Tis not the pomp and pride of kings that make a soldier brave;
'Tis not allegiance to the flag that over him may wave;
For soldiers never fight so well on land or on the foam
As when behind the cause they see the little place called home.
Endanger but that humble street whereon his children run,
You make a soldier of the man who never bore a gun.
What is it through the battle smoke the valiant soldier sees?
The little garden far away, the budding apple trees,
The little patch of ground back there, the children at their play,
Perhaps a tiny mound behind the simple church of gray.
The golden thread of courage isn't linked to castle dome
But to the spot, where'er it be — the humblest spot called home.
And now the lilacs bud again and all is lovely there
And homesick soldiers far away know spring is in the air;
The tulips come to bloom again, the grass once more is green,
And every man can see the spot where all his joys have been.
He sees his children smile at him, he hears the bugle call,
And only death can stop him now — he's fighting for them all.
-
After a few weeks of cold and wet, we are again blessed with beautiful days, sunny skies, and just enough coolness to be pleasant. Perfect weather! We are having a spell of Indian Summer, so I bring you Emily Dickinson again.
INDIAN SUMMER.
These are the days when birds come back,
A very few, a bird or two,
To take a backward look.
These are the days when skies put on
The old, old sophistries of June, --
A blue and gold mistake.
Oh, fraud that cannot cheat the bee,
Almost thy plausibility
Induces my belief,
Till ranks of seeds their witness bear,
And softly through the altered air
Hurries a timid leaf!
Oh, sacrament of summer days,
Oh, last communion in the haze,
Permit a child to join,
Thy sacred emblems to partake,
Thy consecrated bread to break,
Taste thine immortal wine!
-
Babi: What a peaceful start for the day. Comfort is sorely needed these days. The news has been so gloomy and tomorrow we recall the sacrifices of generations of our young men and women.
-
Yes, a lovely beginning Jackie I agree Babi sharing Emily with us is just so perfect. Babi after reading the poem what hit me was how far from real gardening so many of us are - oh we have all sorts of plants we know and even grow but to have intimate knowledge of the life of bees!?!
-
Here is another Indian Summer poem that reminds us of Rural life.
Indian Summer
by Diane Glancy
There’s a farm auction up the road.
Wind has its bid in for the leaves.
Already bugs flurry the headlights
between cornfields at night.
If this world were permanent,
I could dance full as the squaw dress
on the clothesline.
I would not see winter
in the square of white yard-light on the wall.
But something tugs at me.
The world is at a loss and I am part of it
migrating daily.
Everything is up for grabs
like a box of farm tools broken open.
I hear the spirits often in the garden
and along the shore of corn.
I know this place is not mine.
I hear them up the road again.
This world is a horizon, an open sea.
Behind the house, the white iceberg of the barn.
-
"The world is at a loss and I am part of it
migrating daily".
Yes.
-
In honor of Memorial Day, what could be better than Rupert Brooke's
"The Soldier". He wrote of an English soldier, but it could be written of any soldier.
The Soldier
If I should die, think only this of me:
That there's some corner of a foreign field
That is for ever England. There shall be
In that rich earth a richer dust concealed;
A dust whom England bore, shaped, made aware,
Gave, once, her flowers to love, her ways to roam,
A body of England's, breathing English air,
Washed by the rivers, blest by suns of home.
And think, this heart, all evil shed away,
A pulse in the eternal mind, no less
Gives somewhere back the thoughts by England given;
Her sights and sounds; dreams happy as her day;
And laughter, learnt of friends; and gentleness,
In hearts at peace, under an English heaven.
-
Memorial Day
The bugle echoes shrill and sweet,
But not of war it sings to-day.
The road is rhythmic with the feet
Of men-at-arms who come to pray.
The roses blossom white and red
On tombs where weary soldiers lie;
Flags wave above the honored dead
And martial music cleaves the sky.
Above their wreath-strewn
graves we kneel,
They kept the faith and
fought the fight.
Through flying lead and
crimson steel
They plunged for Freedom
and the Right.
May we, their grateful children, learn
Their strength, who lie
beneath this sod,
Who went through fire
and death to earn
At last the accolade of God.
In shining rank on rank arrayed
They march, the legions of the Lord;
He is their Captain unafraid,
The Prince of Peace . . .
Who brought a sword.
by Joyce Kilmer
In Flanders Fields
In Flanders fields the poppies blow
Between the crosses, row on row,
That mark our place; and in the sky
The larks, still bravely singing, fly
Scarce heard amid the guns below.
We are the Dead. Short days ago
We lived, felt dawn, saw sunset glow,
Loved and were loved, and now we lie
In Flanders fields.
Take up our quarrel with the foe:
To you from failing hands we throw
The torch; be yours to hold it high.
If ye break faith with us who die
We shall not sleep, though poppies grow
In Flanders fields.
by Lieutenant-Colonel John McCrae
Do Not Stand At My Grave and Weep
Do not stand at my grave and weep
I am not there. I do not sleep.
I am a thousand winds that blow.
I am the diamond glints on snow.
I am the sunlight on ripened grain.
I am the gentle autumn rain.
When you awaken in the morning's hush
I am the swift uplifting rush
Of quiet birds in circled flight.
I am the soft stars that shine at night.
Do not stand at my grave and cry;
I am not there, I did not die.
Mary Elizabeth Frye
-
Ah yes, I remember having to memorize In Flanders Fields when I was in the 3rd or 4th grade. We all have our favorite Armistice Day poem and this one i can hear in my head with Richard Burton's voice rolling it out.
Channel Firing
That night your great guns, unawares,
Shook all our coffins as we lay,
And broke the chancel window-squares,
We thought it was the Judgment-day
And sat upright. While drearisome
Arose the howl of wakened hounds:
The mouse let fall the altar-crumb,
The worms drew back into the mounds,
The glebe cow drooled. Till God called, "No;
It's gunnery practice out at sea
Just as before you went below;
The world is as it used to be:
"All nations striving strong to make
Red war yet redder. Mad as hatters
They do no more for Christés sake
Than you who are helpless in such matters.
"That this is not the judgment-hour
For some of them's a blessed thing,
For if it were they'd have to scour
Hell's floor for so much threatening ....
"Ha, ha. It will be warmer when
I blow the trumpet (if indeed
I ever do; for you are men,
And rest eternal sorely need)."
So down we lay again. "I wonder,
Will the world ever saner be,"
Said one, "than when He sent us under
In our indifferent century!"
And many a skeleton shook his head.
"Instead of preaching forty year,"
My neighbour Parson Thirdly said,
"I wish I had stuck to pipes and beer."
Again the guns disturbed the hour,
Roaring their readiness to avenge,
As far inland as Stourton Tower,
And Camelot, and starlit Stonehenge.
-- Thomas Hardy
-
We also had to memorize "In Flanders Field" in school, BARB. It's a beautiful poem, short enough and rhythmic so that school children can
easily memorize it.
The first death in my close family was that of my Mother when I was 13. A family friend told me to remember that when I cried I was crying for myself; that my Mother was well and happy. That stuck with me and influenced how I've always viewed death and grief.
-
Yes, I agree Babi when something hurts we most often cry and when the hurt is bad coming from inside added to the hurt is confusion and we cry and stop and cry again while we try all sorts of things to feel better, like going through personal objects and saving some that we associate with a good memory. However, there is always that tinge of sadness isn't there as we still hurt a bit missing the person -
I know I was lucky and didn't loose my mother till I was 50 but often I am doing something and in the middle I forget and want to call my mother or I see something that I think she would have enjoyed seeing and again, I want to call her - it takes me a minute to remember she isn't here and where I no longer actually cry I am close to it for just a minute as I hurt again that she is gone, lost to me for the rest of my life. It hurts doesn't it.
The hurt for me that I still react is my son. This Christmas it will be 4 years now and I still wake up in tears as I've had a dream or if I am tired I often remember and the remembering makes me sad. I still feel badly that I did not get up to see him in his house in New Mexico - I kept putting it off and it was 4 years since he moved to his mountain home. I find that from time to time I read and add to the discussion about loosing a loved one on the Senior & Friends site - our sister site since the closing of SeniorNet.
Here are two poems written from the view point of someone who lost a loved one and the other from the viewpoint imagined by the deceased.
If Tears Could...
If tears could build a stairway
And memories were a lane,
I would walk right up to heaven
To bring you home again.
No farewell words were spoken.
No time to say good-bye.
You were gone before we knew it,
And only God knows why.
My heart still aches in sadness
And secret tears still flow.
What it meant to lose you,
No one will ever know.
I AM FREE
Don't grieve for me, for now I'm free
I'm following the path God laid for me
I took His hand when I heard Him call
I turned my back and left it all.
I could not stay another day, to laugh,
to love, to work or play.
Tasks undone must stay that way
I've found that peace at the close of the day.
If parting has left a void, then fill it
with remembered joy.
A friendship shared, a laugh, a kiss,
Ah, yes, these things I too will miss.
Be not burdened with times of sorrow
I wish for you the sunshine of tomorrow.
My life's been full, I savored much
Good friends, good times,
a loved one's touch.
Perhaps my time seemed all to brief,
Don't lengthen it now with undue grief.
Lift up your hearts and share with me,
God wants me now, He set me free.
-
Emily Dickinson speaks of the part of the heart that will not be available after a loved one passes. Not all love, I believe, but the love which has lost its object is being "put away".
THE BUSTLE in a house
The morning after death
Is solemnest of industries
Enacted upon earth,—
The sweeping up the heart, 5
And putting love away
We shall not want to use again
Until eternity.
-
BARBARA, I think we all feel that the loss of a child is the hardest of all losses to bear. I lost two sons in childbirth, so I never got to know them and did not have that loss to bear. I grieved over the babies..how could I not. At odd moments will still wonder what they would have been like had they lived, and what I missed in not having an Alan and a Phillip in my life.
-
Babi: My first pregnancy ended in stillbirth. Later I had a daughter so did not miss out on the experience of having a loving girl to raise. I can remember almost every minute of that sad birth though the others have passed into the far reaches of my mind.
-
We're having rain and hail here and snow in the Cascades. This describes it so well:
Emily Dickinson. 1830–1886
Beclouded
THE sky is low, the clouds are mean,
A travelling flake of snow
Across a barn or through a rut
Debates if it will go.
A narrow wind complains all day 5
How some one treated him;
Nature, like us, is sometimes caught
Without her diadem.
-
Let's not be too serious:
Eugene Field. 1850–1895
Seein' Things
I AIN'T afraid uv snakes or toads, or bugs or worms or mice,
An' things 'at girls are skeered uv I think are awful nice!
I'm pretty brave I guess; an' yet I hate to go to bed,
For, when I'm tucked up warm an snug an' when my prayers are said,
Mother tells me "Happy Dreams" an' takes away the light, 5
An' leaves me lyin' all alone an' seein' things at night!
Sometimes they're in the corner, sometimes they're by the door,
Sometimes they're all a-standin' in the middle uv the floor;
Sometimes they are a-sittin' down, sometimes they're walkin' round
So softly and so creepy-like they never make a sound! 10
Sometimes they are as black as ink, an' other times they're white—
But color ain't no difference when you see things at night!
Once, when I licked a feller 'at had just moved on our street,
An' father sent me up to bed without a bite to eat,
I woke up in the dark an saw things standin' in a row, 15
A-lookin' at me cross-eyed an' p'intin' at me—so!
Oh, my! I wuz so skeered 'at time I never slep' a mite—
It's almost alluz when I'm bad I see things at night!
Lucky thing I ain't a girl or I'd be skeered to death!
Bein' I'm a boy, I duck my head an' hold my breath. 20
An' I am, oh so sorry I'm a naughty boy, an' then
I promise to be better an' I say my prayers again!
Gran'ma tells me that's the only way to make it right
When a feller has been wicked an' sees things at night!
An' so when other naughty boys would coax me into sin, 25
I try to skwush the Tempter's voice 'at urges me within;
An' when they's pie for supper, or cakes 'at's big an' nice,
I want to—but I do not pass my plate f'r them things twice!
No, ruther let Starvation wipe me slowly out o' sight
Than I should keep a-livin' on an' seein' things at night!
-
Included in Louis Untermeyer's Modern American Poetry:
Irwin Russell. 1853–1879
De Fust Banjo
GO 'way, fiddle! folks is tired o' hearin' you a-squawkin'.
Keep silence fur you' betters! don't you heah de banjo talkin'?
About de 'possum's tail she's gwine to lecter—ladies, listen!
About de ha'r whut isn't dar, an' why de ha'r is missin':
"Dar's gwine to be a' oberflow," said Noah, lookin' solemn— 5
Fur Noah tuk de "Herald," an' he read de ribber column—
An' so he sot his hands to wuk a-clarin' timber-patches,
An' 'lowed he's gwine to build a boat to beat de steamah Natchez.
Ol' Noah kep' a-nailin' an' a-chippin' an' a-sawin';
An' all de wicked neighbors kep' a-laughin' an' a-pshawin'; 10
But Noah didn't min' 'em, knowin' whut was gwine to happen:
An' forty days an' forty nights de rain it kep' a-drappin'.
Now, Noah had done cotched a lot ob ebry sort o' beas'es—
Ob all de shows a-trabbelin', it beat 'em all to pieces!
He had a Morgan colt an' sebral head o' Jarsey cattle— 15
An' druv 'em 'board de Ark as soon's he heered de thunder rattle.
Den sech anoder fall ob rain! It come so awful hebby,
De ribber riz immejitly, an' busted troo de lebbee;
De people all wuz drownded out—'cep Noah an' de critters,
An' men he'd hired to wuk de boat—an' one to mix de bitters. 20
De Ark she kep' a-sailin' an' a-sailin' an' a-sailin';
De lion got his dander up, an' like to bruk de palin';
De sarpints hissed; de painters yelled; tel', whut wid all de fussin',
You c'u'dn't hardly heah de mate a-bossin' 'roun' an' cussin'.
Now Ham, de only N***** whut was runnin' on de packet, 25
Got lonesome in de barber-shop, an' c'u'dn't stan' de racket;
An' so, fur to amuse he-se'f, he steamed some wood an' bent it,
An' soon he had a banjo made—de fust dat wuz invented.
He wet de ledder, stretched it on; made bridge an' screws an' aprin;
An' fitted in a proper neck—'twuz berry long an' taprin'; 30
He tuk some tin, an' twisted him a thimble fur to ring it:
An' den de mighty question riz: how wuz he gwine to string it?
De 'possum had as fine a tail as dis dat I's a-singin';
De har's so long an' thick an' strong,—des fit fur banjo-stringin';
Dat N***** shaved 'em off as short as washday-dinner graces: 35
An' sorted ob 'em by de size—f'om little E's to basses.
He strung her, tuned her, struck a jig,—'twuz "Nebber min' de wedder,"—
She soun' like forty-lebben bands a-playin' all togedder:
Some went to pattin'; some to dancin': Noah called de figgers;
An' Ham he sot an' knocked de tune, de happiest ob niggers! 40
Now, sence dat time—it's mighty strange—dere's not de slightes' showin'
Ob any ha'r at all upon de 'possum's tail a-growin';
An' curi's, too, dat N*****'s ways: his people nebber los' 'em—
Fur whar you finds de N*****—dar's de banjo an' de 'possum!
-
Just because I like it:
Charles Erskine Scott Wood. 1852–
Sunrise
THE lean coyote, prowler of the night,
Slips to his rocky fastnesses,
Jack-rabbits noiselessly shuttle among the sage-brush,
And from the castellated cliffs,
Rock-ravens launch their proud black sails upon the day. 5
The wild horses troop back to their pastures.
The poplar-trees watch beside the irrigation-ditches.
Orioles, whose nests sway in the cotton-wood trees by the ditch-side, begin to twitter.
All shy things, breathless, watch
The thin white skirts of dawn, 10
The dancer of the sky,
Who trips daintily down the mountain-side
Emptying her crystal chalice....
And a red-bird, dipped in sunrise, cracks from a poplar's top
His exultant whip above a silver world.
-
Eliot's Oak
by Longfellow
Thou ancient oak! whose myriad leaves are loud
With sounds of unintelligible speech,
Sounds as of surges on a shingly beach,
Or multitudinous murmurs of a crowd;
With some mysterious gift of tongues endowed,
Thou speakest a different dialect to each;
To me a language that no man can teach,
Of a lost race, long vanished like a cloud.
For underneath thy shade, in days remote,
Seated like Abraham at eventide
Beneath the oaks of Mamre, the unknown
Apostle of the Indians, Eliot, wrote
His Bible in a language that hath died
And is forgotten, save by thee alone.
-
Welcome to our Autumn Poetry Page.
A haven for those who listen to the words
that open hearts, imagination, and our feelings
that we share about the poems we post - Please Join Us.
(http://seniorlearn.org/bookclubs/poetry/poetryleaves.jpg)
|
Poetry can be part of life
rather than a thing apart.
Share with us
Poems about the end
of the natural year.
Tell us
How you celebrate
a poet's life and poems.
Autumn holidays -
Tell us about Poetry in
Fall parties and gift giving.
|
A few Poetry Links:
- Famous Poets and Poems about Autumn (http://famouspoetsandpoems.com/thematic_poems/autumn_poems.html)
- Fall Poetry (http://www.dltk-holidays.com/fall/fallpoetry.htm)
- Poems for Autumn (http://www.scrapbook.com/poems/cat/5.html)
Discussion Leaders: BarbStAubrey (augere@ix.netcom.com) & Fairanna (fairanna@verizon.net)
-
Solitude Late at Night in the Woods
The body is like a November birch facing the full moon
And reaching into the cold heavens.
In these trees there is no ambition, no sodden body, no leaves,
Nothing but bare trunks climbing like cold fire!
My last walk in the trees has come. At dawn
I must return to the trapped fields,
To the obedient earth.
The trees shall be reaching all the winter.
It is a joy to walk in the bare woods.
The moonlight is not broken by the heavy leaves.
The leaves are down, and touching the soaked earth,
Giving off the odors that partridges love.
- Robert Bly
-
bare trunks climbing like cold fire
sublime.
-
I love the imagery in the 'Sunrise' poem.
The thin white skirts of dawn,
The dancer of the sky,
Who trips daintily down the mountain-side
Emptying her crystal chalice....
-
Ode to Autumn
By John Keats
Season of mists and mellow fruitfulness,
Close bosom-friend of the maturing sun;
Conspiring with him how to load and bless
With fruit the vines that round the thatch-eaves run;
To bend with apples the mossed cottage-trees,
And fill all fruit with ripeness to the core;
To swell the gourd, and plump the hazel shells
With a sweet kernel; to set budding more,
And still more, later flowers for the bees,
Until they think warm days will never cease,
For Summer has o'er-brimmed their clammy cells.
Who hath not seen thee oft amid thy store?
Sometimes whoever seeks abroad may find
Thee sitting careless on a granary floor,
Thy hair soft-lifted by the winnowing wind;
Or on a half-reaped furrow sound asleep,
Drowsed with the fume of poppies, while thy hook
Spares the next swath and all its twined flowers;
And sometimes like a gleaner thou dost keep
Steady thy laden head across a brook;
Or by a cider-press, with patient look,
Thou watchest the last oozings, hours by hours.
Where are the songs of Spring? Ay, where are they?
Think not of them, thou hast thy music too,---
While barred clouds bloom the soft-dying day,
And touch the stubble-plains with rosy hue;
Then in a wailful choir, the small gnats mourn
Among the river sallows, borne aloft
Or sinking as the light wind lives or dies;
And full-grown lambs loud bleat from hilly bourn;
Hedge-crickets sing; and now with treble soft
The redbreast whistles from a garden-croft,
And gathering swallows twitter in the skies.
-
Singing, the Reapers Homeward Come
Singing, the reapers homeward come, Io! Io!
Merrily singing the harvest home, Io! Io!
Along the field, along the road,
Where autumn is scattering leaves abroad,
Homeward cometh the ripe last load, Io! Io!
Singers are filling the twilight dim
With cheerful song, Io! Io!
The spirit of song ascends to Him
Who causeth the corn to grow.
He freely sent the gentle rain,
The summer sun glorified hill and plain,
To golden perfection brought the grain, Io! Io!
Silently, nightly, fell the dew,
Gently the rain, Io! Io!
But who can tell how the green corn grew,
Or who beheld it grow?
Oh! God the good, in sun and rain,
He looked on the flourishing fields and grain,
Till they all appeared on hill and plain
Like living gold, Io! Io!
-
The snow level is down to 6500 feet and some of it will accumulate. Though Frost lived in New England I can imagine this scene in the wilds of the Cascades . . .
Stopping by Woods on a Snowy Evening
By Robert Frost
Whose woods these are I think I know.
His house is in the village though;
He will not see me stopping here
To watch his woods fill up with snow.
My little horse must think it queer
To stop without a farmhouse near
Between the woods and frozen lake
The darkest evening of the year.
He gives his harness bells a shake
To ask if there is some mistake.
The only other sound’s the sweep
Of easy wind and downy flake.
The woods are lovely, dark and deep.
But I have promises to keep,
And miles to go before I sleep,
And miles to go before I sleep.
-
This is Mt. Hood in winter:
http://images.google.com/imgres?imgurl=http://www.withpennbrush.com/portfolio/landscapes/35MtHoodInWinter.jpg&imgrefurl=http://www.withpennbrush.com/portfolio/landscapes.htm&usg=__TSMO5ZAS8F1bzG3hYrwiAmyopJA=&h=338&w=432&sz=51&hl=en&start=1&sig2=NSl18tPFdxxeMHh1vOTrJA&um=1&tbnid=Ikh7VCw6UWglTM:&tbnh=99&tbnw=126&prev=/images%3Fq%3Dmt%2Bhood%2Bwinter%26hl%3Den%26rls%3Dcom.microsoft:en-us:IE-SearchBox%26rlz%3D1I7GPEA_enUS302%26sa%3DG%26um%3D1&ei=KFwAS7HmN5n2tAOZsPGdCg
-
almost looks make-believe doesn't it - I used to have a live link to a camera placed in the park but I do not know what I did with it. it was fun stopping in and seeing a deer grazing or a few cars drive by on the road near where the camera was set up in some trees.
-
Here it is. Can't see much now: http://www.fsvisimages.com/moho2/moho2.html
-
Lovely poems, beautiful photos. Thanks to you both.
-
Yes, Jackie, but now it's beautiful.
-
Had to put the heat on to warm up the house today - the sun is bright but it is crisp and cold.
Winter’s Coming On
Winter’s coming on.
The year is winding down.
Autumn’s color, gone-
her leaves piled on the ground.
The chill is in the air-
and soon there will be snow.
But we’ll keep warm and cozy,
as north winds start to blow.
We’ll sit next to the fire,
with blankets tucked in neat.
We’ll cuddle - you and I, my love -
as embers warm our feet.
We’ll have our tea or coffee,
our steamy cups to hold
up close before our faces;
to help combat the cold.
Fire logs will be handy,
Piled up in stacks so high.
We won’t meet winter, unprepared,
and never would we try!
June Kellum
-
Reminds me of a recipe from an AF base in Alaska for Moose Milk: Hot Water, Eagle Brand SweetenedCondensed
Milk, and your alcoholic beverage of choice. Yummy
-
Ohhoho it is going to be cold in the morning - they are predicting "Frost" in the hill country which is just outside Austin - I have wrapped the outside faucet on the northside of the house and taken in the garden hose. Still have the hose on the patio but that faces the southwest and I do not think the frost will be around for more than a few hours. Here is a poem in honor of the frost.
Morning Frost
The morning frost speaks of what I wish not to hear.
Step out from the warmth that embraced your soul
through the night.
Cast yourself out from the shadows and into the days sun.
Hide not from the truth.
Consume that hot cup of tea, freeing your shivers.
Move on with the tasks need be done.
robert allen kelleher
-
Oh, but Mr. Kelleher, I don't want to. :-X
-
Shivery
This cold cold weather, bids me not
to energetic spree
I stand and shiver, wondering how
To warm that cold cold me
If only I could make a start
It would not be bad it seems.
But somehow I just linger on
And do it, in my dreams.
My ideas are brilliant
They are plain to see
But ho, this cold cold weather
Does waste my time for me.
Mary Gore
-
The story of my life.
-
oh dear and I do not even have the cold to blame...
My ideas are brilliant
They are plain to see
But ho, this cold cold weather
Does waste my time for me
-
8)
-
BASHO'S HAIKU
autumn wind’s
mouth at the sliding door
a piercing voice
fragile twigs
breaking off the scarlet papers
autumn wind
autumn has come
visiting my ear on
a pillow of wind
-
I was looking for a poem about thanksgiving, and came across this. It's
not exactly what I was looking for, but I like it and wanted to share it with you. Mr. Bruchac is native American, but I've alreay forgotten which
tribe.
PRAYER—Joseph Bruchac
Let my words
be bright with animals,
images the flash of a gull's wing.
If we pretend
that we are at the center,
that moles and kingfishers,
eels and coyotes
are at the edge of grace,
then we circle, dead moons
about a cold sun.
This morning I ask only
the blessing of the crayfish,
the beatitude of the birds;
to wear the skin of the bear
in my songs;
to work like a man with my hands.'
-
This time every year Smith College opens its gorgeos old conservatory/greenhouse to the public for the chyrsanthemum show. It's unbelievably beautiful; masses mums in every autumn color and a spectacular cascade of mums trained to fall over the wall of the conservatory. They botany students also hybridized to create new varietes, and you can vote for you favorite. But for poetry lovers, the students in the Asian studies department translated Chinese poems about chrysanthemums and autumn in general from ancient Chinese texts, and placed them among the flowers. I asked at the d esk if copies of the poems were available; they aren't . What a shame, they are so beauiful and the students' work should get recognition! So I am writing to the Asia department to see if they will send me copies. If they respond, I willpost some here.
The French associate mums with death; they are the flower of funerals. Big social mistake to take them to a dinner hostes, if she keeps to tradition.
-
Babi the phrase within the poem reminded me of this video about the The Sun rising behind the Dead Planet [the moon] http://footage.shutterstock.com/video.html?id=118399
I love the lines -
the blessing of the crayfish,
the beatitude of the birds;
Because the wildlife is the prayer it seems to reach inside with an understanding that the usual prayers have lost some of their edge since we frequently hear the words.
Bellemere thanks for sharing - we look forward to the translated Asian poems.
-
News Flash:
I will be leaving for my daughter's Monday or Tuesday after Thanksgiving - My grandson will have surgery just before Thanksgiving that involves breaking all of the bones on his rib cage since they have been growing inward and are now rubbing against his heart. Some 19th Birthday to remember - ah so... I will be there early to help during his recovery.
And so - I will change our heading and focus from Autumn Poetry to Winter Poetry on Sunday of Thanksgiving weekend - a few days early since I will be on the Road on December 1.
Also, being on the road I am out of pocket and I am up to my ears the day or so before getting the car packed and then I need a couple of days to recoup and then I will be busy helping out with little time on the computer - and so please, enjoy sharing poetry however, I will probably be out of pocket for a minimum of a week and a half - If I can poke my nose in I will - but starting with Sunday November 29 we will switch to Winter and then as I say I will be out of pocket till probably the 9th or 10th of December.
And so, like the last leaves hanging on the autumn trees there is only a week and a half to share with us the last of your favorite Autumn poems and then we are into winter.
-
The Last Leaf
By Oliver Wendell Holmes - 1831
I saw him once before,
As he passed by the door,
And again
The pavement stones resound,
As he totters o'er the ground
With his cane.
They say that in his prime,
Ere the pruning-knife of Time
Cut him down,
Not a better man was found
By the Crier on his round
Through the town.
But now he walks the streets,
And he looks at all he meets
Sad and wan,
And he shakes his feeble head,
That it seems as if he said,
"They are gone!"
The mossy marbles rest
On the lips that he has prest
In their bloom,
And the names he loved to hear
Have been carved for many a year
On the tomb.
My grandmamma has said--
Poor old lady, she is dead
Long ago--
That he had a Roman nose,
And his cheek was like a rose
In the snow;
But now his nose is thin,
And it rests upon his chin
Like a staff,
And a crook is in his back,
And a melancholy crack
In his laugh.
I know it is a sin
For me to sit and grin
At him here;
But the old three-cornered hat,
And the breeches, and all that,
Are so queer!
And if I should live to be
The last leaf upon the tree
In the spring,
Let them smile, as I do now,
At the old forsaken bough
Where I cling.
-
Yes, we here are clinging to our boughs. Very apt for the Thanksgiving season.
How these lines resonate!
If we pretend that we are at the center
. . .
then we circle, dead moons about a cold sun.
Barb: What a stressful time for you and your family. We'll carry on. Our thoughts and prayers will be with you all.
-
BARBARA: my thoughts will be with you.
-
Yea, I have looked, and seen November there;
The changeless seal of change it seemed to be,
Fair death of things that, living once, were fair;
Bright sign of loneliness too great for me,
Strange image of the dread eternity,
In whose void patience how can these have part,
These outstretched feverish hands, this restless heart?
- William Morris,
-
Ah, Barb, I'm sure your grandson is not happy to be having surgery
just before Thanksgiving, of all times. Active young men are not happy
confined to bed in any circumstances. I'm sure they will all be glad you
are there to help keep him entertained. Don't worry about us; we'll
carry on.
-
These were chosen but not translated by the students for the chrysanthemum show
From the Smith College chrysanthemum show.
Remembering the Chrysanthemums
By Lady Allspice
The autumn wind that through the knotgrass blowss
Blurs the sad gazer’s eye with unshed tears;
But autumn’s guest, who last year graced this plot
Only, as yet, in dreams of night appears.
The wild geese from the North are now returning;
The dhobi’s thump at evening fills my ears.
Those golden flowers for which you see me pine
I’ll meet again at this year’s double nine.
Seeking the Chrysnthemum
By Green Boy
The crisp day bids us go on an excursion
Resistant to the wineshop door’s temptation.
Some garden, where, before the frosts, was planted
The glory of autumn, being our destination:
Which after weary walk having found, we’ll sing
An autumn song with unsubdued elation.
And you, gold flowers, if all the poet told
You understood,would not refuse his gold!
Admiring the Chrysanthemums
By Cloud Maiden
Transplanted treasures, dear to me as gold-
Both the pale clumps and those of darker hue!
Bare-headed by yiur wintry bed I sit
And, musing, hug my knees and sing to you.
None more than you the villain world disdains;
None understands your proud heart as I do
The precious hours of autumn I’ll not waste,
But bide with you and savour their full taste.
Arranging the Chrysanthemums
By Cloud Maiden
What greater pleasure than the lute to strum
Or sip wine by your delicate display?
To hold the garden’s fragrance in one vase,
And see all autumn in a single spray?
On frosty nights I’ll dream you back again
Brave in your garden bed at close of day.
Since with your shy disdain I sympathize,
Tis you,not summer’s gaudy blooms I prize.
Celebrating the Chrysanthemums
By River Queen
Down garden walks, in search of inspiration,
A restless demon drives me all the time
Then brush blooms into praises and the mouth
Grows acrid-sweet , hymning those scents sublime. .
Yet easier ‘twere a world of grief to tell
Than to lock autumn’s secret in one rhyme.
That miracle old Tao did once attain;
Since when a thousand bards have tried in vain.
Questioning the Chrysanthemums
By River Queen
Since none else autumn’s mystery can explain,
I come with the murmured questions to your gate:
Who, world disdainer, shares yur hiding place?
Of all the flowers why do yous bloom so late?
The garden silent lies in frosty dew,
The geese return, the cricket mourns his fate
Let not speech from your silent world by banished:
Converse with me, since me you understand.
The Dream of the Chrysanthemums
By River Queen
Light-hearted in my bed I lie
And seem to chase the moon across the sky.
Well, if immortal, I‘ll go seek old Tao,
Not imitate Zhuang’s flittering butterfly!
Following the wild goose, into sleep I slid;
From which now, startled by the cricket’s cry,
Midst cold and fog and dying leaves I wake,
With o one by to tell of my heart’s ache.
‘
The Decay of the Chrysanthemums
By Plaintain Lover
The feasting over and the first snow fallen, ‘
The flowers frost-stricken lie or sideways lean
Their perfume lingering, but their gold hue dimmed.
And few poor, tattered leaves bereft of green,
Now under moonlit bench the cricket shrills,
And weary goose-files in the cold sky are seen.
Yet of your passing let me not complain:
Next autumn equinox we’ll meet again!
this is just about half of them
dont you just love the poets' names? I would love to be Lady Allspice.She sounds like a courtesan, but , hey, I can handle that. .
-
The poems are very apt, blending the sadness of the passing year with the appreciation of the mums' beauty. Lady Allspice properly leads the way as I liked hers best. Maybe there's something about the courtesan life style?
-
The Last Chrysanthemum
by Thomas Hardy
Why should this flower delay so long
To show its tremulous plumes?
Now is the time of plaintive robin-song,
When flowers are in their tombs.
Through the slow summer, when the sun
Called to each frond and whorl
That all he could for flowers was being done,
Why did it not uncurl?
It must have felt that fervid call
Although it took no heed,
Waking but now, when leaves like corpses fall,
And saps all retrocede.
Too late its beauty, lonely thing,
The season's shine is spent,
Nothing remains for it but shivering
In tempests turbulent.
Had it a reason for delay,
Dreaming in witlessness
That for a bloom so delicately gay
Winter would stay its stress?
- I talk as if the thing were born
With sense to work its mind;
Yet it is but one mask of many worn
By the Great Face behind.
SOMETHING TOLD THE WILD GEESE
By Rachel Field
Something told the wild geese
It was time to go,
Though the fields lay golden
Something whispered, "snow."
Leaves were green and stirring,
Berries, luster-glossed,
But beneath warm feathers
Something cautioned, "frost."
All the sagging orchards
Steamed with amber spice,
But each wild breast stiffened
At remembered ice.
Something told the wild geese
It was time to fly,
Summer sun was on their wings,
Winter in their cry.
My November Guest
Robert Frost
My Sorrow, when she's here with me,
Thinks these dark days of autumn rain
Are beautiful as days can be;
She loves the bare, the withered tree;
She walks the sodden pasture lane.
Her pleasure will not let me stay.
She talks and I am fain to list:
She's glad the birds are gone away,
She's glad her simple worsted grady
Is silver now with clinging mist.
The desolate, deserted trees,
The faded earth, the heavy sky,
The beauties she so ryly sees,
She thinks I have no eye for these,
And vexes me for reason why.
Not yesterday I learned to know
The love of bare November days
Before the coming of the snow,
But it were vain to tell he so,
And they are better for her praise.
-
Oh my a flurry at the end of Autumn just as in life there appears in nature a flurry of smiles as we observe chrysanthemums pinned for an upcoming important game, or gracing a table set for friends and family or growing in the garden or a neighbors garden at first all bright and then a frost bends them and their color faded reminds me of finding a pressed flower in an old fat tome.
Lady Allspice had a word I could not fatham and so here is the link fir Dhobi: http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Dhobi
And then how delightful - the double nine or chongyang festival is a celebration honoring elders! The day is celebrated by folks hill climbing and drinking chrysanthemum wine.
http://www.newsgd.com/pictures/peoplelife/content/2009-10/26/content_6094301.htm
Keep scrolling on this link - there is all sorts of information including a poem for double nine
http://www.squidoo.com/Double-Ninth-Festival?utm_campaign=direct-discovery&utm_medium=sidebar&utm_source=tirial
http://www.cashtochina.com/newsletter/200908/
The Rachel Field poem is lovely - those last lines...oh my...
Something told the wild geese
It was time to fly,
Summer sun was on their wings,
Winter in their cry
-
Three by Basho
Deep autumn.
My neighbow-
How does he live, I wonder.
Autumn evening.
A crow has settled
on the bare branch.
Autumn
That road-
no-one walks on it.
-
(http://seniorlearn.org/bookclubs/foodsbooks/christmasdivider9.jpg)
You are invited to a
HOLIDAY OPEN HOUSE (http://seniorlearn.org/forum/index.php?topic=978.0) for Book and Food Lovers
December 1 - 20
Guests will be YOU and authors of your favorite books that combine a good story with good tips on food. Do drop in and tell us about your favorite foodies, real and otherwise, be it Rachel Ray or Kate Jacobs or Tyler Florence or Joanne Harris. Who's your favorite cook?
-
Those golden flowers for which you see me pine
I’ll meet again at this year’s double nine.
BELLEMERE, do you know what is meant by "double nine" in Lady Allspice's poem? I haven't a clue.
-
From Barb's research (above) I think we can assume that "double nine " is a nickname for the chongyang festival honoring the elders. Probably refers to its place in the chinese calendar. The festival features hill climbing and drinking chrysanthemum wine. Wonder how many elders partake. I could climb a nice little hill, but I don't think the local packy carries chrysanthemum wine. Anyway, the flowers are bout the only lovely thing about November.
-
Okay, thanks, Belle. I don't know how I missed Barb's post.
Here is a timely poem that I can really identify with.
I TAKE JOY
by Sally Hemingway
I take joy every day, in the simplest of things,
Like the sound of the thrush, and the song that he brings,
Like the sight of the clouds, as they're drifting on by,
All floating around me, and filling the sky.
I take joy in a smile from a genuine face,
From a tender sweet look, or a gentle embrace,
I take joy in what's free, and costs nothing at all,
A moment of laughter which sometimes I recall.
I delight in the fact I am here every day,
A chance to enjoy all which might pass my way.
We pass this way once, so many would say -
But I take joy in fact that I'm living today.
The sounds of the world brings such pleasure to me,
After years of such silence - just the sound of a bee-
Is pure magic, enriching the joys of today,
As he scurries and buzzes and goes on his way.
I delight in the kindness of folks that I know,
The caring, the thoughtfulness, people can show.
I take joy in the fact that my heart knows no fear,
For I've been given today, and another bright year.
I thank God every day for the love I have known,
For each happy sweet day, for each tenderness shown.
I take joy in my heart, more than can be expressed -
For a life of such beauty - A life truly blessed.
-
Taking joy, so much more fun than Thanks. A new theme for this season, something that is sorely needed.
-
Welcome to our Autumn Poetry Page.
A haven for those who listen to the words
that open hearts, imagination, and our feelings
that we share about the poems we post - Please Join Us.
(http://seniorlearn.org/bookclubs/poetry/poetryleaves.jpg)
|
Poetry can be part of life
rather than a thing apart.
Share with us
Poems about the end
of the natural year.
Tell us
How you celebrate
a poet's life and poems.
Autumn holidays -
Tell us about Poetry in
Fall parties and gift giving.
|
A few Poetry Links:
- Famous Poets and Poems about Autumn (http://famouspoetsandpoems.com/thematic_poems/autumn_poems.html)
- Fall Poetry (http://www.dltk-holidays.com/fall/fallpoetry.htm)
- Poems for Autumn (http://www.scrapbook.com/poems/cat/5.html)
Discussion Leaders: BarbStAubrey (augere@ix.netcom.com) & Fairanna (fairanna@verizon.net)
Great poem, Babi. Substitute I Give Thanks for I Take Joy and it makes the poem even more appropriate for this time of the year. Thank you for reminding me of all the things I have that I can take joy in!
Sally
-
It does seem to me the poem is expressing gratitutde for all those
joys. I know my heart is full of gratitude whenever I can experience one
of those moments of sheer joy.
-
Those moments are what holds my life together. I'll see a sunset sky and gasp at its beauty. Sighting Mt Hood, one of our local volcanoes, is another of those moments. Having a comfortable laugh with my family, seeing my cat/clown acting silly, talking to my sister on the phone, little bits of daily life scattering joy like pepper on scrambled eggs.
-
Welcome Salon - glad you found us and the poem said something to you - sorry but the heading must be inserted in the first post of every page and so your message is the post that also carries the heading.
Interesting to me - my friend and I get together for dinner every Wednesday and after dinner we usually read and discuss a chapter from a book written by a theologian. - Currently, we are reading a book written by Matthew Fox whose views the Vatican had trouble accepting and so he left the Dominicans and became an Episcopal priest. Regardless, he is expanding the view of God where as Rome prefers the official interpretations, which are only, expanded by either a written encyclical from the Pope or by and council of Church Cardinals and Bishops.
All to say Matthew Fox is explaining a view of a Cosmic God that is at the core of everything - at the center of every plant, creature, atom, drop of water, grain of sand etc. rather than a Patriarchal God that is the head of a Pyramid. With that change of perception many words are inappropriate and funny enough the word Joy comes up because, if we are all a part of a Cosmic God and God is the core of everything we are then what we call bad only because our free will has blocked the God within and without. As opposed to Thanks which is a word that goes with a God who is separate from us and controls the universe. A God who we must please or who we turn out backs and so bad is without God.
I am not suggesting this theory is for everyone rather I am giving in a nutshell the theory. What brings a smile to my face is - I recognize the views we hold often since childhood color our instint reaction to the very words that we hear and read. - I love it - that so much of what we read in Poetry strikes our inner core that has been built since our childhood coloring even our personal view of our God.
I think at this time in history many of us are looking at a simpler life acknowledging the beauty in what is free - it is as if we are taking a deep breath allowing ourselves to look and be grateful - thank goodness we are not living on the streets but even at that a street person can see some bits of daily life scattering joy like pepper on scrambled eggs
Great poem to have shared Babi - gets us all thinking about what really matters doesn't it.
-
Barb: Wasn't one of Henry's arguments, that the people should have access to the bible rather than getting dribbles of it as the priests chose? Also, didn't Luther oppose that view? Seems as if the Rome learns slowly if at all.
Joy is what was so profoundly fundamental to the poem, Barb, and why it resonated so deeply within me. Thanks is almost subservient. I suppose if I had survived the voyage of the Mayflower I would have been thankful, too. Perhaps I have too much a pragmatic mind and lack the spiritual element. The world is such a marvel and it's core truths so beautifully clear that I don't feel the need for intercession.
-
This is poetry but it touches so many of our deeply held beliefs and our feelings, how we respond to the world around us - Yep, have to agree Jackie, Rome learns slowly or not at all - however, being fair, by learn we mean change - more precisely change to a more educated western point of view - and bottom line I do not think any religious are 'change agents' - regardless the church leaders of Judism, Buddhism, Orthodox, Latin, Byzantine or Greek Catholic, Anglican, on and on... they all have their official dogma and views but within each religious body are groups and individuals who celebrate their God with theology other than the official. Some become saints or revered names and others are asked to leave...ah so...and so it goes.
I see the concept of Joy falling in line with a spirituality that reminds me of the Native American sacred view of the universe and our place in the universe. There are many web sites of Jews and Christians Thanking God for the sun, the universe as a whole, all that is on this earth, mostly the good that is on this earth. Bottom line, it appears we have our own personal views and as long as we can hold and practice our own view that is all that matters.
The poem said Joy and if that translates to Thanks for some then they are simply sharing how the poem affected them given their belief system.
Personally, like you Jackie, I like Joy. But more important like you it was a treat to be reminded of all the Joy in my life.
Gerard Manley Hopkins, Catholic ex-priest says it this way...
Glory be to God for dappled things—
For skies of couple-colour as a brinded cow;
For rose-moles all in stipple upon trout that swim;
Fresh-firecoal chestnut-falls; finches’ wings;
Landscape plotted and pieced—fold, fallow, and plough;
And all trades, their gear and tackle and trim.
All things counter, original, spare, strange;
Whatever is fickle, freckled (who knows how?)
With swift, slow; sweet, sour; adazzle, dim;
He fathers-forth whose beauty is past change:
Praise him.
And James Patrick Dunne, a musician and writer says it...
JOY TO LIFE
How fragile this world that we live in
I get caught in the fight of the day
I can't see the gifts I've been given
So much is clouding my way
But sometimes your voice speaks so loudly
Yet you whisper right into my soul
To look for the miracles everywhere
As the truth of life unfolds
Joy to life
Joy to life
Joy to all you have given me
Everywhere I look I see
The joy of life
Tranquil my heart to the rhythm
Of your beauty that's inside of me
I'm learning to trust your sweet vision
And to be all that I'm meant to be
Joy to life
Joy to life
Joy to all you have given me
Everywhere I look, I see
The joy of life
So much time that I've been wasting
So much yet to be done
There are new fruits I've been tasting
My journey has just begun
Joy to life
Joy to life
Joy to all you have given me
Everywhere I look I see
The joy of life
And finally, Joseph Bruchac, Native American (Abenaki, from central New York state) gives us a Micmac prayer...
The Circle of Thanks
As I play my drum
I look around me
and I see the trees.
The trees are dancing
in a circle about me
and they are beautiful.
As I play my drum
I look around me
and I see the sun and moon.
The sun and moon are dancing
in a circle about me
and they are beautiful.
As I play my drum
I look around me
and I see the stars.
The stars are dancing
in a circle about me
and they are beautiful.
As I play my drum
I look around me
and I see my people.
All my people are dancing
in a circle about me
and my people, they are beautiful.
-
I am deeply moved.
-
And I think is was mentioned that there are many groups inside religious groups who do their own thing but still stay inside the larger group practicing their faith. INHO, I think we all need not to forget that community includes all of us--be we Catholic, Christian, Jew, Muslim, Orthodox, Hindu, Coptic or Atheist. We all have a place in this world.
-
scattering joy like pepper on scrambled eggs.
JACKIE, now that's an image that would never have occurred to me. I'm still grinning.
That view of God as existing in everything is not new. Pantheism goes
way back. I find it exciting to know that everything in creation has the
same basis...energy! Whether stone or flesh, at the core of every atom is pure energy, held together God only knows how! Literally. So, for me, God created and holds together everything, but is also more..and beyond. The impulse to gratitude and thankfulness is, for me, too deep an impulse to be denied.
I love the Gerard Manley Hopkins poem. All that truly infinite variety
is one of the things that still inspires me with awe. I can simply step
outside and marvel and all the different shades of green in view to be
filled with wonder. There is a song called, I think, "Master Artist"; it
expressed my feelings so well. I tried to find it, but couldn't. I suspect I
have the title wrong.
-
Thanksgiving
For each new morning with its light,
For rest and shelter of the night,
For health and food,
For love and friends,
For everything Thy goodness sends.
--Ralph Waldo Emerson (1803-1882)
-
THE 53 PILGRIMS AT THE FIRST THANKSGIVING :
4 MARRIED WOMEN : Eleanor Billington, Mary Brewster, Elizabeth Hopkins, Susanna White Winslow.
5 ADOLESCENT GIRLS : Mary Chilton (14), Constance Hopkins (13 or 14), Priscilla Mullins (19), Elizabeth Tilley (14 or15) and Dorothy, the Carver's unnamed maidservant, perhaps 18 or 19.
9 ADOLESCENT BOYS : Francis & John Billington, John Cooke, John Crackston, Samuel Fuller (2d), Giles Hopkins, William Latham, Joseph Rogers, Henry Samson.
13 YOUNG CHILDREN : Bartholomew, Mary & Remember Allerton, Love & Wrestling Brewster, Humility Cooper, Samuel Eaton, Damaris & Oceanus Hopkins, Desire Minter, Richard More, Resolved & Peregrine White.
22 MEN : John Alden, Isaac Allerton, John Billington, William Bradford, William Brewster, Peter Brown, Francis Cooke, Edward Doty, Francis Eaton, [first name unknown] Ely, Samuel Fuller, Richard Gardiner, John Goodman, Stephen Hopkins, John Howland, Edward Lester, George Soule, Myles Standish, William Trevor, Richard Warren, Edward Winslow, Gilbert Winslow
1621 - Pilgrims and Native Americans celebrated a harvest feast in Plymouth, Massachusetts. There are only 2 primary sources for the events of autumn 1621 in Plymouth: Edward Winslow writing in Mourt's Relation and William Bradford writing in Of Plymouth Plantation
1630 - Settlers observed the first Thanksgiving of the Massachusetts Bay Colony in New England on July 8..
1777 - George Washington and his army on the way to Valley Forge, stopped in blistering weather in open fields to observe the first Thanksgiving of the new United States of America.
1789 - President Washington declared November 26, 1789, as a national day of "thanksgiving and prayer."
1800s - The annual presidential thanksgiving proclamations ceased for 45 years in the early 1800s.
1863 - President Abraham Lincoln resumed the tradition of Thanksgiving proclamations in 1863. Since this date, Thanksgiving has been observed annually in the United States.
1941 - President Roosevelt established the fourth Thursday in November as Thanksgiving Day.
Information from: The Pilgrim Hall Museum
-
She Sweeps With Many-Colored Brooms
Emily Dickinson
She sweeps with many-colored brooms,
And leaves the shreds behind;
Oh, housewife in the evening west,
Come back, and dust the pond!
You dropped a purple ravelling in,
You dropped an amber thread;
And now you've littered all the East
With duds of emerald!
And still she plies her spotted brooms,
And still the aprons fly,
Till brooms fade softly into stars -
And then I come away.
-
When the Frost is on the Punkin
by James Whitcomb Riley
When the frost is on the punkin and the fodder’s in the shock,
And you hear the kyouck and gobble of the struttin’ turkey-cock,
And the clackin’ of the guineys, and the cluckin’ of the hens,
And the rooster’s hallylooyer as he tiptoes on the fence;
O, it’s then’s the times a feller is a-feelin’ at his best,
With the risin’ sun to greet him from a night of peaceful rest,
As he leaves the house, bareheaded, and goes out to feed the stock,
When the frost is on the punkin and the fodder’s in the shock.
They’s something kindo’ harty-like about the atmusfere
When the heat of summer’s over and the coolin’ fall is here—
Of course we miss the flowers, and the blossums on the trees,
And the mumble of the hummin’-birds and buzzin’ of the bees;
But the air’s so appetizin’; and the landscape through the haze
Of a crisp and sunny morning of the airly autumn days
Is a pictur’ that no painter has the colorin’ to mock—
When the frost is on the punkin and the fodder’s in the shock.
The husky, rusty russel of the tossels of the corn,
And the raspin’ of the tangled leaves, as golden as the morn;
The stubble in the furries—kindo’ lonesome-like, but still
A-preachin’ sermuns to us of the barns they growed to fill;
The strawstack in the medder, and the reaper in the shed;
The hosses in theyr stalls below—the clover over-head!—
O, it sets my hart a-clickin’ like the tickin’ of a clock,
When the frost is on the punkin and the fodder’s in the shock!
Then your apples all is gethered, and the ones a feller keeps
Is poured around the celler-floor in red and yeller heaps;
And your cider-makin’ ’s over, and your wimmern-folks is through
With their mince and apple-butter, and theyr souse and saussage, too! ...
I don’t know how to tell it—but ef sich a thing could be
As the Angels wantin’ boardin’, and they’d call around on me—
I’d want to ’commodate ’em—all the whole-indurin’ flock—
When the frost is on the punkin and the fodder’s in the shock!
-
After reading the last two pages and being moved by the poetry and the thoughts expressed i am hesitant to share a poem I wrote some years ago....poetry speaks to me ..it is a language until itself ..no matter where , or who, or what it is written about ..there is something in even the smallest poetic thought that leaves the page and enters me...and i know from reading the words of all who come here ..enters you...
I am praying that whatever is keeping me from finding the peace that directed me to the poetry section here will return ...
Here is my offering and may Thanksgiving be a special day for you..with family, with friends, with memories .....
NOVEMBER
According to astrology
November people have a lot of special traits
The one that seems to suit me
Says we are unpredictable
That makes sense for November is just that unpredictable
Weather is always varied , too warm or too cold
One day I am raking leaves in short sleeves
And the next day sitting close to my little stove
Shivering and wondering what happened overnight
Here the first of the month brings a glory to the land
Trees are sporting colors , flaunting their vivid hues
The gold a dazzling display in brilliant sunlit day
Ruby , topaz, amethyst even peridot
Are worn like jewels on every branch and limb
The first rain will bring them down ,
Raining leaves you could say
Until the ground is covered with them
No grass can be seen in that blanket of brown
So we rake them , heap them, toss them in the air
Exuberant in the cool November air
And when the lawn is bare and we are tired
Pleased with our autumn chore
Those trees just shake themselves
And deposit more …and once again we set
Ourselves to the now onerous task
Raking leaves, soggy and wet
This time there is less joy and complaints fill the air
And still from my window I see my trees are not bare
But full of leaves again! Don’t they know the time has come
To let them go? And one day before November ends
In the sharp cutting sun of a November morn
I look out and see the leaves have gone
The ground is bare and the grass is old and dry
The squirrels only come to eat the corn
Then disappear until the next bleak morn
Too cold they are like me huddled in their nest
While the birds at my feeders never rest
For they need a lot of nourishment to survive
The coming cold, the darker days and early nights
Like me they hunker down to wait for December to arrive
For the shortest day to come and go
For the first snowflakes to arrive , swirling now
Blowing winds that seek to find entry to my house
Unpredictable November I am ready to see you go
Bring me dreams of spring and let me see robins in my yard
You have my permission to depart ..I need to think of crocus in my heart
anna alexander
thoughts on one November day in my life
these were the way Scorpios were described I thought you might like to see what astrology says and see how many are in you...
* Has a lot of ideas
* Difficult to fathom
* Thinks forward
* Unique and brilliant
* Extraordinary ideas
* Sharp thinking
* Fine and strong clairvoyance
* Can become good doctors
* Careful and cautious
* Dynamic in personality
* Secretive
* Inquisitive
* Knows how to dig secrets
* Always thinking
* Less talkative but amiable
* Brave and generous
* Patient
* Stubborn and hard-hearted
* If there is a will, there is a way
* Determined
* Never give up
* Hardly become angry unless provoked
* Loves to be alone
* Thinks differently from others
* Sharp-minded
* Motivates oneself
* Does not appreciates praises
* High-spirited
* Well-built and tough
* Deep love and emotions
* Romantic
* Uncertain in relationships
* Homely
* Hardworking
* High abilities
* Trustworthy
* Honest and keeps secrets
* Not able to control emotions
* Unpredictable
-
Anna, that is beautiful and as a Scorpio, allow me to add one more trait-
fiercely LOYAL!
It must be because I am born on the cusp because there a couple that do not fit me.
-
Barbara you were posting while I was doing the same and now I see one of the poets I read early in my life...I love the folksy way Riley writes .. having many aunts and uncles who lived on farms I heard a lot of sayings and words as Riley writes..they didnt speak that way all the time but when you were with a group at an auction ..a farm sale, a disposable sale that quaint speech could be heard I often thought it came into being from the immigrants who left the varied countries and without education spoke what they heard and it became these and of course there was also the difficulty of speaking with tobacco or snuff in ones mouth...and broken and lost teeth...//words come out different then but for me it was fascinatin' to hear not what I heard at my home or school but more interesting .that is just me . I am going to make a punkin' pie for Thanksgiving and THANK GOD for all the blessings HE has bestowed and I believe HE is in every atom ..of what we see and know When the Bible says GOD CREATED then HE had to use everything we know and guess and hope HAVE A GREAT THANKSGIVING>>>love to all
-
Wow!, BARB, I didn't realize that detailed information was available.
I hadn't realized there were so many children. I love the names of the
children! Can you imagine being named "Remember" or "Humility", "Resolved"
or, heaven help us, "Desire"?
You dropped a purple ravelling in,
You dropped an amber thread;
And now you've littered all the East
With duds of emerald!
Ah, how can one not love Emily Dickinson?
Two of my childrn were born in November, ANNA. With that long list of
characteristics, it's easy to find some that fit. My two have some things
in common, and are quite different in others.
Loved your poem. We've had a couple of absolutely perfect, gorgeous
days here this week. I was pleased to think about them again reading
your November thoughts.
"...of course there was also the difficulty of speaking with tobacco or snuff in ones mouth...and broken and lost teeth...//words come out different then."
Of course! I'd never considered that before, but it does explain some
of the pronunciations one hears in country sayings. Thank you so much, ANNA, for that insight.
-
"a picture that no painter has the colorin' to mock" words to fit most sunsets.
Anna, have you ever looked at your horoscope in the lunar calendar? http://www.proastro.com/
Based on the cycle of 12 each year has a different animal totem and the horoscope describes the characteristics for each animal. At one time in my life I had several people who were so attreactive I couldn't let them go but they also were very demanding and not good for me psychologically. I am a Boar and those people, not the same age at all, were all Monkeys, almost irresistible to boars. Not that I knew this at the time! My two children were born in October, both Libras, yet one is a Rat and one is a Rooster, vastly different in truth. Just another fun way to look at yourself and the people in your life.
Please continue to share your formidable talent with us. I am a failure at writing it but I crave poetry like a drug so it doesn't have to be only famous poets, I've always looked forward to your work and feel like it is a special day when you share it with us.
-
A quickie - our family is riddled with horses, pigs and roosters.
Great to see your post Anna -
Rushing - my son's tomorrow over in Magnolia and then Tuesday I leave for my daughter - Ty had his surgery and all is well - he will be in the hospital till Tuesday. Happy Thanksgiving...
-
The Old-Fashioned Thanksgiving
(Edgar Albert Guest, 1881-1959)
It may be I am getting old and like too much to dwell
Upon the days of bygone years, the days I loved so well;
But thinking of them now I wish somehow that I could know
A simple old Thanksgiving Day, like those of long ago,
When all the family gathered round a table richly spread,
With little Jamie at the foot and grandpa at the head,
The youngest of us all to greet the oldest with a smile,
With mother running in and out and laughing all the while.
It may be I'm old-fashioned, but it seems to me to-day
We're too much bent on having fun to take the time to pray;
Each little family grows up with fashions of its own;
It lives within a world itself and wants to be alone.
It has its special pleasures, its circle, too, of friends;
There are no get-together days; each one his journey wends,
Pursuing what he likes the best in his particular way,
Letting the others do the same upon Thanksgiving Day.
I like the olden way the best, when relatives were glad
To meet the way they used to do when I was but a lad;
The old home was a rendezvous for all our kith and kin,
And whether living far or near they all came trooping in
With shouts of "Hello, daddy!" as they fairly stormed the place
And made a rush for mother, who would stop to wipe her face
Upon her gingham apron before she kissed them all,
Hugging them proudly to her breast, the grownups and the small.
Then laughter rang throughout the home, and, Oh, the jokes they told;
From Boston, Frank brought new ones, but father sprang the old;
All afternoon we chatted, telling what we hoped to do,
The struggles we were making and the hardships we'd gone through;
We gathered round the fireside. How fast the hours would fly--
It seemed before we'd settled down 'twas time to say good-bye.
Those were the glad Thanksgivings, the old-time families knew
When relatives could still be friends and every heart was true.
-
When Father Carves the Duck
We all look on with anxious eyes
When father carves the duck,
And mother almost always sighs
When father carves the duck;
Then all of us prepare to rise,
And hold our bibs before our eyes,
And be prepared for some surprise,
When father carves the duck.
He braces up and grabs a fork
Whene'er he carves a duck,
And won't allow a soul to talk
Until he's carved the duck.
The fork is jabbed into the sides,
Across the breast the knife he slides,
While every careful person hides
From flying chips of duck.
The platter's always sure to slip
When father carves a duck,
And how it makes the dishes skip!
Potatoes fly amuck!
The squash and cabbage leap in space,
We get some gravy in our face,
And father mutters a Hindoo grace
Whene'er he carves a duck.
We then have learned to walk around
The dining room and pluck
From off the window-sills and walls
Our share of father's duck.
While father growls and blows and jaws
And swears the knife was full of flaws,
And mother laughs at him because
He couldn't carve a duck.
~By E. V. Wright
-
Thanks Barb, that was a knee slapper. I can just picture myself being there with "my bib before my eyes."
-
From an 1844 poem by Lydia Marie Child
Over the river, and through the wood,
To Grandfather's house we go;
The horse knows the way to carry the sleigh
through the white and drifted snow.
Over the river, and through the wood—
Oh, how the wind does blow!
It stings the toes and bites the nose
As over the ground we go.
Over the river, and through the wood,
To have a first-rate play.
Hear the bells ring, "Ting-a-ling-ding",
Hurrah for Thanksgiving Day!
Over the river, and through the wood
Trot fast, my dapple-gray!
Spring over the ground like a hunting-hound,
For this is Thanksgiving Day.
Over the river, and through the wood—
And straight through the barnyard gate,
We seem to go extremely slow,
It is so hard to wait!
Over the river, and through the wood—
Now Grandmother's cap I spy!
Hurrah for the fun! Is the pudding done?
Hurrah for the pumpkin pie!
-
?>??? I checked out that Chinese calendar, JACKIE. I am also a Libra, and the calendar said I am a Pig. So, if there are 12 animals dividing up a
year, how do a Rat, a Rooster and a Pig all wind up in October?? I'll
stick to Libra; it fits me perfectly.
Oho! I wonder what the 'Hindu grace' consisted of? I have my suspicions. ;)
-
Babi: Puleeze, I prefer "Boar" to "Pig". ;D You and I share our place in the twelve year cycle. What year you are born in is what counts. My birthday is Feb. 13 and February is usually the time of the new year in lunar calendars. Just like birthdays one day apart can fall into separate signs such as Aquarius and Pisces both sharing February dates so too can the lunar calendar result in separate animals for birthdays today and tomorrow. Some years my birthday is before the new year, some years it is after. That is part of the fun. My two libras are as different as day and night; in addition to being different genders one is pure logic, numbers, the other is art, emotions. Three years and seven days separate my rooster from my rat's birthdays.
-
I took time this am to check and see if I had another poem about autumn and I did...by the way MrsSherlock Three years and seven days separate my rooster from my rat's birthday is a funny line ...I wonder what a newcomer here would think about that...I did have a great Thanksgiving day with my oldest son and his extended family...his mother and father in law and a sister in law...but I really appreiciate how mother must have felt .. when the six of us lived in different places...and when she had a holiday she could only be with one of us..I am grateful my children live near but in some ways I was also depressed a bit because the days when we celebrated can never be again,...any way here is the poem I spoke of...
Autumn Thoughts
the summer’s heat has pressed me down
and only my thoughts of cooler days
allowed me to survive
just thinking of Autumn with her jaunty dress
eases the heat along my arms
and spreads down to my wiggling toes
the heat seared my skin , kidnapped my breath
held me hostage in my room
where fans fooled me with their air
hibernating, my body still
waiting for some weather man to say
tomorrow will be a cooler day
it is time for summer’s heat
to give way, to autumn’s turn at the wheel
so I can leave my home
inhale fresh air cool beneath the trees
see my flowers lift their blooms
offer their beauty again to me
anna alexander
July 30, 2005, 12:16 PM
©
May every day be Thanksgiving :)
-
Anna: A perfect description of the effects of too much heat: "the heat seared my skin , kidnapped my breath
held me hostage in my room". Thank you for the gift of your poem.
-
Okay, thanks, JACKIE. I can see how different years would change the
animals for that month. (And I must say I like 'boar' much better, too.)
I don't think I've ever posted this Robert Frost poem, and perhaps this post-holiday aura is the time for it.
RELUCTANCE
Out through the fields and the woods
And over the walls I have wended;
I have climbed the hills of view
And looked at the world, and descended;
I have come by the highway home,
And lo, it is ended.
The leaves are all dead on the ground,
Save those that the oak is keeping
To ravel them one by one
And let them go scraping and creeping
Out over the crusted snow,
When others are sleeping.
And the ded leaves lie huddled nd still,
No longer blown hither and thither;
The last lone aster is gone;
The flowers of the witch hazel wither;
The heart is still aching to seek,
But the feet question, "Whither?"
Ah, when to the heart of man
Was it ever less than a treason
To go with the drift of things,
To yield with a grace to reason,
And bow and accept the end
Of a love or a season?
-
Babi: Perfect.
-
Since I was a child poetry spoke to me...it clarifies my thoughts, my way of knowing what otherwise I wouldnt know and every poet has something to share..when we read the words they speak we are with them,, seeing what they see and feel and share
and all the poems shared here give me that special gift..Right now I am not writing and not reading ...but my mind still needs the poetry you post.
I am going through a lifetime of papers...and I MEAN a lifetime ..being in the military we never had time to sort things out so we ended up with a lot of STUFF Pictures forgotten ,people and places remembered and to come across a picture of someone you once knew and cared for is uncovering jewels.
One thing I uncovered was a poem.of mine ..no date, but I remember why I wrote the poem...it tells me I was sad ..
To a Kite Caught in A Tree
How came you to this spot---
Careless lad who failed,
To guide your flight afar--
Leaving you thus impaled.
How sad you should be-
Caught by earthly bars--
Imprisoned by a tree---
When destined for the stars.
anna alexander
a poem from long ago
-
Brava!
-
Ah, ANNA, that is a sad poem. You conveyed it so well in just a few lines.
-
oh Anna the Kite poem is just too perfect as I see so many whose lives are on hold because of earthly bare tree branches that snagged them on the way to their stars. Many are caught not be design or careless choices but sometimes life is abut bad things happening to good people. I think the poem is just Wonderful...!
The past few days have had such a feeling of melancholy about them - the overcaste sky plus I came down with a light case of the flu that reeked havoc on my drive home from my son's so I have been in bed all day yesterday - I need to leave for my daughter's this week but I may have to delay leaving for a day so I can get myself or actually my lungs into good condition for the long trip.
And so with my delay I will be able to upload our Winter poem heading to start us off with our winter poems tomorrow rather than today - I understand that areas of the nation are having a snowfall including west Texas - so it appears that winter is really upon us.
Well one more autumn poem - Here is Wallace Stevens.
The Region November
It is hard to hear the north wind again,
And to watch the treetops, as they sway.
They sway, deeply and loudly, in an effort,
So much less than feeling, so much less than speech,
Saying and saying, the way things say
On the level of that which is not yet knowledge:
A revelation not yet intended.
It is like a critic of God, the world
And human nature, pensively seated
On the waste throne of his own wilderness.
Deeplier, deeplier, loudlier, loudlier,
The trees are swaying, swaying, swaying.
-
Barb: " the way things say
On the level of that which is not yet knowledge"
That is very profound.
Take care of yourself. Be well rested before you take off. Long trips are stressful. When my sister travels to California's bay area I go with her to share the driving. Even so we both need a day in bed to recover at each end of the trip.
-
Winter moon.
The stones on the path
Crunch underfoot.
Buson
I can't read that crunch without shivering.
-
This links to the 75th Anniversary Booklet of Poets from the Academy of American Poets. A wonderful story of how it started - who was the originator, why, and the amazing poets that were the beneficiary of the Academy since its conception in 1934.
http://poets.org/viewmedia.php/prmMID/21209?utm_source=poetsupdate_112409&utm_medium=newsletter&utm_campaign=content&utm_content=booklet_main
-
Barb: What an exciting site to explore.
Winter Solitude
by Matsuo Basho
Winter solitude--
in a world of one color
the sound of wind.
-
I love the poems that give life to wind - the Chinese and Japanese poets often include wind in their poems - It catches my breath each time I read about the wind.
I need to find the symbolism in wind...
OK here is one that I have not heard in years but seems like the appropriate poem for this time of year. Reminds me of the Littlest Angle.
The Chimney-Sweeper
by William Blake
When my mother died I was very young,
And my father sold me while yet my tongue
Could scarcely cry 'Weep! weep! weep! weep!'
So your chimneys I sweep, and in soot I sleep.
There's little Tom Dacre, who cried when his head,
That curled like a lamb's back, was shaved; so I said,
'Hush, Tom! never mind it, for, when your head's bare,
You know that the soot cannot spoil your white hair.'
And so he was quiet, and that very night,
As Tom was a-sleeping, he had such a sight!--
That thousands of sweepers, Dick, Joe, Ned, and Jack,
Were all of them locked up in coffins of black.
And by came an angel, who had a bright key,
And he opened the coffins, and set them all free;
Then down a green plain, leaping, laughing, they run
And wash in a river, and shine in the sun.
Then naked and white, all their bags left behind,
They rise upon clouds, and sport in the wind;
And the angel told Tom, if he'd be a good boy,
He'd have God for his father, and never want joy.
And so Tom awoke, and we rose in the dark,
And got with our bags and our brushes to work.
Though the morning was cold, Tom was happy and warm:
So, if all do their duty, they need not fear harm.
-
Only two poems till the page turns - so I will add the two and upload the Winter heading.
The Mystery of Meteors
by Eleanor Lerman
I am out before dawn, marching a small dog through a meager park
Boulevards angle away, newspapers fly around like blind white birds
Two days in a row I have not seen the meteors
though the radio news says they are overhead
Leonid's brimstones are barred by clouds; I cannot read
the signs in heaven, I cannot see night rendered into fire
And yet I do believe a net of glitter is above me
You would not think I still knew these things:
I get on the train, I buy the food, I sweep, discuss,
consider gloves or boots, and in the summer,
open windows, find beads to string with pearls
You would not think that I had survived
anything but the life you see me living now
In the darkness, the dog stops and sniffs the air
She has been alone, she has known danger,
and so now she watches for it always
and I agree, with the conviction of my mistakes.
But in the second part of my life, slowly, slowly,
I begin to counsel bravery. Slowly, slowly,
I begin to feel the planets turning, and I am turning
toward the crackling shower of their sparks
These are the mysteries I could not approach when I was younger:
the boulevards, the meteors, the deep desires that split the sky
Walking down the paths of the cold park
I remember myself, the one who can wait out anything
So I caution the dog to go silently, to bear with me
the burden of knowing what spins on and on above our heads
For this is our reward:Come Armageddon, come fire or flood,
come love, not love, millennia of portents--
there is a future in which the dog and I are laughing
Born into it, the mystery, I know we will be saved
-
Here is a 'wind' poem but it just does not do it as compared the the Haiku
Four Winds
by Sara Teasdale
"Four winds blowing thro' the sky,
You have seen poor maidens die,
Tell me then what I shall do
That my lover may be true."
Said the wind from out the south,
"Lay no kiss upon his mouth,"
And the wind from out the west,
"Wound the heart within his breast,"
And the wind from out the east,
"Send him empty from the feast,"
And the wind from out the north,
"In the tempest thrust him forth,
When thou art more cruel than he,
Then will Love be kind to thee."
-
(http://seniorlearn.org/bookclubs/poetry/poetrywinter09.jpg) A Tray of Decorative Carved-Wood Cardinal-Birds Pull up a chair and Join us for...Winter Poetry- Famous Poets and Poems about Winter (http://famouspoetsandpoems.com/thematic_poems/winter_poems.html)
- Winter Poems (http://poetry.about.com/od/ourpoemcollections/a/winterpoems.htm)
Discussion Leaders: Barb (augere@ix.netcom.com) & fairanna (fairanna@verizon.net) | High From The Earth I Heard A Bird
~ Emily Dickinson
High from the earth I heard a bird;
He trod upon the trees
As he esteemed them trifles,
And then he spied a breeze,
And situated softly
Upon a pile of wind
Which in a perturbation
Nature had left behind.
A joyous-going fellow
I gathered from his talk,
Which both of benediction
And badinage partook,
Without apparent burden,
I learned, in leafy wood
He was the faithful father
Of a dependent brood;
And this untoward transport
His remedy for care, --
A contrast to our respites.
How different we are!
|
-
Blow, Blow, Thou Winter Wind from As You Like It, Act II, Scene VII
by William Shakespeare
Lord Amiens, a musician, sings before Duke Senior's company
Blow, blow, thou winter wind,
Thou art not so unkind
As man's ingratitude;
Thy tooth is not so keen,
Because thou art not seen,
Although thy breath be rude.
Heigh-ho! sing, heigh-ho! unto the green holly:
Most friendship is feigning, most loving mere folly:
Then, heigh-ho, the holly!
This life is most jolly.
Freeze, freeze, thou bitter sky,
That does not bite so nigh
As benefits forgot:
Though thou the waters warp,
Thy sting is not so sharp
As friend remembered not.
Heigh-ho! sing . . .
-
Everyones contributions are so perfect...winter has not been my time for a long time...When you live where snow comes ( once in awhile but something tells me this year will be like I wrote once that the world outside my door was crystal by nature not by Waterford....) and you are captured because this is not a place that really expects a BAD winter ...it becomes sad . then I am GLAD I have two barking dogs ...they need me and that gives a purpose to mylife..I cant say one poem posted was favored over the others , each seem to speak to me , to remind me that I am in the winter of my life...I dont mind but I AM BLESSED to have all of you here ...to share poetry ..
TAKE CARE EACH ONE and BARBARA you will be in our hearts and prayers until you return safely .. if you feel a warm touch on your journey know that all of us are thinking of you and asking GOD to keep you safe GO WITH LOVE >. a friend across the miles ..whom you have given many a smile and shared with a tear,. anna
-
Jackie: I have seen that poem translated thus:
Winter storn-
in a world of one color
the sound of wind.
Basho
-
Winter Complaint
by Ogden Nash
Now when I have a cold
I am careful with my cold,
I consult a physician
And I do as I am told.
I muffle up my torso
In woolly woolly garb,
And I quaff great flagons
Of sodium bicarb.
I munch on aspirin,
I lunch on water,
And I wouldn’t dream of osculating
Anybody’s daughter,
And to anybody’s son
I wouldn’t say howdy,
For I am a sufferer
Magna cum laude.
I don’t like germs,
But I’ll keep the germs I’ve got.
Will I take a chance of spreading them?
Definitely not.
I sneeze out the window
And I cough up the flue,
And I live like a hermit
Till the germs get through.
And because I’m considerate,
Because I’m wary,
I am treated by my friends
Like Typhoid Mary.
Now when you have a cold
You are careless with your cold,
You are cocky as a gangster
Who has just been paroled.
You ignore your physician,
You eat steaks and oxtails,
You stuff yourself with starches,
You drink lots of cocktails,
And you claim that gargling
Is a time of waste,
And you won’t take soda
For you don’t like the taste,
And you prowl around parties
Full of selfish bliss,
And greet your hostess
With a genial kiss.
You convert yourself
Into a deadly missle,
You exhale Hello’s
Like a steamboat wistle.
You sneeze in the subway
And you cough at dances,
And let everybody else
Take their own good chances.
You’re a bronchial boor,
A bacterial blighter,
And you get more invitations
Than a gossip writer.
Yes, your throat is froggy,
And your eyes are swimmy,
And you hand is clammy,
And you nose is brimmy,
But you woo my girls
And their hearts you jimmy
While I sit here
With the cold you gimmy.
-
Oh, my goodness, BARB. You were traveling with the flu?! I don't think I
could have managed that at all. I'm glad you made it home safely.
That's Texas for you. Snow in West Texas; open doors and
windows here in the Houston area because it's so warm.
When thou art more cruel than he,
Then will Love be kind to thee."
That sounds like a line you would find in a Shakespearean sonnet.
Oh, I love the Ogden Nash! I just sit here reading and grinning.
-
Winter-Time
by Robert Louis Stevenson
Late lies the wintry sun a-bed,
A frosty, fiery sleepy-head;
Blinks but an hour or two; and then,
A blood-red orange, sets again.
Before the stars have left the skies,
At morning in the dark I rise;
And shivering in my nakedness,
By the cold candle, bathe and dress.
Close by the jolly fire I sit
To warm my frozen bones a bit;
Or with a reindeer-sled, explore
The colder countries round the door.
When to go out, my nurse doth wrap
Me in my comforter and cap;
The cold wind burns my face, and blows
Its frosty pepper up my nose.
Black are my steps on silver sod;
Thick blows my frosty breath abroad;
And tree and house, and hill and lake,
Are frosted like a wedding cake.
-
(http://www.christmasgifts.com/clipart/christmasholly7.jpg)
| We're looking forward to seeing you at the
Holiday Open House (http://seniorlearn.org/forum/index.php?board=76.0)
December 1 - 20
|
-
I was looking for a poem that was special and this one by Billy Collins caught my eye ,,because one of my poetry instructors said that a poem means something different to each reader. We shouldnt ask what the poet meant but what it means to us. Billy Collins says it better than I could. Does a poem touch you? Tickle some memory, reveal some thought you once had but have almost forgotten? I know for me a poem may mean one thing the first time and read it but years later it will be something else. I am older and the world has moved on and now I read a poem with different eyes. What do you think?
I ask them to take a poem
and hold it up to the light
like a color slide
or press an ear against its hive.
I say drop a mouse into a poem
and watch him probe his way out,
or walk inside the poem's room
and feel the walls for a light switch.
I want them to waterski
across the surface of a poem
waving at the author's name on the shore.
But all they want to do
is tie the poem to a chair with rope
and torture a confession out of it.
They begin beating it with a hose
to find out what it really means.
Billy Collins
-
Oh, I like that, ANNA! Billy Collins must have been a teacher, poor guy.
I like the image of walking inside a poem looking for the light switch. And
of course, the direction of the play of light will make a difference, won't
it?
-
What imagery:
"tie the poem to a chair with rope
and torture a confession out of it."
That could be said of all literature when it becomes the object of obsessive deconstruction.
-
Oh Anna, I love Billy Collins. I had a college prof. who always threw a Billy Collins poem in, especially when he was discussing Emily Dickenson. Thank you for reminding me, particularly of this poem.
-
ANNA: thats GREAT!
-
Wow! Billy Collins and Emily Dickinson? QWhat a concept.
-
It has often been my impression that critics feel a need to impress us
with their superiority. I knew of a movie critic that I could always count
on. If he panned it, I knew I would probably enjoy it. ;D
-
Babi, you are so right! Many of the movies they recommend have disappointed me. Some of their reviews strike me as pompously pretentious.
Sally
-
I can't remember the last time I saw a movie in a theater. It was before I retired, and that's five years now. When i watch a movie on TV or a DVD I have only myself to satisfy. If I had to watch several movies per week, every week, for years and years I suspect that my standards would be different. I pity the life of a critic; he'she can never get it right cause someone will always have a different take. But I pay attention to the reviews just as I do to book reviews. Since I've been reading those movie reviews I've learned to look for such things as directors, I have some favorites; casting, some of the casts are inspired others suck. It is to my regret that I never took a film class in college though I used to take advantage of the cheap tickets at the showings on campus. I think on the whole critics write for their peers, other critics and those in the movie industry. They don't judge them like I do but I can always learn something from reading them. Here's my favorite movie critic; he calls them like he sees them and he isn't afraid of anybody or anything. http://www.sfgate.com/cgi-bin/blogs/mlasalle/index
-
Here is Mick taking the heat from his readers, bloody maybe but still unbowed. http://www.sfgate.com/cgi-bin/article.cgi?f=/c/a/2009/11/13/PKEH1AB98S.DTL
-
Your Mr. LaSalle is probably 100% correct, JACKIE. Any movie that makes a big box office hit is bound to have slews of imitators. I'm not
sure even Sandra Bullock could make a movie about football interesting
for me, but I'll probably give it a try.
The local weathermen are predicting a freeze and possible snow this
weekend. I am flabbergasted! Any such weather we get here is almost
always in January, and only rarely then. I thought the world was supposed to be getting warmer.
Ah, well, in the spirit of freeze and snow, here are a couple of Robert
Frost poems. Can't go wrong with those.
Dust of Snow
by Robert Frost (1923)
The way a crow
Shook down on me
The dust of snow
From a hemlock tree
Has given my heart
A change of mood
And saved some part
Of a day I had rued.
And of course that great favorite:
Stopping by Woods on a Snowy Evening
by Robert Frost (1923)
Whose woods these are I think I know.
His house is in the village though;
He will not see me stopping here
To watch his woods fill up with snow.
My little horse must think it queer
To stop without a farmhouse near
Between the woods and frozen lake
The darkest evening of the year.
He gives his harness bells a shake
To ask if there is some mistake.
The only other sound's the sweep
Of easy wind and downy flake.
The woods are lovely, dark and deep.
But I have promises to keep,
And miles to go before I sleep,
And miles to go before I sleep.
-
Snow flakes.
by Emily Dickins
I counted till they danced so
Their slippers leaped the town,
And then I took a pencil
To note the rebels down.
And then they grew so jolly
I did resign the prig,
And ten of my once stately toes
Are marshalled for a jig!
-
Snow Day
by Billy Collins
Today we woke up to a revolution of snow,
its white flag waving over everything,
the landscape vanished,
not a single mouse to punctuate the blankness,
and beyond these windows
the government buildings smothered,
schools and libraries buried, the post office lost
under the noiseless drift,
the paths of trains softly blocked,
the world fallen under this falling.
In a while I will put on some boots
and step out like someone walking in water,
and the dog will porpoise through the drifts,
and I will shake a laden branch,
sending a cold shower down on us both.
But for now I am a willing prisoner in this house,
a sympathizer with the anarchic cause of snow.
I will make a pot of tea
and listen to the plastic radio on the counter,
as glad as anyone to hear the news
that the Kiddie Corner School is closed,
the Ding-Dong School, closed,
the All Aboard Children's School, closed,
the Hi-Ho Nursery School, closed,
along with -- some will be delighted to hear --
the Toadstool School, the Little School,
Little Sparrows Nursery School,
Little Stars Pre-School, Peas-and-Carrots Day School,
the Tom Thumb Child Center, all closed,
and -- clap your hands -- the Peanuts Play School.
So this is where the children hide all day,
These are the nests where they letter and draw,
where they put on their bright miniature jackets,
all darting and climbing and sliding,
all but the few girls whispering by the fence.
And now I am listening hard
in the grandiose silence of the snow,
trying to hear what those three girls are plotting,
what riot is afoot,
which small queen is about to be brought down.
-
The snow is melting
by Kobayashi Issa
The snow is melting
and the village is flooded
with children.
-
Weep You No More, Sad Fountains
by John Dowland
1563-1626
Weep you no more, sad fountains;
What need you flow so fast?
Look how the snowy mountains
Heaven's sun doth gently waste.
But my sun's heavenly eyes
View not your weeping,
That now lies sleeping
Softly, now softly lies
Sleeping.
Sleep is a reconciling,
A rest that peace begets:
Doth not the sun rise smiling
When fair at even he sets?
Rest you then, rest, sad eyes,
Melt not in weeping,
While she lies sleeping
Softly, now softly lies
Sleeping.
-
A Patch of Old Snow
by Robert Frost
There's a patch of old snow in a corner
That I should have guessed
Was a blow-away paper the rain
Had brought to rest.
It is speckled with grime as if
Small print overspread it,
The news of a day I've forgotten--
If I ever read it.
-
Just gettin back after computer down time. For Barb. St. Aubrey:" You listed all the pilgrims at the First Thanksgiving. Each year in Plymouth, there is a procession to the Meeting House of all the survivors of that first winter. the volunteer participants are the gender and age of that list, and wear period costumes. Somehow, even if it is
fake" it is very moving.
Now to get back to reading all the great stuff I missed!
-
"And ten of my once stately toes
Are marshalled for a jig!"
I love it! And I definitely like Billy Collins. He is completely new to
me and I'm delighted to be introduced to him.
We had snowfall yesterday! Snowfall in early December!! I don't
think that has happened since I was a kid. ( Hey, I thought we were
having global warming. That hasn't been happening around here.)
I didn't even put up my umbrella; just let the snow fall on my hair and
shoulders.
-
Babi: No umbrellas in the snow! Since snow is so new to me, I feel the same way. It is the blasted ice that is so bad.
-
Would y'all believe I have been down and out with a good case of the Flu since Thanksgiving - started to feel bad on my way home from my Son's in Magnolia north of Houston and by the time I hit the house I had such shakes I did not know if I could stop the car when I drove into the garage - finally started to feel human this Thusday and now getting ready for my delayed trip to my daughter's - leaving tomorrow - taking the two days this time with an overnight on the road. Still coughing but not too bad - only when I wake up -
Babi we only had a few flurries but other areas outside of town saw more snow - like you it was a surprise - it is so rare that it is fun - afterwards everyone is cheery with rosy red cheeks.
The snow poems are a tickle in the heart to read - love it...
Here one of those paragraph poems that is in honor of all the Southerner's who have been contributing to our poetry page - Robert Frost can be the quintessential Northerner and so we need a balance here folks. ;)
Michael Benton – “The Sound of Snow” – A Sonnet
Southern Legitimacy Statement:
Winters in the South are not like winters elsewhere. In the Northeast, it’s just plain cold for far too long with mountains of snow. Out West the winters range from gray, rainy, wet malaise to deadly, subzero days that freeze the water in your eyes if you don't blink enough. Then there's California, all I can say about that is their weather suits their lifestyle. To a Southerner, it's a place to visit, kind of like the zoo.
Down South, we enjoy winters of moderation. Sure, it can get cold, but we measure it is days, not weeks and months like other places. Even on the cold days, our lows are warmer that the highs elsewhere. The best way to put it is this—the South gets just enough winter to help remind us why we don't live someplace else. Besides, if every day were perfect, we would loose sight of how to enjoy them to their fullest. Our short stint of Winter is one of God's ways of reminding Southerners that we are blessed to be living is such a place.
And one more - actually a bit late since we are in December but it does mention the scarcity of 'southern snow,' Not much cotton near Austin any longer but south of Austin towards Corpus, in face all over the state, especially up on the high plains there are miles and miles of cotton fields.
November Cotton Flower
by Jean Toomer
Boll-weevil’s coming, and the winter's cold,
Made cotton-stalks look rusty, seasons old,
And cotton, scarce as any southern snow,
Was vanishing; the branch, so pinched and slow,
Failed in its function as the autumn rake;
Drouth fighting soil had caused the soil to take
All water from the streams; dead birds were found
In wells a hundred feet below the ground—
Such was the season when the flower bloomed.
Old folks were startled, and it soon assumed
Significance. Superstition saw
Something it had never seen before:
Brown eyes that loved without a trace of fear,
Beauty so sudden for that time of year.
-
When I was eight my family moved from Mobile to San Jose; it was September, just in time for the start of school.. Later that winter my grandparents wrote to tell us of the snow in Mobile and how Mobile Bay had frozen. It seemed so unfair that the snow waited until we were gone! I can still picture the icecycles hanging from the eaves, so it must have been very cold some winter before we left.
-
Oh, yeah, JACKIE. Especially since we have to deal with the ice so
seldom. A few years ago my daughter slipped on the icy front steps,
fell hard and cracked her tailbone. This year, she went out and bought
two boxes of plain salt as soon as ice was predicted. It works.
My sympathies about your bout of flu, BARB. It's especially bad to fall
prey to it while you are traveling. I am fortunate not to have caught a
case of flu for several years now, but I well remember it was an effort
just to lift my head. I would have been terrified driving like that.
To a Southerner, it's a place to visit, kind of like the zoo.
(giggle)
-
What a Trip warm rain - freezing cold rain- thunder and lightening rain - heavy dark black rain - white rain - night rain - heavy blinding mist from passing 18 wheeler's rain -the entire trip was rain - I am still reeling - had a session with the chiropractor to get my body functioning again after the tension created by driving through rain.
Winter Rain
This rain is winter rain,
It spits and sprays like an angry cat,
As it lands lightly on the empty playground,
This rain is winter rains,
Cold and clinging to the thin fabrics,
Each droplet shining dully and roughly,
This rain is winter rain,
It drifts almost gracefully down through its own fog,
Taunting the shivering trees below, and above,
This rain is winter rain,
Even the bird's flinch fearfully and cringe,
As they fly through this endless grey curtain,
This rain is winter rain,
Drippng from everywhere, clouding everything,
A cruel, stinging scream in every drop,
This rain is winter rain...
Abby Wall
-
As I Grew Older
It was a long time ago.
I have almost forgotten my dream.
But it was there then,
In front of me,
Bright like a sun--
My dream.
And then the wall rose,
Rose slowly,
Slowly,
Between me and my dream.
Rose until it touched the sky--
The wall.
Shadow.
I am black.
I lie down in the shadow.
No longer the light of my dream before me,
Above me.
Only the thick wall.
Only the shadow.
My hands!
My dark hands!
Break through the wall!
Find my dream!
Help me to shatter this darkness,
To smash this night,
To break this shadow
Into a thousand lights of sun,
Into a thousand whirling dreams
Of sun!
Langston Hughes
-
Sonnet 6: Then let not winter's ragged hand deface
Then let not winter's ragged hand deface
In thee thy summer ere thou be distilled.
Make sweet some vial; treasure thou some place
With beauty's treasure ere it be self-killed.
That use is not forbidden usury
Which happies those that pay the willing loan;
That's for thyself to breed another thee,
Or ten times happier, be it ten for one,
Ten times thy self were happier than thou art,
If ten of thine ten times refigured thee;
Then what could death do, if thou shouldst depart,
Leaving thee living in posterity?
Be not self-willed, for thou art much too fair
To be death's conquest and make worms thine heir.
William Shakespeare
-
Common Cold
Go hang yourself, you old M.D.!
You shall not sneer at me.
Pick up your hat and stethoscope,
Go wash your mouth with laundry soap;
I contemplate a joy exquisite
I'm not paying you for your visit.
I did not call you to be told
My malady is a common cold.
By pounding brow and swollen lip;
By fever's hot and scaly grip;
By those two red redundant eyes
That weep like woeful April skies;
By racking snuffle, snort, and sniff;
By handkerchief after handkerchief;
This cold you wave away as naught
Is the damnedest cold man ever caught!
Give ear, you scientific fossil!
Here is the genuine Cold Colossal;
The Cold of which researchers dream,
The Perfect Cold, the Cold Supreme.
This honored system humbly holds
The Super-cold to end all colds;
The Cold Crusading for Democracy;
The Führer of the Streptococcracy.
Bacilli swarm within my portals
Such as were ne'er conceived by mortals,
But bred by scientists wise and hoary
In some Olympic laboratory;
Bacteria as large as mice,
With feet of fire and heads of ice
Who never interrupt for slumber
Their stamping elephantine rumba.
A common cold, gadzooks, forsooth!
Ah, yes. And Lincoln was jostled by Booth;
Don Juan was a budding gallant,
And Shakespeare's plays show signs of talent;
The Arctic winter is fairly coolish,
And your diagnosis is fairly foolish.
Oh what a derision history holds
For the man who belittled the Cold of Colds!
Ogden Nash
-
Ah, me, there is nothing 'graceful' about our winter rain. The wet just
makes the chill worse. But one does appreciate the occasional sunshine
all the more.
I can sympathize with Shakespeare's plea to leave behind a living
replica of a loved one. But only a thoughtless man could think ten copies were a good idea!
(Oh, Ogden, really! ::) )
-
As Usual I enjoy each poem and comment ...We just had our monthly poetry reading at a local coffee shop. it was a COLD AND RAINY night ..and the rain drops felt more like ice drops but melting in the warmer air ( not by much) I shared a poem I wrote a couple of years ago and will post it now I AM SO GLAD EVERYONE is able to share other poets than mine but I cant believe how busy I am right now..so here is my offering....
Home for the Christmas
The stairs are quiet beneath my feet
No sound except my breathing
It is Christmas morning
The sun is not a rosy ray
But a muddied yellow streaked with gray
A winter morn. I could feel the warmth
From the furnace’s fire flow up
From black grilled furnace grates
I knew my mother was in the kitchen
The fragrance of cinnamon seeps
From beneath the closed door
The Christmas tree is lit , the gifts are there
Santa had not forgotten , my breath was one of relief
My mother stands in the arched entrance
To the living room and says
Anna Mae go tell your brothers
It is Christmas day and Santa has been here
I hear my children, their children’s sweet young voices
Dinner is over , full of turkey and dressing , potatoes and yams
Ruby cranberry sauce, green beans and ham
Pumpkin pie with whipped cream
They now await the opening of the packages
Beribboned, wrapped , color coordinated
Piled beneath the tree,. I am quiet and their voices
Say Mom? Nana ? Are you okay ?
I smile and say ,I am fine let’s get on with the day’
But in my mind I am like them going home for Christmas Day.
Anna Alexander 12/16/04©
[/b]
-
This page is so rich it must be read again and again. So many paths for my imagination to wander, I must take them one-by-one so as to revere to the fullest each pearl.
-
ODE TO MY SOCKS
Pablo Neruda (Translated by Robert Bly)
Mara Mori brought me
a pair of socks
which she knitted herself
with her sheepherder's hands,
two socks as soft as rabbits.
I slipped my feet into them
as though into two cases
knitted with threads of twilight and goatskin.
Violent socks,
my feet were two fish made of wool,
two long sharks
sea blue, shot through
by one golden thread,
two immense blackbirds,
two cannons,
my feet were honored in this way
by these heavenly socks.
They were so handsome for the first time
my feet seemed to me unacceptable
like two decrepit firemen,
firemen unworthy of that woven fire,
of those glowing socks.
Nevertheless, I resisted the sharp temptation
to save them somewhere as schoolboys
keep fireflies,
as learned men collect
sacred texts,
I resisted the mad impulse to put them
in a golden cage and each day give them
birdseed and pieces of pink melon.
Like explorers in the jungle
who hand over the very rare green deer
to the spit and eat it with remorse,
I stretched out my feet and pulled on
the magnificent socks and then my shoes.
The moral of my ode is this:
beauty is twice beauty,
and what is good is doubly good
when it is a matter of two socks
made of wool in winter.
-
Barbara that is one of my favorites...I keep as many as my books of poetry near and Neruda is one I favor most of all...I need to stop here more often ...there is a peace that comes to me when I read poetry..when winter is here and a chill creeps along my body and invades my heart poetry reminds me that winter is just 1 season and allows me to have patience until another one arrives....BBRRRRRR weather is being forecast like 21 later this week....all I want to do is stay warm and read ,,read ,,read read ...best to everyone ............
-
Barb: I posted the Neruda poem on the Knitting Discusasion on SeniorsFriends.
-
(http://seniorlearn.org/bookclubs/poetry/poetrywinter09.jpg) A Tray of Decorative Carved-Wood Cardinal-Birds Pull up a chair and Join us for...Winter Poetry- Famous Poets and Poems about Winter (http://famouspoetsandpoems.com/thematic_poems/winter_poems.html)
- Winter Poems (http://poetry.about.com/od/ourpoemcollections/a/winterpoems.htm)
Discussion Leaders: Barb (augere@ix.netcom.com) & fairanna (fairanna@verizon.net) | High From The Earth I Heard A Bird
~ Emily Dickinson
High from the earth I heard a bird;
He trod upon the trees
As he esteemed them trifles,
And then he spied a breeze,
And situated softly
Upon a pile of wind
Which in a perturbation
Nature had left behind.
A joyous-going fellow
I gathered from his talk,
Which both of benediction
And badinage partook,
Without apparent burden,
I learned, in leafy wood
He was the faithful father
Of a dependent brood;
And this untoward transport
His remedy for care, --
A contrast to our respites.
How different we are!
|
I've posted this poem before, but I still like it.
James Wright
I was only a young man
in those days. On that evening
The cold was so ----- -----
Bitter there was nothing.
Nothing. I was in trouble
with a woman, and there was nothing
There but me and dead snow.
I stood on the street corner
In Minneapolis, lashed
This way and that.
Wind rose from some pit,
Hunting me.
Another bus to St. Paul
Would arrive in three hours,
If I was lucky.
Then the young Sioux
Loomed beside me, his scars
Were just my age.
Ain’t got no bus here
A long time, he said.
You got enough money
To get home on?
What did they do
To your hand? I answered.
He raised up his hook into the terrible starlight.
And slashed the wind.
Oh that? He said.
I had a bad time with a woman. Here,
You take this.
Did you ever feel a man hold
Sixty-five cents
In a hook,
And place it
Gently
In your freezing hand?
I took it.
It wasn’t money that I needed.
But I took it.
-
Here is a November poem, a month late.
Yea, I have looked, and seen November there;
The changeless seal of change it seemed to be,
Fair death of things that, living once, were fair;
Bright sign of loneliness too great for me,
Strange image of the dread eternity,
In whose void patience how can these have part,
These outstretched feverish hands, this restless heart?
- William Morris,
-
"Lighting one candle
from another -
Winter night"
- Buson
What a metaphor!
-
The Snow Storm
by Ralph Waldo Emerson
Announced by all the trumpets of the sky,
Arrives the snow, and, driving o'er the fields,
Seems nowhere to alight: the whited air
Hides hills and woods, the river, and the heaven,
And veils the farmhouse at the garden's end.
The sled and traveler stopped, the courier's feet
Delayed, all friends shut out, the housemates sit
Around the radiant fireplace, enclosed
In a tumultuous privacy of storm.
Come see the north wind's masonry.
Out of an unseen quarry evermore
Furnished with tile, the fierce artificer
Curves his white bastions with projected roof
Round every windward stake, or tree, or door.
Speeding, the myriad-handed, his wild work
So fanciful, so savage, nought cares he
For number or proportion. Mockingly,
On coop or kennel he hangs Parian wreaths;
A swan-like form invests the hidden thorn;
Fills up the farmer's lane from wall to wall,
Maugre the farmer's sighs; and, at the gate,
A tapering turret overtops the work.
And when his hours are numbered, and the world
Is all his own, retiring, as he were not,
Leaves, when the sun appears, astonished Art
To mimic in slow structures, stone by stone,
Built in an age, the mad wind's night-work,
The frolic architecture of the snow.
-
Oh, my, ANNA. All that lovely poem, and all I could think was, "They
waited until after dinner to open their presents??!!" Amazing!
BARB, I am rubbing my hands as I read the poem about the socks, and I am hoping to receive a pair of wooly gloves for Christmas. They don't even have to be beautiful.
Another from my beloved Robert Frost:
A Winter Eden
A winter garden in an alder swamp,
Where conies now come out to sun and romp,
As near a paradise as it can be
And not melt snow or start a dormant tree.
It lifts existence on a plane of snow
One level higher than the earth below,
One level nearer heaven overhead,
And last year's berries shining scarlet red.
It lifts a gaunt luxuriating beast
Where he can stretch and hold his highest feat
On some wild apple tree's young tender bark,
What well may prove the year's high girdle mark.
So near to paradise all pairing ends:
Here loveless birds now flock as winter friends,
Content with bud-inspecting. They presume
To say which buds are leaf and which are bloom.
A feather-hammer gives a double knock.
This Eden day is done at two o'clock.
An hour of winter day might seem too short
-
In looking for a winter poem I found one that spoke to me.....as a child I lived several blocks away from a train track..not close enough to see but near enough to hear. Its late night whistle as it approached a crossing was special to me...not loud enough to wake me but enough that in my slumber made me smile...
When we moved here in '72 we lived in the country... a lovely housing development built in the middle of a forest. No streetlights, a rooster would waken me at dawn and at night I could hear the whistle of a train going by , not as loud as my childhood sound ,,the station was several miles away and it seemed to hurry to arrive at its destination ,,so here is the poem that said I am the one you need to share,,
To A Locomotive In Winter
THEE for my recitative!
Thee in the driving storm, even as now--the snow--the winter-day
declining;
Thee in thy panoply, thy measured dual throbbing, and thy beat
convulsive;
Thy black cylindric body, golden brass, and silvery steel;
Thy ponderous side-bars, parallel and connecting rods, gyrating,
shuttling at thy sides;
Thy metrical, now swelling pant and roar--now tapering in the
distance;
Thy great protruding head-light, fix'd in front;
Thy long, pale, floating vapor-pennants, tinged with delicate purple;
The dense and murky clouds out-belching from thy smoke-stack;
Thy knitted frame--thy springs and valves--the tremulous twinkle of
thy wheels;
Thy train of cars behind, obedient, merrily-following,
Through gale or calm, now swift, now slack, yet steadily careering:
Type of the modern! emblem of motion and power! pulse of the
continent!
For once, come serve the Muse, and merge in verse, even as here I see
thee,
With storm, and buffeting gusts of wind, and falling snow;
By day, thy warning, ringing bell to sound its notes,
By night, thy silent signal lamps to swing.
Fierce-throated beauty!
Roll through my chant, with all thy lawless music! thy swinging lamps
at night;
Thy piercing, madly-whistled laughter! thy echoes, rumbling like an
earthquake, rousing all!
Law of thyself complete, thine own track firmly holding;
(No sweetness debonair of tearful harp or glib piano thine,)
Thy trills of shrieks by rocks and hills return'd,
Launch'd o'er the prairies wide--across the lakes,
To the free skies, unpent, and glad, and strong.
Walt Whitman
-
So much to do each day I forgot what it is like to live with a family that includes two busy boys - and this cold - oh my - I am not adjusting as quickly as other visits - I am having fun watching the birds skitter and scat flying across the yard - there is one with a nest in the ceiling of the side porch and another at least one and maybe more that have a nest in the covered space with a large window opening above the carport - fun seeing all this darting and swooping.
I found this poem and just love the concept - the thoughts and associations make me think of the story of how young boys are taught to walk on tissue paper and leave no footprint. Actually it looses something when we read and write using our computers - and while I still love to hold a book and write on paper it is almost an ancient and historical product with less value today.
If you are a poet, you will see clearly that there is a cloud floating in this
sheet of paper. Without a cloud there will be no water; without water,
the trees cannot grow; and without trees, you cannot make paper. So
the cloud is in here. The existence of this page is dependent upon the
existence of a cloud. Paper and cloud are so close.
- Thich Nhat Hahn
-
When I was a child we traveled by train to follow my Dad whenever he
moved on to a different job. I loved the train, waching the scenery pass
by. I felt so grown up to visit the dining room, even if all we could
afford was a bowl of soup. To this day, a train whistle evokes memories
and makes me long to be on my way.
At one time we thought the computer would negate the need for all the
paper, didn't we. So far that isn't happening. The prudent still keep paper back-up of all the computer work because computers break down and work is lost. I supppose someday they will have that problem resolved, too. I hope before we run out of trees.
-
This is long and really packed. Read it slowly. Oh, the "stranger" refers to the piece of soot that forms on the fire grate and flutters. It predicted a visitor.
The Frost at Midnight
The Frost performs its secret ministry,
Unhelped by any wind. The owlet's cry
Came loud—and hark, again! loud as before.
The inmates of my cottage, all at rest,
Have left me to that solitude, which suits
Abstruser musings: save that at my side
My cradled infant slumbers peacefully.
'Tis calm indeed! so calm, that it disturbs
And vexes meditation with its strange
And extreme silentness. Sea, hill, and wood, 10
This populous village! Sea, and hill, and wood,
With all the numberless goings-on of life,
Inaudible as dreams! the thin blue flame
Lies on my low-burnt fire, and quivers not;
Only that film, which fluttered on the grate,
Still flutters there, the sole unquiet thing.
Methinks, its motion in this hush of nature
Gives it dim sympathies with me who live,
Making it a companionable form,
Whose puny flaps and freaks the idling Spirit 20
By its own moods interprets, every where
Echo or mirror seeking of itself,
And makes a toy of Thought.
But O! how oft,
How oft, at school, with most believing mind,
Presageful, have I gazed upon the bars,
To watch that fluttering stranger! and as oft
With unclosed lids, already had I dreamt
Of my sweet birth-place, and the old church-tower,
Whose bells, the poor man's only music, rang
From morn to evening, all the hot Fair-day, 30
So sweetly, that they stirred and haunted me
With a wild pleasure, falling on mine ear
Most like articulate sounds of things to come!
So gazed I, till the soothing things, I dreamt,
Lulled me to sleep, and sleep prolonged my dreams!
And so I brooded all the following morn,
Awed by the stern preceptor's face, mine eye
Fixed with mock study on my swimming book:
Save if the door half opened, and I snatched
A hasty glance, and still my heart leaped up, 40
For still I hoped to see the stranger's face,
Townsman, or aunt, or sister more beloved,
My play-mate when we both were clothed alike!
Dear Babe, that sleepest cradled by my side,
Whose gentle breathings, heard in this deep calm,
Fill up the interspersèd vacancies
And momentary pauses of the thought!
My babe so beautiful! it thrills my heart
With tender gladness, thus to look at thee,
And think that thou shalt learn far other lore, 50
And in far other scenes! For I was reared
In the great city, pent 'mid cloisters dim,
And saw nought lovely but the sky and stars.
But thou, my babe! shalt wander like a breeze
By lakes and sandy shores, beneath the crags
Of ancient mountain, and beneath the clouds,
Which image in their bulk both lakes and shores
And mountain crags: so shalt thou see and hear
The lovely shapes and sounds intelligible
Of that eternal language, which thy God 60
Utters, who from eternity doth teach
Himself in all, and all things in himself.
Great universal Teacher! he shall mould
Thy spirit, and by giving make it ask.
Therefore all seasons shall be sweet to thee,
Whether the summer clothe the general earth
With greenness, or the redbreast sit and sing
Betwixt the tufts of snow on the bare branch
Of mossy apple-tree, while the nigh thatch
Smokes in the sun-thaw; whether the eave-drops fall 70
Heard only in the trances of the blast,
Or if the secret ministry of frost
Shall hang them up in silent icicles,
Quietly shining to the quiet Moon.
Samuel Taylor Coleridge
-
Ah, BELLEMERE, that was a treasure! I savored every line. And
picked these to repeat ....
"the idling Spirit
By its own moods interprets, every where
Echo or mirror seeking of itself,
And makes a toy of Thought. "
-
Yes, I love The Frost, and am memorizing the last stanza about all seasons being sweet to the baby. The poem makes it clear that people in those days actually set aside time to THINK without distractions. some lucky ones can still do that today. I try, but am less than successful.
-
Wonderful find Bellemere - the lines that strike a chord with me are...
But thou, my babe! shalt wander like a breeze
By lakes and sandy shores, beneath the crags
Of ancient mountain, and beneath the clouds,
Which image in their bulk both lakes and shores
And mountain crags: so shalt thou see and hear
The lovely shapes and sounds intelligible
Of that eternal language, which thy God 60
Utters, who from eternity doth teach
Himself in all, and all things in himself.
Yes, that is how I felt and what I believed not only for my children but now for my grandchildren as well.
I have to smile as she saw school as a place with bars - says to me there are others who daydream away the imprisonment, coming 'to' long enough to check on what is being taught, establish that you know what it is about since you have read about it on your own or it is a repeat and then go back to daydreaming.
Saturday night here at my daughter's was a frosty night with freezing rain therefore, no moon but next day everything was clear and ice covered the exposed cliffs while puddles on dirt roads were frozen. In this little town of 600 it is quiet however, what disappoints me I never hear birds or see wildlife - I see birds but do not hear them - at home the quiet is different - there is a constant, not exactly identifiable sound but the air is not as silent with a sort of low grade rumble from the interstate a few miles away and sounds of the city floats up the Mesa from a few miles away and yet, I see deer, possum, raccoons, red fox, sometimes unfortunately a coyote, all sorts of birds that I hear, migrating butterflies along with being on a bird migrating pathway - I like seeing so much animal and bird life and miss that in all this quiet, surrounded by miles of woods and forests there is so little wildlife here - in fact I do not even see squirrels.
-
Birds At Winter Nightfall (Triolet)
Around the house the flakes fly faster,
And all the berries now are gone
From holly and cotoneaster
Around the house. The flakes fly!--faster
Shutting indoors that crumb-outcaster
We used to see upon the lawn
Around the house. The flakes fly faster,
And all the berries now are gone!
Thomas Hardy -
Triolet:
n.
A poem or stanza of eight lines with a rhyme scheme abaaabab, in which the fourth and seventh lines are the same as the first, and the eighth line is the same as the second.
-
Mary Oliver - Clapp's Pond
Three miles through the woods
Clapp's Pond sprawls stone gray
among oaks and pines,
the late winter fields
where a pheasant blazes up
lifting his yellow legs
under bronze feathers, opening
bronze wings;
and one doe, dimpling the ground as she touches
its dampness sharply, flares
out of the brush and gallops away.
By evening: rain.
It pours down from the black clouds,
lashes over the roof. The last
acorns spray over the porch; I toss
one, then two more
logs on the fire.
How sometimes everything
closes up, a painted fan, landscapes and moments
flowing together until the sense of distance - - -
say, between Clapp's Pond and me - - -
vanishes, edges slide together
like the feathers of a wing, everything
touches everything.
Later, lying half-asleep under
the blankets, I watch
while the doe, glittering with rain, steps
under the wet slabs of the pines, stretches
her long neck down to drink
from the pond
three miles away.
-
How lovely, BARB. The only wildlife I see here, aside from the birds,
are squirrels and an occasional night-prowling raccoon. Small town, but
solid suburbia all the way to the big city.
Oh, my. I had no idea poets made things so difficult for themselves. A
triolet sounds like it would be very difficult to do successfully.
JOANK, I love that half-asleep vision of the doe at the pond, 3 miles away.
-
Like a dream . . .
-
The Troll's Nosegay
A simple nosegay! Was that much to ask?
(Winter still nagged, with scarce a bud yet showing.)
He loved her ill, if he resigned the task.
'Somewhere,' she cried, 'there must be blossom blowing.'
It seems my lady wept and the troll swore
By Heaven he hated tears: he'd cure her spleen -
Where she had begged one flower he'd shower fourscore,
A bunch fit to amaze a China Queen.
Cold fog-drawn Lily, pale mist-magic Rose
He conjured, and in a glassy cauldron set
WIth elvish unsubstantial Mignonette
And such vague blooms as wandering dreams enclose.
But she?
Awed,
Charmed to tears,
Distracted,
Yet -
Even yet, perhaps, a trifle piqued - who knows?
Robert Graves
-
A Japanese Woodcarving
High up above the open, welcoming door
It hangs, a piece of wood with colours dim.
Once, long ago, it was a waving tree
And knew the sun and shadow through the leaves
Of forest trees, in a thick eastern wood.
The winter snows had bent its branches down,
The spring had swelled its buds with coming flowers,
Summer had run like fire through its veins,
While autumn pelted it with chestnut burrs,
And strewed the leafy ground with acorn cups.
Dark midnight storms had roared and crashed among
Its branches, breaking here and there a limb;
But every now and then broad sunlit days
Lovingly lingered, caught among the leaves.
Yes, it had known all this, and yet to us
It does not speak of mossy forest ways,
Of whispering pine trees or the shimmering birch;
But of quick winds, and the salt, stinging sea!
An artist once, with patient, careful knife,
Had fashioned it like to the untamed sea.
Here waves uprear themselves, their tops blown back
By the gay, sunny wind, which whips the blue
And breaks it into gleams and sparks of light.
Among the flashing waves are two white birds
Which swoop, and soar, and scream for very joy
At the wild sport. Now diving quickly in,
Questing some glistening fish. Now flying up,
Their dripping feathers shining in the sun,
While the wet drops like little glints of light,
Fall pattering backward to the parent sea.
Gliding along the green and foam-flecked hollows,
Or skimming some white crest about to break,
The spirits of the sky deigning to stoop
And play with ocean in a summer mood.
Hanging above the high, wide open door,
It brings to us in quiet, firelit room,
The freedom of the earth's vast solitudes,
Where heaping, sunny waves tumble and roll,
And seabirds scream in wanton happiness.
Amy Lowell
-
Sounds like Robert Graves knows his lady well. She really prefers the
unreasonable dramatizing to the amazing gift.
Oh, my word. How did Miss Lowell find so much to say
from one simple woodcarving?
I was surprised to discover that the lyrics of a favorite old Christmas song were written by
Longfellow. Excuse the length...
Christmas Bells
Henry Wadsworth Longfellow (1864)
I heard the bells on Christmas Day
Their old, familiar carols play,
And wild and sweet
The words repeat
Of peace on earth, good-will to men!
And thought how, as the day had come,
The belfries of all Christendom
Had rolled along
The unbroken song
Of peace on earth, good-will to men!
Till ringing, singing on its way,
The world revolved from night to day,
A voice, a chime,
A chant sublime
Of peace on earth, good-will to men!
Then from each black, accursed mouth
The cannon thundered in the South,
And with the sound
The carols drowned
Of peace on earth, good-will to men!
It was as if an earthquake rent
The hearth-stones of a continent,
And made forlorn
The households born
Of peace on earth, good-will to men!
And in despair I bowed my head;
“There is no peace on earth,” I said;
“For hate is strong,
And mocks the song
Of peace on earth, good-will to men!”
Then pealed the bells more loud and deep:
“God is not dead, nor doth He sleep;
The Wrong shall fail,
The Right prevail,
With peace on earth, good-will to men.”
-
Wow I am with you Babi - had no idea the carol was written by Longfellow - one of the more lovely carols of the season...
When you see woodcarving like this from Christopher White then the poem is a perfect foil...although, he wrote a simple poem to accompany his work.
http://www.jchristopherwhite.com/
-
We've been reading aboute Traude's Chrisatmas memories where the main meal featured a roasted goose, reminding me of this:
Christmas Is Coming
Christmas is coming,
The geese are getting fat,
Please put a penny
In the old man's hat.
If you haven't got a penny,
A ha'penny will do,
If you haven't got a ha'penny,
Then God bless you.
Christmas is coming,
lights are on the tree,
Hang up your stocking for Santa Claus to see.
If you you haven't got a stocking,
a little sock will do;
If you haven't got a little sock,
God bless you!
Christmas is coming,
the season of good cheer,
Let's all sing a carol for the brand-new year!
If you haven't got a carol,
a jolly song will do;
If you haven't got a jolly song,
God... bless... you...!
-
I always loved that Chrismas Carol. But had no idea the words were by Longfellow.
-
Now Winter Nights Enlarge
by Thomas Campion (1617)
Now winter nights enlarge
The number of their hours,
And clouds their storms discharge
Upon the airy towers.
Let now the chimneys blaze,
And cups o’erflow with wine;
Let well-tuned words amaze
With harmony divine.
Now yellow waxen lights
Shall wait on honey love,
While youthful revels, masques, and courtly sights
Sleep’s leaden spells remove.
This time doth well dispense
With lovers’ long discourse;
Much speech hath some defence,
Though beauty no remorse.
All do not all things well;
Some measures comely tread,
Some knotted riddles tell,
Some poems smoothly read.
The summer hath his joys
And winter his delights;
Though love and all his pleasures are but toys,
They shorten tedious nights.
-
Ceremonies for Christmas
Robert Herrick (1648)
Come, bring with a noise,
My merry, merry boys,
The Christmas log to the firing,
While my good dame, she
Bids ye all be free,
And drink to your heart’s desiring.
With the last year’s brand
Light the new block, and
For good success in his spending,
On your psalteries play,
That sweet luck may
Come while the log is a-teending.
Drink now the strong beer,
Cut the white loaf here,
The while the meat is a-shredding;
For the rare mince-pie,
And the plums stand by,
To fill the paste that’s a kneading.
-
Oh, Barb, that is absolutely beautiful! I had in mind something like
a wooden plaque with sea waves carved into it. This is sculpture of a
high order. Thank you for finding it for us.
And thank you, JACKIE. I knew the lines about the 'ha'penny', but never
knew the rest of it. Never knew there was more to it, for that matter.
The full poem gets the message across much better.
Hmm.. I think I find the Herrick more lighthearted than the Campion, and
I'm pleased to be introduced to both. :-*
-
Though love and all his pleasures are but toys,
They shorten tedious nights. :o
-
A similar sentiment:
Zummer An' Winter
by Ingeborg Bachmann
When I led by zummer streams
The pride o' Lea, as naighbours thought her,
While the zun, wi' evenen beams,
Did cast our sheades athirt the water;
Winds a-blowen,
Streams a-flowen,
Skies a-glowen,
Tokens ov my jay zoo fleeten,
Heightened it, that happy meeten.
Then, when maid an' man took pleaces,
Gay in winter's Chris'mas dances,
Showen in their merry feaces
Kindly smiles an' glisnen glances;
Stars a-winken,
Day a-shrinken,
Sheades a-zinken,
Brought anew the happy meeten,
That did meake the night too fleeten.
-
By the author of the delightful Anne of Green Gables stories:
A Winter Dawn
by Lucy Maud Montgomery
Above the marge of night a star still shines,
And on the frosty hills the sombre pines
Harbor an eerie wind that crooneth low
Over the glimmering wastes of virgin snow.
Through the pale arch of orient the morn
Comes in a milk-white splendor newly-born,
A sword of crimson cuts in twain the gray
Banners of shadow hosts, and lo, the day!
-
One more:
The Garden in Winter
by Lucy Maud Montgomery
Frosty-white and cold it lies
Underneath the fretful skies;
Snowflakes flutter where the red
Banners of the poppies spread,
And the drifts are wide and deep
Where the lilies fell asleep.
But the sunsets o'er it throw
Flame-like splendor, lucent glow,
And the moonshine makes it gleam
Like a wonderland of dream,
And the sharp winds all the day
Pipe and whistle shrilly gay.
Safe beneath the snowdrifts lie
Rainbow buds of by-and-by;
In the long, sweet days of spring
Music of bluebells shall ring,
And its faintly golden cup
Many a primrose will hold up.
Though the winds are keen and chill
Roses' hearts are beating still,
And the garden tranquilly
Dreams of happy hours to be
In the summer days of blue
All its dreamings will come true.
-
Now we have another notch that adds to our wry comment that guys have one thing on their mind... ::)
I like these lines in Montgomery's poem
Safe beneath the snowdrifts lie
Rainbow buds of by-and-by;
-
JACKIE, it's that reference to love and it's pleasures as toys that make
me suspect Campion was something of a rake and cynic. One reason I
preferred the Herrick.
I'm translating "jay zoo fleeten" as "joy so fleeting". What do you
think. Mr. Bachmann, IMO, takes a much more likeable approach to the
fleeting nature of the 'happy meeten'.
I like Lucy Maud's poems; she does have a way with words. "Sombre" is one of those words I like because it seems to evoke it's own meaning so well.
-
I think they were all 'rakes' during the seventeenth century - the best of them seem to see women as either a plaything sometimes as a shared playmate or as an idol whose hair or movement or lips are described. Here is John Donne who became an Anglican Priest talking about the shared experience in the marriage bed.
http://www.luminarium.org/sevenlit/donne/flea.php
Another of his short poems that show him as a rake.
The Indifferent
by John Donne
I can love both fair and brown;
Her whom abundance melts, and her whom want betrays;
Her who loves loneness best, and her who masks and plays;
Her whom the country form'd, and whom the town;
And then Shakespeare in his Sonnet 129
Th' expense of spirit in a waste of shame
Is lust in action, and till action, lust
Is perjured, murd'rous, bloody, full of blame,
Savage, extreme, rude, cruel, not to trust,
Enjoyed no sooner but despisèd straight,
Past reason hunted, and no sooner had,
Past reason hated as a swallowed bait
On purpose laid to make the taker mad;
Mad in pursuit, and in possession so,
Had, having, and in quest to have, extreme;
A bliss in proof, and proved, a very woe;
Before, a joy proposed; behind, a dream.
All this the world well knows, yet none knows well
To shun the heaven that leads men to this hell.
Another Shakespeare 135
CXXXV
Whoever hath her wish, thou hast thy 'Will,'
And 'Will' to boot, and 'Will' in over-plus;
More than enough am I that vex'd thee still,
To thy sweet will making addition thus.
Wilt thou, whose will is large and spacious,
Not once vouchsafe to hide my will in thine?
Shall will in others seem right gracious,
And in my will no fair acceptance shine?
The sea, all water, yet receives rain still,
And in abundance addeth to his store;
So thou, being rich in 'Will,' add to thy 'Will'
One will of mine, to make thy large will more.
Let no unkind 'No' fair beseechers kill;
Think all but one, and me in that one 'Will.'
-
Here is Shakespeare on Christmas.
At Christmas I no more desire a rose,
Than wish a snow in May's new-fangled shows;
But like of each thing that in season grows.
-
'Nativity'
by John Donne
Immensity cloistered in thy dear womb,
Now leaves His well-belov'd imprisonment,
There He hath made Himself to His intent
Weak enough, now into the world to come;
But O, for thee, for Him, hath the inn no room?
Yet lay Him in this stall, and from the Orient,
Stars and wise men will travel to prevent
The effect of Herod's jealous general doom.
Seest thou, my soul, with thy faith's eyes, how He
Which fills all place, yet none holds Him, doth lie?
Was not His pity towards thee wondrous high,
That would have need to be pitied by thee?
Kiss Him, and with Him into Egypt go,
With His kind mother, who partakes thy woe.
On the Morning of Christ's Nativity
This is the month, and this the happy morn
Wherein the Son of Heav'n's eternal King,
Of wedded Maid, and Virgin Mother born,
Our great redemption from above did bring;
For so the holy sages once did sing,
That he our deadly forfeit should release,
And with his Father work us a perpetual peace.
II
That glorious Form, that Light unsufferable,
And that far-beaming blaze of Majesty,
Wherewith he wont at Heav'n's high council-table,
To sit the midst of Trinal Unity,
He laid aside, and here with us to be,
Forsook the courts of everlasting day,
And chose with us a darksome house of mortal clay.
III
Say Heav'nly Muse, shall not thy sacred vein
Afford a present to the Infant God?
Hast thou no verse, no hymn, or solemn strain,
To welcome him to this his new abode,
Now while the heav'n, by the Sun's team untrod,
Hath took no print of the approaching light,
And all the spangled host keep watch in squadrons bright?
IV
See how from far upon the eastern road
The star-led wizards haste with odours sweet:
O run, prevent them with thy humble ode,
And lay it lowly at his blessed feet;
Have thou the honour first thy Lord to greet,
And join thy voice unto the angel quire,
From out his secret altar touched with hallowed fire.
-
It is not often I get to see snow and we had a snow fall here the likes that I haven't seen in 20 years - it was supposed to be the last day of school for winter holiday break and they got an additional day.
Snow flakes.
by Emily Dickinson
I counted till they danced so
Their slippers leaped the town,
And then I took a pencil
To note the rebels down.
And then they grew so jolly
I did resign the prig,
And ten of my once stately toes
Are marshalled for a jig!
-
Ahh! BARB, if you had not placed Sonnet CXXXV in this context, I would
have been totally at a loss to understand it. Without that hint, it is
totally beWILLdering!
-
Yes, I know - they can write so lovingly and respectfully about Christmas but women - my word -
Sonnet 135 is really filled with a guy's selfish look at women.
- 'Will': (1) wish, inclination, desire; (2) Shakespeare's nickname
- [And 'Will' to boot, and 'Will' in overplus;] 'Will': passion, carnality
- [More than enough am I that vex thee still,] I bother you to point out that there's plenty of me to go around
- [To thy sweet will making addition thus.] I can fulfill your desire
- [Wilt thou, whose will is large and spacious,] here, will can be taken as referring to her vagina
- [Not once vouchsafe to hide my will in thine?] here will can be taken as referring to his penis
- [Shall will in others seem right gracious,] will in others: the desires of others
Raunchy stuff but read in classrooms and among poets as golden words expressing golden thoughts.
Here at my daughter's the snow is slowly melting with a rush of snow falling from the roof that sounded like a thundering hoard burying the house as it went past the windows - not a quick fall but it went on and on so that I for a minute you thought a great tidal wave was covering the land. Whew - the glories of living in the mountains where snow fall uninhibited by city activities and houses sending out warm rays from an accumulation of many roof tops. I guess if you go skiing then you see this sort of thing where as I haven't seen this much snow since in the 80s when Austin had a week of one snow after the other with the city owning no snow removal equipment nor a way to spread gravel or salt on the roads. Back then Austin was still a mid size southern town not a city.
-
A few snatches of prosetry from Dylan Thomas, " A Child's Christmas in Wales"
.... a small boy said " It snowed last year, too, and I made a snowman, and my brother knocked it down, and I knocked my brother down and then we had tea."
"Oh but that was not the same snow,"I said. "Our snow was not only shaken from whitewash buckets down the sky, it came shawling out of the ground and swam and drifted out of the arms and hands and bodies of the trees;snow grew overnight on the roofs of the houses like a pure and grandfather moss, minutely white-ivied the walls and settled on the postmanm, opening the gate, like a dumb, numb thunderstorm of white, torn Christmas cards."
"Go on to the Useless Presents."
"Bags of moist and many-colored jelly babies and a folded flag and a false nose and a tram-conductor's cap and a machine that punched tickets and rang a bell; never a catapult; once, by mistake that no one could explain, a little hatchet, and a celuloik duck that made, when you pressed it, a most unducklike sound, a mewing moss that an ambitiouus cat might make who wished to be a cow, and a painting book in which I could make the grass, the trees, the sea ......
Alwas on Christmas night there was music. An uncle played the fiddle, a cousin sang "Cherry Ripe," and another uncle sang "Drake's Drum." It was very warm in the little house. Auntie Hannah, who had got on to the parsnip wine, sang a song about Bleeding Heartw and Death, and then another in which shesaid her heart was like aBird's Nest, and then everybody laughed again and then I went to ed. Looking through my bedroom window into the moonlight and the unending smoke-colored snow, I could see the lights in the windows of all the other houses on our hill and hear the music rising from them up the long steadily falling night. I turned the gas down, I got into bed, I said some words to the close and holyh darkness and then I slept.
You won't be sorry if you read this again!
-
just read EVERYTHING what a delightful group of poems ...We had snow here today and heavy wind and cold...but the amount was not great and if we warm a bit it will be gone My oldest who lives 3 hrs north had two feet and more expected all the way through Christmas day, Several friends who live north of me called to report a foot or more...I love snow but have grown past the time I want to go out in it ..so am glad I dont need to,..I have a poem in edit and will post if if I find it is what I intended to post WOW you can see how ORGANIZED I AM
Well it is not there let me see if I can find one on line Ah I have one here in my Victorian posy book and will post it .seems easier I think this is a sample of how the Victorian era thought. Sweet and gentle
JACK FROST IN THE GARDEN
Jack Frost was in the garden;
I saw him there at dawn;
He was dancing round the bushes
And prancing on the lawn.
He had a cloak of silver,
A hat all shimm'ring white,
A wand of glittering star-dust,
And shoes of sunbeam light.
Jack Frost was in the garden,
When I went out to play
He nipped my toes and fingers
And quickly ran away.
I chased him 'round the wood-shed,
But, oh! I'm sad to say
That though I chased him everywhere
He simply would'nt stay.
Jack Frost was in the garden :
But now I'd like to know
Where I can find him hiding ;
I've hunted high and low-
I've lost his cloak of silver,
His hat all shimm'ring white,
His wand of glittering star-dust,
His shoes of sunbeam light.
John P. Smeeton 19th century
-
I remember reading that Jack Frost poem long ago. I had forgotten it,
but it was nice to read it again.
Dylan Thomas 'story' about the snow was higly imaginative, but I most
appreciated the small boy's summary.
" It snowed last year, too, and I made a snowman, and my brother knocked it down, and I knocked my brother down and then we had tea."
:)
-
(http://seniorlearn.org/bookclubs/poetry/poetrywinter09.jpg) A Tray of Decorative Carved-Wood Cardinal-Birds Pull up a chair and Join us for...Winter Poetry- Famous Poets and Poems about Winter (http://famouspoetsandpoems.com/thematic_poems/winter_poems.html)
- Winter Poems (http://poetry.about.com/od/ourpoemcollections/a/winterpoems.htm)
Discussion Leaders: Barb (augere@ix.netcom.com) & fairanna (fairanna@verizon.net) | The Miracle
~ Barbara Winkler
Every gardener knows
that under the cloak of winter
lies a miracle ...
A seed waiting to sprout,
A bulb opening to the light,
A bud straining to unfurl.
And the anticipation
Nurtures our dream.
|
ANNA: lovely nostalgic poem. I wonder if our grandchildren will ever acheive that sweet gentleness.
I have a record of a child's Christmas in Wales, but nothing to play it on. Thank you for reminding me.
Guess what: it's on you-tube. Here is the first half:
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=4oIhkGVi_Vw&feature=related (http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=4oIhkGVi_Vw&feature=related)
-
And here's the second half:
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=BWfnZN0oUBU&feature=related (http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=BWfnZN0oUBU&feature=related)
-
Just came in to say how much I enjoy browsing these pages from time to time. I don't read much poetry these days as I find it too emotional but love it here when a new (to me) poem touches me or an old one brings on a rush of nostalgia.
Jack Frost was one that almost undid me today and took me back to my childhood - We don't have much frost here but whenever we did my father would recite that poem for us children - I can see him now with his eyes gleaming - all full of fun - and hopping around the kitchen as though his toes had been nipped by the frost. We would egg him on and he would repeat the fun over and over. I still know that little poem by heart. Thanks for posting it Fairanna.
Do take care in all that snow you're having. It sounds horrendous to deal with. We are at the other end of the scale with very hot weather - several days around 100F and predicted to continue right through the week up to and including Xmas Day. It's OK indoors but outside is very uncomfortable after any length of time. It will be cold food and a dip in the pool for us on the 25th.
-
How wonderful - time for all the old favorites - Dylan Thomas is one of my favorite poets - I think I own every book of his poetry plus nearly every book written about the man.
Here is another Shakespeare - the man had a gift...
Blow, Blow, Thou Winter Wind
Act II, Scene 7 from As You Like It (1600)
Blow, blow, thou winter wind.
Thou art not so unkind
As man’s ingratitude;
Thy tooth is not so keen,
Because thou art not seen,
Although thy breath be rude.
Heigh-ho! sing, heigh-ho! unto the green holly:
Most friendship is feigning, most loving mere folly:
Then, heigh-ho, the holly!
This life is most jolly.
Freeze, freeze, thou bitter sky,
That dost not bite so nigh
As benefits forgot:
Though thou the waters warp,
Thy sting is not so sharp
As friend remember’d not.
Heigh-ho! sing heigh-ho! unto the green holly:
Most friendship is feigning, most loving mere folly:
Then, heigh-ho! the holly!
This life is most jolly.
-
Spellbound
by Emily Brontë
The night is darkening round me,
The wild winds coldly blow;
But a tyrant spell has bound me
And I cannot, cannot go.
The giant trees are bending
Their bare boughs weighed with snow.
And the storm is fast descending,
And yet I cannot go.
Clouds beyond clouds above me,
Wastes beyond wastes below;
But nothing dear can move me;
I will not, cannot go.
-
Shakespeare's "Heigh-ho! the holly!" sounds quite merry, until he follows it up with "Most friendship is feigning, most loving mere folly". I'm afraid we must acknowledge a high measure of cynicism in our treasured Shakespeare.
Here's a pleasant Christmas poem:
Christmas Long Ago
A Christmas Poem by Jo Geis
Frosty days and ice-still nights,
Fir trees trimmed with tiny lights,
Sound of sleigh bells in the snow,
That was Christmas long ago.
Tykes on sleds and shouts of glee,
Icy-window filigree,
Sugarplums and candle glow,
Part of Christmas long ago.
Footsteps stealthy on the stair,
Sweet-voiced carols in the air,
Stocking hanging in a row,
Tell of Christmas long ago.
Starry nights so still and blue,
Good friends calling out to you,
Life, so fast, will always slow...
For dreams of Christmas long ago.
-
Christmas at Sea
by Robert Louis Stevenson
The sheets were frozen hard, and they cut the naked hand;
The decks were like a slide, where a seamen scarce could stand;
The wind was a nor'wester, blowing squally off the sea;
And cliffs and spouting breakers were the only things a-lee.
They heard the surf a-roaring before the break of day;
But 'twas only with the peep of light we saw how ill we lay.
We tumbled every hand on deck instanter, with a shout,
And we gave her the maintops'l, and stood by to go about.
All day we tacked and tacked between the South Head and the North;
All day we hauled the frozen sheets, and got no further forth;
All day as cold as charity, in bitter pain and dread,
For very life and nature we tacked from head to head.
We gave the South a wider berth, for there the tide-race roared;
But every tack we made we brought the North Head close aboard:
So's we saw the cliffs and houses, and the breakers running high,
And the coastguard in his garden, with his glass against his eye.
The frost was on the village roofs as white as ocean foam;
The good red fires were burning bright in every 'long-shore home;
The windows sparkled clear, and the chimneys volleyed out;
And I vow we sniffed the victuals as the vessel went about.
The bells upon the church were rung with a mighty jovial cheer;
For it's just that I should tell you how (of all days in the year)
This day of our adversity was blessed Christmas morn,
And the house above the coastguard's was the house where I was born.
O well I saw the pleasant room, the pleasant faces there,
My mother's silver spectacles, my father's silver hair;
And well I saw the firelight, like a flight of homely elves,
Go dancing round the china-plates that stand upon the shelves.
And well I knew the talk they had, the talk that was of me,
Of the shadow on the household and the son that went to sea;
And O the wicked fool I seemed, in every kind of way,
To be here and hauling frozen ropes on blessed Christmas Day.
They lit the high sea-light, and the dark began to fall.
"All hands to loose topgallant sails," I heard the captain call.
"By the Lord, she'll never stand it," our first mate Jackson, cried.
..."It's the one way or the other, Mr. Jackson," he replied.
She staggered to her bearings, but the sails were new and good,
And the ship smelt up to windward just as though she understood.
As the winter's day was ending, in the entry of the night,
We cleared the weary headland, and passed below the light.
And they heaved a mighty breath, every soul on board but me,
As they saw her nose again pointing handsome out to sea;
But all that I could think of, in the darkness and the cold,
Was just that I was leaving home and my folks were growing old.
-
Oh what a story that man could tell. It was chilling to read it. I didn't understand until the end that he was sailing away instead of coming home. It brought tears to my eyes.
-
Christmas Trees
Robert Frost (1920)
(A Christmas Circular Letter)
The city had withdrawn into itself
And left at last the country to the country;
When between whirls of snow not come to lie
And whirls of foliage not yet laid, there drove
A stranger to our yard, who looked the city,
Yet did in country fashion in that there
He sat and waited till he drew us out
A-buttoning coats to ask him who he was.
He proved to be the city come again
To look for something it had left behind
And could not do without and keep its Christmas.
He asked if I would sell my Christmas trees;
My woods—the young fir balsams like a place
Where houses all are churches and have spires.
I hadn’t thought of them as Christmas Trees.
I doubt if I was tempted for a moment
To sell them off their feet to go in cars
And leave the slope behind the house all bare,
Where the sun shines now no warmer than the moon.
I’d hate to have them know it if I was.
Yet more I’d hate to hold my trees except
As others hold theirs or refuse for them,
Beyond the time of profitable growth,
The trial by market everything must come to.
I dallied so much with the thought of selling.
Then whether from mistaken courtesy
And fear of seeming short of speech, or whether
From hope of hearing good of what was mine, I said,
“There aren’t enough to be worth while.”
“I could soon tell how many they would cut,
You let me look them over.”
“You could look.
But don’t expect I’m going to let you have them.”
Pasture they spring in, some in clumps too close
That lop each other of boughs, but not a few
Quite solitary and having equal boughs
All round and round. The latter he nodded “Yes” to,
Or paused to say beneath some lovelier one,
With a buyer’s moderation, “That would do.”
I thought so too, but wasn’t there to say so.
We climbed the pasture on the south, crossed over,
And came down on the north. He said, “A thousand.”
“A thousand Christmas trees!—at what apiece?”
He felt some need of softening that to me:
“A thousand trees would come to thirty dollars.”
Then I was certain I had never meant
To let him have them. Never show surprise!
But thirty dollars seemed so small beside
The extent of pasture I should strip, three cents
(For that was all they figured out apiece),
Three cents so small beside the dollar friends
I should be writing to within the hour
Would pay in cities for good trees like those,
Regular vestry-trees whole Sunday Schools
Could hang enough on to pick off enough.
A thousand Christmas trees I didn’t know I had!
Worth three cents more to give away than sell,
As may be shown by a simple calculation.
Too bad I couldn’t lay one in a letter.
I can’t help wishing I could send you one,
In wishing you herewith a Merry Christmas.
-
oH,BARB, I was saddened at the end of the Christmas at Sea to find the
ship was going out, not coming in. Terrible time to be putting out to sea
in any case!
$30.00 for a thousand Christmas firs?! Can you believe it?! Onetree would cost more than that now. I have never understood economics! It is wholly irrational. :(
-
Even if we've had this one before it's worth rereading. The images spark my inagination with the visions the metaphors inspire. I can get lost in its words.
The Snow Storm
by Ralph Waldo Emerson
Announced by all the trumpets of the sky,
Arrives the snow, and, driving o'er the fields,
Seems nowhere to alight: the whited air
Hides hills and woods, the river, and the heaven,
And veils the farmhouse at the garden's end.
The sled and traveler stopped, the courier's feet
Delayed, all friends shut out, the housemates sit
Around the radiant fireplace, enclosed
In a tumultuous privacy of storm.
Come see the north wind's masonry.
Out of an unseen quarry evermore
Furnished with tile, the fierce artificer
Curves his white bastions with projected roof
Round every windward stake, or tree, or door.
Speeding, the myriad-handed, his wild work
So fanciful, so savage, nought cares he
For number or proportion. Mockingly,
On coop or kennel he hangs Parian wreaths;
A swan-like form invests the hidden thorn;
Fills up the farmer's lane from wall to wall,
Maugre the farmer's sighs; and, at the gate,
A tapering turret overtops the work.
And when his hours are numbered, and the world
Is all his own, retiring, as he were not,
Leaves, when the sun appears, astonished Art
To mimic in slow structures, stone by stone,
Built in an age, the mad wind's night-work,
The frolic architecture of the snow.
-
the fierce artificer
Curves his white bastions
You're right, JACKIE. The images do sparkle.
-
The Oxen
Thomas Hardy (1915)
Christmas Eve, and twelve of the clock.
“Now they are all on their knees,”
An elder said as we sat in a flock
By the embers in hearthside ease.
We pictured the meek mild creatures where
They dwelt in their strawy pen.
Nor did it occur to one of us there
To doubt they were kneeling then.
So fair a fancy few believe
In these years! Yet, I feel,
If someone said on Christmas Eve
“Come; see the oxen kneel
“In the lonely barton by yonder comb
Our childhood used to know,”
I should go with him in the gloom,
Hoping it might be so.
Merry Christmas Y'all!
Hope you keep Christmas well tonight and tomorrow and for as long as you can keep Christmas in your hearts...
-
What will be the January theme? Can we warm up a bit?
-
Bellemere we are doing a seasonal focus and so we will have winter through the end of February - we are not specific about aspects of winter and some poetry does not fit a seasonal heading but we do seem to keep ourselves going based on holidays and poems that reflect where we are in our daily lives within the seasons - I will find another poem for our heading after I return home to Austin which is after the holidays. And so if you are thinking warm up maybe you are thinking, like many, a brief repast from winter with a vacation in some warm spot in the world. ;)
-
Here is a Ted Kooser poem.
Walking on Tiptoe
Long ago we quit lifting our heels
like the others—horse, dog, and tiger—
though we thrill to their speed
as they flee. Even the mouse
bearing the great weight of a nugget
of dog food is enviably graceful.
There is little spring to our walk,
we are so burdened with responsibility,
all of the disciplinary actions
that have fallen to us, the punishments,
the killings, and all with our feet
bound stiff in the skins of the conquered.
But sometimes, in the early hours,
we can feel what it must have been like
to be one of them, up on our toes,
stealing past doors where others are sleeping,
and suddenly able to see in the dark.
-
Well, that one was certainly unusual and unexpected. We don't walk
on the balls of our feet anymore because of our actions...from responsibility to killings? How odd.
Here is a poem that speaks for me:
May peace fill all the empty spaces around you
And in you, may contentment answer all your wishes.
May comfort be yours, warm and soft like a sigh.
And may the coming year
show you that every day is really a first day,
a new year.
Let abundance be your constant companion,
so that you have much to share.
May mirth be near you always,
like a lamp shining brightly
on the many paths you travel.
May you be true love.
-- Author Unknown
-
Babi: That one bears repeated readings. The last line, "May you be true love", places quite a burden on the reader..
-
It is good, isn't it? I'm thinking of using it as an e-mail New Year's greeting.
-
The ending of a year, a decade, a century can be a time for somber reflection for the familiar which is now lost in the mists of time. "Better the devil you know . . ." Fearful of change, dreading future calamaties, timidly we embark.
The Darkling Thrush
by Thomas Hardy
I leant upon a coppice gate
When Frost was spectre-gray,
And Winter's dregs made desolate
The weakening eye of day.
The tangled bine-stems scored the sky
Like strings of broken lyres,
And all mankind that haunted nigh
Had sought their household fires.
The land's sharp features seemed to be
The Century's corpse outleant,
His crypt the cloudy canopy,
The wind his death-lament.
The ancient pulse of germ and birth
Was shrunken hard and dry,
And every spirit upon earth
Seemed fervourless as I.
At once a voice arose among
The bleak twigs overhead
In a full-hearted evensong
Of joy illimited;
An aged thrush, frail, gaunt, and small,
In blast-beruffled plume,
Had chosen thus to fling his soul
Upon the growing gloom.
So little cause for carolings
Of such ecstatic sound
Was written on terrestrial things
Afar or nigh around,
That I could think there trembled through
His happy good-night air
Some blessed Hope, whereof he knew
And I was unaware.
-
Exquisite.
-
That is lovely, JACKIE. It may well be the most hopeful thing Thomas
Hardy wrote. He tended to be a gloomy fellow, as the earlier part of
the poem so well describes. I find myself grateful to the gallant little
thrush.
-
(http://seniorlearn.org/bookclubs/poetry/poetrywinter09.jpg) A Tray of Decorative Carved-Wood Cardinal-Birds - Poems about Winter (http://famouspoetsandpoems.com/thematic_poems/winter_poems.html)
- Winter Poems (http://poetry.about.com/od/ourpoemcollections/a/winterpoems.htm)
Discussion Leaders: Barb (augere@ix.netcom.com) & fairanna (fairanna@verizon.net) |
Winter Dreams
~ Barbara Winkler
Every gardener knows
that under the cloak of winter
lies a miracle ...
A seed waiting to sprout,
A bulb opening to the light,
A bud straining to unfurl.
And the anticipation
Nurtures our dream.
|
-
The Snow Man
by Wallace Stevens
One must have a mind of winter
To regard the frost and the boughs
Of the pine-trees crusted with snow;
And have been cold a long time
To behold the junipers shagged with ice,
The spruces rough in the distant glitter
Of the January sun; and not to think
Of any misery in the sound of the wind,
In the sound of a few leaves,
Which is the sound of the land
Full of the same wind
That is blowing in the same bare place
For the listener, who listens in the snow,
And, nothing himself, beholds
Nothing that is not there and the nothing that is.
-
Well I am back to where the snow does not grip the land - after a few days I was tired of seeing white cover the land - the ice making a slippery ride for every trip out of doors - I like the snow to be gone in 24 - maybe I have found my Camelot and did not know it.
ARTHUR:
It's true! It's true! The crown has made it clear.
The climate must be perfect all the year.
A law was made a distant moon ago here:
July and August cannot be too hot.
And there's a legal limit to the snow here
In Camelot.
The winter is forbidden till December
And exits March the second on the dot.
By order, summer lingers through September
In Camelot.
Camelot! Camelot!
I know it sounds a bit bizarre,
But in Camelot, Camelot
That's how conditions are.
The rain may never fall till after sundown.
By eight, the morning fog must disappear.
In short, there's simply not
A more congenial spot
For happily-ever-aftering than here
In Camelot.
Camelot! Camelot!
I know it gives a person pause,
But in Camelot, Camelot
Those are the legal laws.
The snow may never slush upon the hillside.
By nine p.m. the moonlight must appear.
In short, there's simply not
A more congenial spot
For happily-ever-aftering than here
In Camelot.
-
One of my favites. Thanks, Barb, for the memories.
-
Barb: the snowman is one of my favorite poems. Thanks.
-
OH MY I live in an area VA near Norfolk ..in the 38 years I have called it home I can say we havent had much snow...Rain yes , but not snow Cold yes but rare frigid THIS year may be different My home is properly insulated but right now if feels COLD the wind is blowing , no snow is showing and I must weather the cold but only a furnace and two dogs to keep me warm!
I hope everyone had a wonderful holiday season ,,and that 2010 will be a VERY GOOD YEAR. Barb I love the song and thanks for posting it...the temp says the house is 72 degree warm but between typing I place my hands inside the sleeves of a warm robe....I think this is going to be one of the cold years...For those of you who can say LET IT SNOW LET IT SNOW i hope I am not one of them... love and hugs and smiles across the miles to each .anna
-
Back at you, Anna! ;D
-
Barb, thanks for reminding me about that song. I love the songs from Camelot. I live in your area, so I know what you mean about snow and ice, although it has been unusually cold (for us) this winter. Too bad we can't store some of this cold and pull it out in our 100 plus degree summers!
Sally
-
:D Perfect timing for Camelot, BARB. I got a big smile out of that.
New Years seems to have been a theme that inspired Thomas Hardy more than once. Here's another of his I came across.
At the Entering of the New Year
by Thomas Hardy
I
(OLD STYLE)
Our songs went up and out the chimney,
And roused the home-gone husbandmen;
Our allemands, our heys, poussettings,
Our hands-across and back again,
Sent rhythmic throbbings through the casements
On to the white highway,
Where nighted farers paused and muttered,
"Keep it up well, do they!"
The contrabasso's measured booming
Sped at each bar to the parish bounds,
To shepherds at their midnight lambings,
To stealthy poachers on their rounds;
And everybody caught full duly
The notes of our delight,
As Time unrobed the Youth of Promise
Hailed by our sanguine sight.
-
Camelot!
I think it was over 45 years ago that I came up out of the subway in Boston to see the line around the block waiting to buy tickets to the new show with Julie Andrews, Richard Burton and an unknown Robert Goulet. It was the pre-Broadway tryout, and I was determined to go. I was seven months pregnant, the wait was almost six hours, and the people in line were incredibly concerned about me, sending me inside periodically and holding my place in line for me. it was SO worth it! I can still hear Richard Burton's voice singing those lines.
I call my daughter Maureen my "Camelot baby"
Will someone please instruct me how to make one of those quotes accompany my posts, like Mssherlock with her thriloing Edna St. Vincent Millay? Can't figure out the techie part. thanks
-
Not sure either Bellemere - seems to me including a quote has something to do with the page setup on your personal page.
Babi - took me a minute to realize in Hardy's poem he is referring to dance moves that are still part of country dance steps - with all our new technology and ways we still have room in our lives for the fun and activities experienced by so many generations no longer with us.
Fairanna you live further north than my daughter without snow - it must be her elevation - we visited friends of my daughter's Sunday after Christmas who lived about 25 minutes away high on top of a mountain with in-credable views and they only had patches of snow hidden in the shadows of the hollows where as in Saluda it was still deep with side roads and parking lots covered and mounds of snow beginning to get dirty along the main roads.
What was amazing is to see the snow slowly slide down a roof till the weight hanging below the roof is too great and most of it tumbles to the ground till the next section slides down taking a couple of days to make the slide past the roof line. Katha's metal roof is so steep that is all fell one night and scared us - there are snow stoppers on most of the roof except the western side and the snow just kept coming so that for a minute looking out the window was like 20 leagues under the sea not being able to distinguish the land slide of snow from a tsunami of water. It kept coming and coming.
One evening coming back from shopping - about 4 days after the snow fall since my car was buried and getting it pointed down the drive was a feat of skill beyond me - it was dark and the boys grabbed the groceries in two trips while I was getting the last bit out of the car alone - tried to close the back door after retrieving a small package and fell. The car was on the side of a hill 5ft from the house and parallel to the house/porch so my boomp was in the snow lower than my legs - there was nothing to grab to hoist myself up - I could not reach the handle inside the open back door of the car nor get a grip on the tire and cars today are smooth so nothing.
I called and called - calling each by name - nothing - silence - the snow was cold and my boomp was feeling the cold through my heavy jogging pants I bought just for the visit. I am sure they scattered to their own area of the house to hide purchases and settle in on their computers never dreaming I was not in the kitchen or in my room.
Well, when the car was parked by Gary, [son-in-law] he handed me the keys - usually I keep them in the cup holder in the car but then I park in a garage - thank goodness I dropped them in my purse - my purse had slid out of my arm behind the back wheel but I could just reach the strap and pulled it to me. Out came the keys and I pressed the emergency horn which started to beep loudly and out they came to rescue me. We laughed so hard on top they had not used the expression boomp so that became a fun discussion about bums and boomps and so forth.
All to say I am not a fan of snow that lasts for more than a couple of days - in ski country that is fine - you can visit and go home but to live in it day after day with all the work it entails clearing and sliding and then worrying about loss of power from ice on lines and having to store extra water because loss of power means the pump does not operate - sheesh I'll take a summer of over 100 for weeks on end any day in comparison - I guess I know how to live in the heat - maybe that is it - we are more comfortable with what we know.
-
I think some of us are hot weather people and some cold weather. The two times I lived in the desert with temperatures over 100 I was happy as a clam, while even in DC, which is not very cold, I was always trying (and failing)to get warm.
-
Flower in Winter
by John Greenleaf Whittier
How strange to greet, this frosty morn,
In graceful counterfeit of flower,
These children of the meadows, born
Of sunshine and of showers!
How well the conscious wood retains
The pictures of its flower-sown home,
The lights and shades, the purple stains,
And golden hues of bloom!
It was a happy thought to bring
To the dark season's frost and rime
This painted memory of spring,
This dream of summertime.
Our hearts are lighter for its sake,
Our fancy's age renews its youth,
And dim-remembered fictions take
The guise of present truth.
A wizard of the Merrimac, -
So old ancestral legends say, -
Could call green leaf and blossom back
To frosted stem and spray.
The dry logs of the cottage wall,
Beneath his touch, put out their leaves;
The clay-bound swallow, at his call,
Played round the icy eaves.
The settler saw his oaken flail
Take bud, and bloom before his eyes;
From frozen pools he saw the pale
Sweet summer lilies rise.
To their old homes, by man profaned
Came the sad dryads, exiled long,
And through their leafy tongues complained
Of household use and wrong.
The beechen platter sprouted wild,
The pipkin wore its old-time green,
The cradle o'er the sleeping child
Became a leafy screen.
Haply our gentle friend hath met,
While wandering in her sylvan quest,
Haunting his native woodlands yet,
That Druid of the West;
And while the dew on leaf and flower
Glistened in the moonlight clear and still,
Learned the dusk wizard's spell of power,
And caught his trick of skill.
But welcome, be it new or old,
The gift which makes the day more bright,
And paints, upon the ground of cold
And darkness, warmth and light!
Without is neither gold nor green;
Within, for birds, the birch-logs sing;
Yet, summer-like, we sit between
The autumn and the spring.
The one, with bridal blush of rose,
And sweetest breath of woodland balm,
And one whose matron lips unclose
In smiles of saintly calm.
Fill soft and deep, O winter snow!
The sweet azalea's oaken dells,
And hide the banks where roses blow
And swing the azure bells!
O'erlay the amber violet's leaves,
The purple aster's brookside home,
Guard all the flowers her pencil gives
A live beyond their bloom.
And she, when spring comes round again,
By greening slope and singing flood
Shall wander, seeking, not in vain
Her darlings of the wood.
-
Barb: My daughter had a fall in snow much like yours. We had driven up to see Mt St Helens and we pulled into an overlook. I sat in the car and she ventured out to the edge to get a better look. I glanced down and when I looked back up she was nowhere to be seen. The snow was about knee high and she was below that so I couldn't see her anywhere. Tis area was about 50 yards square so there was a lot of places she could have been. I was starting to get really worried when a man, walking his dog, ran over to help her up. She said that there was nothing for her to hold on to, she couldn't get back on her feet. I don't know what we would have done without the Good Samaritan.
-
Sheesh, BELLE!! A six-hour wait?? I wouldn't wait an hour standing in
line for anything. Well, the second coming maybe, but only if I could sit
down occasionally.
BARB, that's scary. If you hadn't been able to reach your keys you
could have been in serious trouble before anyone realized you weren't in
the house. I'm so glad you're all right.
Actually, JOAN, I'm what you might call a 'temperate' person. My favorite
seasons are sring and fall. I really prefer to take the more extreme temps
in very small doses. :)
Our fancy's age renews its youth,
And dim-remembered fictions take
The guise of present truth.
Those rare days still occasionally come, and are most welcome.
-
"People should like poetry the way children like snow." - Wallace Stevens
Countdown now is thirty days until the Grumpy Old Man and I are eating garlic shrimp in one of the open air fish joints with the harbor lights coming on and the marimba guys playing something like Changes in Latitude , Changes in Attitude by that poet of the Caribbiean,Jimmy Buffet.
This next guy's tropics sound more like Indonesia than Mexico but there are some similarities.
The Tropics
--
(0 votes
LOVE we the warmth and light of tropic lands,
The strange bright fruit, the feathery fanspread leaves,
The glowing mornings and the mellow eves,
The strange shells scattered on the golden sands,
The curious handiwork of Eastern hands,
The little carts ambled by humpbacked beeves,
The narrow outrigged native boat which cleaves,
Unscathed, the surf outside the coral strands.
Love we the blaze of color, the rich red
Of broad tiled-roof and turban, the bright green
Of plantain-frond and paddy-field, nor dread
The fierceness of the noon. The sky serene,
The chill-less air, quaint sights, and tropic trees,
Seem like a dream fulfilled of lotus-ease.
Douglas Brooke Wheelton Sladen
-
Belle: That poem reminds me of the poetry of Vagabond Poet Don Blandings who was popular in Hollywood and Poet Laureate of Hawaii in the 40s and 50s. His books included his own black on white drawings which were as romantic as his poems. Perhaps his best know is "Vagabond House" which is too long to post here but can be found here: http://www.experienceproject.com/stories/Want-To-Know-What-Your-Favorite-Poem-Is/371574
Seven seas are to sail my ship
To the ends of the earth.beyond;
Drifters' gold is for me to spend
For I am a vagabond
Here is his drawing of Sea Lace: http://www.pglg.com/blanding/don_blanding/DB_illustrations_web_album/pages/Sea_Lace.htmMy grandmother lived in LAS then and she met him and collected his autographed books. His drawings were, to me, spectacular and perhpas resulted in my passion for black on white art.
-
Jackie: your second link didn't work for me.
-
(http://seniorlearn.org/bookclubs/poetry/poetrywinter09.jpg) A Tray of Decorative Carved-Wood Cardinal-Birds Pull up a chair and Join us for...Winter Poetry- Famous Poets and Poems about Winter (http://famouspoetsandpoems.com/thematic_poems/winter_poems.html)
- Winter Poems (http://poetry.about.com/od/ourpoemcollections/a/winterpoems.htm)
Discussion Leaders: Barb (augere@ix.netcom.com) & fairanna (fairanna@verizon.net) | The Miracle
~ Barbara Winkler
Every gardener knows
that under the cloak of winter
lies a miracle ...
A seed waiting to sprout,
A bulb opening to the light,
A bud straining to unfurl.
And the anticipation
Nurtures our dream.
|
Wow, Jackie, Mr. Blandings had a problem like mine; that travel bug. Our car is almost 13 years old, our house almost 50, we wear old clothes and virtually never go out to restaurants and the back screen door sometimes opens andsometimes not, but we scrimp all year to escape a couple of weeks of New England winter, and I guess will keep doing that until the health or the money runs out.
But what a wonderful house! PUts Martha Stewart to shame.
-
Sorry Try this link: http://www.don-blanding.com/
-
Jackie I was able to get this much of the link to work so that we can then link onto Sea Lace.
http://pglg.com/blanding/don_blanding/DB_illustrations_web_album/
the poem is wonderful - he includes so many aspects of a home and how it can relate to our outer and inner world.
-
Aha somehow I missed your post that included the link to his home page - I am glad you posted the home page - you read about folks who can put together what appears to be a magical life - I can never figure out how they do it except that they made choices while young when their security and physical care was less important and caring for a family was not a priority that takes all your resources.
-
Barb: Thanks. While Don Blandings has been important to my family and thousands of others he has not had a wide audience perhaps. I'm recalling many happy times when we would read his poems aloud to one another. I would gaze in awe at the illustrations.
-
",,eating garlic shrimp in one of the open air fish joints with the
lights coming on and the marimba guys playing something like
Changes in Latitude , Changes in Attitude"
If the old man can stay grumpy in that setting, BELLE, he needs dosing.
Ah, JACKIE, I had a book of Blandings poems, including Vagabond House, until it became too old and ratty to keep. I loved his poems, and can still quote parts of 'Vagabond House'. I made the mistake, tho', of
listening to a tape of Blandings reading his own poetry. Did it very badly,
I'm sorry to say. I didn't know he was an artist as well. That address
didn't come up as a clickable, but I'll see if I can find it.
That second link works just fine. Here's another clickable of Blandings
illustrations, including 'Sea Lace'.
http://www.bing.com/search=106&FORM=AS6&q=Don+Blanding+illustrations
-
The Power
Everyone has the power,
the power of words: written, spoken or heard,
no matter what language is used.
Letters form the words and
words themselves become
building blocks of mental
images collected in the mind’s eye.
You can transport yourself
Anywhere any place at anytime in
the universe of unlimited imagination.
Concentrate to be concise,
or contrary to be confusing, it
depends on the purpose you’re using.
Transform a noun into verb, or you
can change an adjective to an adverb
quite easily. Invent new words, too.
Continue sentences forever with
the right combination of prepositions
to include many descriptive phrases.
The power of positive communication
can at the same time help or hurt you,
depending on the receivers of the words.
The power of words can change the world,
and everyone has the power to use words.
Read this poem in it's original Spanish...
El poder
Toda persona tiene el poder,
el poder de la palabra: por escrito, hablado o escuchado,
no importa qué lenguaje se utiliza.
Letras forman palabras y el
palabras se convierten en
bloques de construcción mental de
imágenes recogidas en el ojo de la mente.
Puede usted mismo transporte
En cualquier lugar en cualquier lugar en cualquier momento en
el universo de la imaginación ilimitada.
Concentrado para ser conciso,
o contrarias a ser confusa,
depende de la finalidad que se está usando.
Transformar un sustantivo en verbo, o si
puede cambiar un adjetivo a un adverbio
con bastante facilidad. Inventar palabras nuevas, también.
Continuar para siempre con las sentencias
la combinación correcta de las preposiciones
para incluir a muchas frases descriptivas.
El poder de la comunicación positiva
puede, al mismo tiempo, ayudar o hacer daño,
en función de los receptores de las palabras.
El poder de las palabras pueden cambiar el mundo,
y todo el mundo tiene el poder de utilizar las palabras.
-
Barb St/ abrey, who wrote that astonishing bit of wisdom? loved it, and want to share it with the adult students in the school where I volunteer in Mexico.
-
Barb, I had fun exercising my tongue by reading the first part of the
Spanish version our loud. I'm not sure I pronounced 'bloques' correctly,
by I enjoyed myself anyway. ;D
-
here is my winter contribution and even with the heat set at 72 the house feels COLD and I cant wait until that southern breeze tells me SPRING IS OUT THERE >>
Brr It’s Cold
Here on the edge of a southern state
We don’t expect winter to last too long
Warm breaks from winter freeze
Lulls us and spring is a siren song
Dawn comes with it’s own fire
Sets the sky aflame and singes
The naked trees scorched by
Autumnal scarlet blazes
Sunny skies betray us thinking
Bright days just cant be cold
One step outside the door
Numbs with callous control
Birds at the feeders seek the seed
Eagerly eat in the frosted day light
Enough to last them through
A bitter winter night
I stay indoors and seek the warmth
From my little stove, it's fire curls
And licks the wood from old trees
The bark, the knots , the burls.
Here I stay until I feel a change
The wind will lift my hair
And warmer air will brush my face
Speaks and says SPRING IS OUT THERE.
anna alexander
January 4, 2010, 9:06 AM©
-
Anna: What a way you have with words, creating mental images. Your poem sparkles.
-
Anna, how right that the sun fools you into thinking it's not cold out. But if I have to have a cold day, make it one with sunshine!
Thanks for your lovely poem.
Here's one from a homesick island boy in a cold Harlem winte
POEM
The Tropics in New Yorkby Claude McKay
Bananas ripe and green, and ginger-root,
Cocoa in pods and alligator pears,
And tangerines and mangoes and grape fruit,
Fit for the highest prize at parish fairs,
Set in the window, bringing memories
Of fruit-trees laden by low-singing rills,
And dewy dawns, and mystical blue skies
In benediction over nun-like hills.
My eyes grew dim, and I could no more gaze;
A wave of longing through my body swept,
And, hungry for the old, familiar ways,
I turned aside and bowed my head and wept.
-
Powerful.
-
Wow - The Tropics in New York is moving and as Jackie says, powerful.
The North wind doth blow and we shall have snow,
And what will poor robin do then, poor thing?
He'll sit in a barn and keep himself warm
and hide his head under his wing, poor thing.
-
The north wind was sure blowing when we were in NY for Christmas, Barb and there were no robins visible.
Percy Bysshe Shelley had the delightful habit of personifying the natural sounds and sights which appealed to him.
Rough wind, that moanest loud
Grief too sad for song;
Wild wind, when sullen cloud
Knells all the night long;
Sad storm, whose tears are vain,
Bare woods, whose branches strain,
Deep caves and dreary manin,
Wail, for the world's wrong!
I remember reading this as a young teenager and thinkinf it was about impending death. It may have been just that as it was written in the last two years of his life.
-
I was reading some Cowbpy Poetry and found these by Mike Pulhallo:
Home From Winter Range
We gathered the winter range today,
and brought the cattle in.
The old cows still were fat as hogs,
but the two year olds were thin.
It’s sixteen miles of downhill road,
and the cows all know the way.
They’re tired of eating slough-grass,
and looking forward to some hay.
A cattle drive in January,
aint generally so nice.
But today the sun shone brightly,
on our world of snow and ice.
An easy day for horse and man,
because, as all cowboys know,
it aint too hard to chase a cow,
some place she wants to go!
Deadman Creek, Blizzard.
We picked up their trail around midday,
Fresh tracks in the new fallen snow.
Two hours more, we found the cows,
Then the wind commenced to blow.
Al and Tex were breaking trail,
Cows followed single file,
But the snow had drifted in so hard,
By dark, we’d scarcely made a mile.
Big Tex started playing out,
So I took the lead on Cinnamon,
The next eight hours was an icy blur...
I figured, we were done.
The storm blew out by midnight,
They found the road by two.
Three cows, two calves, two cowboys,
Those two brave horses pulled us through!
A New Year a New Day!
A crisp new canvas on the easel,
An untouched meadow, snowy white,
We pause to choose our palette,
To see what tale our tracks may write.
So rest a while.
Reflect a bit,
Start your New Year slow,
Lest rage and passion of bygone days,
Stain crimson on the snow.
Choose the path that suits you best,
Paint with colours that will last!
For the future lies unblemished,
By the errors of the past.
-
This one's by Mag Mawhinney"
The Stranger
One dark and blustery winter night
when the gauge dropped to forty below,
our fam’ly and crew hugged the cookstove
‘neath the gas lamp’s flickerin’ glow.
Suddenly, interruptin’ the wind,
came a faint, muffled knock at the door.
Frozen hinges creaked out a welcome
as the snow swirled around on the floor.
Like a ghostly-white apparition,
a frost-covered stranger stood there.
Mom pointed to a place by the fire
and the seat of her old rockin’ chair.
He was wearin’ a broad-brimmed cowboy hat
and a scarf that encircled his head.
He tried to speak through the frozen wool,
but “hammer” was all that he said.
We were just a little bewildered
‘cause we were greenhorns, new to this place,
but our teamster understood his request
and a smile crossed over his face.
“We’ll get to that later,” the teamster said,
“but first sit awhile by the stove.”
Seems the stranger was on his way home
to a reserve beyond Forest Grove.
Mom offered a cup of hot coffee
and a slice of her homemade bread.
He grinned shyly and mumbled a “thank you”
and untangled the scarf from his head.
The crew carried on with their banter
while the stranger warmed himself as he sat,
then he rose, wrapped the scarf ‘round his face
and reached for his battered old hat.
His coal black eyes peered over the wool
that was coverin’ his nose and his chin,
and he left in a misty-white fog
just the very same way he’d come in.
The teamster said he gave him a blanket
‘cause the stranger was travelin’ light,
then he hammered the ice from his horse’s hooves
and watched him ride into the night.
-
Oh my - the last one - you can just see and feel the story - it is icy cold here tonight - it has not been this cold since 1982 - I gave up on the game - playing a freshman quarterback brings no glory to Alabama anymore than thinking we are watching a championship game - what an anticlimactic end to this season. When I called my son in Houston he was thinking it was because McCoy is trying to protect his body for his pro career - I am not sure I can agree - McCoy is such the religious and upright gentleman I can't see him caving on his team. Except that this is football this final supposed to be championship game reminds me of the baseball poem...
"...
A sickly silence fell upon the patrons of the game.
A straggling few got up to go in deep despair. The rest
Clung to that hope which springs eternal in the human breast;
They thought, if only Casey could get but a whack at that -
We'd put up even money, now, with Casey at the bat.
...Oh, somewhere in this favored land the sun is shining bright;
The band is playing somewhere, and somewhere hearts are light,
And somewhere men are laughing, and somewhere children shout;
But there is no joy in Austin [Mudville] - winning McCoy is injured. [mighty Casey has struck out.]
Done With Football
as the years grow harder
so do the choices
should i listen to myself
or listen to the voices
for over three years
football's been my thing
i dealt with the failure
i pushed through the sting
but now I'm getting older
classes need attention
football should be done
but i twitch at the mention
football is a pain
it's losing what was fun
i want to quit i do
but I'm not quite done
i was the worst
no good at all
now that could change
but to rise id have to fall
if i stop i can't start
if i start i can't stop
I'm still at the bottom
oh so far from the top
if i quit now,
i can't start again
I'll fall far behind
there's no way ill win
but if i keep going
my grades may slip
and it's not even fun
so i have to get a grip
well whether i play
or i fall apart
football will stay
somewhere in my heart
Aaron Fullbright
-
Brrr! I think I need to read something warming.
-
Winter Sun
The winter sun
Hangs low in the sky
The navy blue sea
Sparkles in the sunlight
The trees are silhouetted
Shafts of lights shining through
Their barren branches
Frosty nights leave icing
Covered lawns and cobwebs
The winter sun
Pale and watery
Hardly warming the hard earth
But welcome like an old friend,
On this cold winter day.
Lynda Robson
-
Sitting by the Fire
I'm sitting by the fire
My feet are warm and my body is tingling
My hair is blowing through the breeze
The fire glows intensely with embers bursting
And shooting out up to reach the night sky
I'm sitting by the fire still feeling the warmth
Throughout my body
Sitting by the fire
Sitting by the fire
Nicole Mead
-
This poem is definitely tongue in cheek.
Kindness to Animals
by J. Ashby-Sterry
Speak gently to the herring and kindly to the calf,
Be blithesome with the bunny, at barnacles don't laugh!
Give nuts unto the monkey, and buns unto the bear,
Ne'er hint at currant jelly if you chance to see a hare!
Oh, little girls, pray hide your combs when tortoises draw nigh,
And never in the hearing of a pigeon whisper Pie!
But give the stranded jelly-fish a shove into the sea,--
Be always kind to animals wherever you may be!
Oh, make not game of sparrows, nor faces at the ram,
And ne'er allude to mint sauce when calling on a lamb.
Don't beard the thoughtful oyster, don't dare the cod to crimp,
Don't cheat the pike, or ever try to pot the playful shrimp.
Tread lightly on the turning worm, don't bruise the butterfly,
Don't ridicule the wry-neck, nor sneer at salmon-fry;
Oh, ne'er delight to make dogs fight, nor bantams disagree,--
Be always kind to animals wherever you may be!
Be lenient with lobsters, and ever kind to crabs,
And be not disrespectful to cuttle-fish or dabs;
Chase not the Cochin-China, chaff not the ox obese,
And babble not of feather-beds in company with geese.
Be tender with the tadpole, and let the limpet thrive,
Be merciful to mussels, don't skin your eels alive;
When talking to a turtle don't mention calipee--
Be always kind to animals wherever you may be.
-
That was fun, BARB. Gave me a smile. Of course the sunshine outside
helps, too. Be not deceived; it is cold out there!
I like this. Not a poem, but it's about Janurary and really good prose.
"There is a privacy about it which no other season gives you ..... In spring, summer and fall people sort of have
an open season on each other; only in the winter, in the country, can you have longer, quiet stretches when
you can savor belonging to yourself."
- Ruth Stout
-
Barb: The folks at PETA could use those verses as their anthem; seems like a sense of humor is lacking in most zealots.
Babi: How appropos: only in the winter, . . . you can savor belonging to yourself (ftp://only in the winter, . . . you can savor belonging to yourself)
-
The Idea of Florida During a Winter Thaw
by Gail Mazur
Late February, and the air's so balmy
snowdrops and crocuses might be fooled
into early blooming. Then, the inevitable blizzard
will come, blighting our harbingers of spring,
and the numbed yards will go back undercover.
In Florida, it's strawberry season—
shortcake, waffles, berries and cream
will be penciled on the coffeeshop menus.
In Winter Haven, the ballplayers are stretching
and preening, dancing on the basepaths,
giddy as good kids playing hookey. Now,
for a few weeks, statistics won't seem
to matter, for the flushed boys are muscular
and chaste, lovely as lakes to the retired men
watching calisthenics from the grandstands.
Escapees from the cold work of living,
the old men burnish stories of Yaz and the Babe
and the Splendid Splinter. For a few dreamy dollars,
they sit with their wives all day in the sun,
on their own little seat cushions, wearing soft caps
with visors. Their brave recreational vehicles
grow hot in the parking lot, though they're
shaded by live oaks and bottlebrush trees
whose soft bristles graze the top-racks.
At four, the spectators leave in pairs, off
to restaurants for Early Bird Specials.
A salamander scuttles across the quiet
visitors' dugout. The osprey whose nest is atop
the foul pole relaxes. She's raged all afternoon
at balls hit again and again toward her offspring.
Although December's frost killed the winter crop,
there's a pulpy orange-y smell from juice factories....
Down the road, at Cypress Gardens, a woman
trainer flips young alligators over on their backs,
demonstrating their talent for comedy—stroke
their bellies, they're out cold, instantaneously
snoozing. A schoolgirl on vacation gapes,
wonders if she'd ever be brave enough
to try that, to hold a terrifying beast
and turn it into something cartoon-funny.
She stretches a hand toward the toothy sleeper
then takes a step back, to be safe as she reaches.
-
"She stretches a hand toward the toothy sleeper
then takes a step back, to be safe as she reaches". That's me.
-
I didn't know that about aligators. Wonder how someone discovered it?
-
I loved that description of the kids, so delighted to be set free to have
fun. I'd rather watch youngsters play than the best team out there.
-
I loved the poem about the retirement life in Florida, although I have never lived it. And making the alligator sleep reminds me of when Ed Muskie, the Maine senator , used to "hypnotize" lobsters, by stoking their tummies.
-
The Camel's Hump
by Rudyard Kipling
The Camel's hump is an ugly lump
Which well you may see at the Zoo;
But uglier yet is the hump we get
From having too little to do.
Kiddies and grown-ups too-oo-oo,
If we haven't enough to do-oo-oo,
We get the hump-
Cameelious hump-
The hump that is black and blue!
We climb out of bed with a frouzly head,
And a snarly-yarly voice.
We shiver and scowl and we grunt and we growl
At our bath and our boots and our toys;
And there ought to be a corner for me
(And I know' there is one for you)
When we get the hump-
Cameelious hump-
The hump that is black and blue!
The cure for this ill is not to sit still,
Or frowst with a book by the fire;
But to take a large hoe and a shovel also,
And dig till you gently perspire;
And then you will find that the sun and the wind,
And the Djinn of the Garden too,
Have lifted the hump-
The horrible hump-
The hump that is black and blue!
I get it as well as you-oo-oo-
If I haven't enough to do-oo-oo!
We all get hump-
Cameelious hump-
Kiddies and grown-ups too!
-
Great! May I post that in "Kim"?
-
Are there camels in Kim or maybe a frouzly headed character with a snarly-yarly voice. ;)
I do not think you need our permission since the writings of Rudyard Kipling is no longer private property - have fun with it.
-
I had to grin at that one. I am learning that Kipling was more productive
and fun than I had realized. I am quite certain he must have written that
poem with particular kids in mind...likely his own. ;D
-
Inside my head are poems that I cant seem to get out...they come full blown and I say them outloud but by the time I ahve time to write them they are gone...a word or a line will hang about but I dont seem t to have them laying about so I am posting a few lines by Tom Kooser an American poet whose verse speaks to me...I love the way he sees things
A FroZen Stream
This snake has gone one,
all muscle and glitter,
into the woods,
a few leaves clinging,
red, yellow, and brown.
Oh, how he sparkled!
The roots of old trees
gleamed as he passed.
Now there is nothing
to see, an old skin
caught in the bushes ,
bleached and flaking,
a few sharp stones
already poking through.
Snow Fence
The red fence
takes the cold trail
north, no meat
on its ribs,
but neither has it
much to carry.
-
Anna: Sounds like you need a pocket recorder where you can speak your thoughts/poems.
-
This is probably the longest poem I've posted, but oh!, it is a lovely thing.
Lord of the Dance
I danced in the morning when the world was begun
I danced in the moon and the stars and the sun;
I was called from the darkness by the song of the earth,
I joined in the singing and she gave me birth.
(chorus, repeat after each verse)
Dance, then, wherever you may be!
I am the Lord of the Dance, said he,
And I'll lead you on, wherever you may be, I will lead you all in the Dance, said he!
I sleep in the kernel and I dance in the rain,
I dance in the wind, and through the waving grain,
And when you cut me down, I care nothing for the pain --
In Spring I'll be Lord of the Dance again!
I see the maidens laughing as they dance in the sun,
I count the fruits of the of the harvest, one by one;
I know the storm is coming, but the grain is all stored,
So I sing of the dance of the Lady and the Lord.
We dance ever slower as the leaves fall and spin
And the sound of the Horn is the wailing of the wind;
The Earth is wrapped in stillness and we move in a trance,
but we hold on fast to our faith in the dance.
The sun is in the south and the days lengthen fast,
And soon we'll sing for the winter that is past,
Now we light the candles and rejoice as they burn,
and Dance the dance of the sun's return.
They cut me down, but I leap up high!
I am life that will never, never die.
I'll live in you and you'll live in me --
I am the Lord of the Dance, said he!
The moon in her phases and the tides of the sea,
the movement of Earth, and the seasons that will be
Are rhythm for the dancing and a promise through the years --
The Dance goes on through joy and tears.
-
What a lovely to read this morning Babi - thanks - I will re-visit it a couple of times today - it will be a busy and not an enjoyable busy day - this poem will help put it all in perspective.
-
Memorable images in those words.
-
I seem to remember that the famous Irish dancing group..can't think of
the name just now...does a number to "Lord of the Dance". I've seen it
danced and found it an experience to be remembered.
-
After Earthquake
Here was a home
Five rooms were in to it
Where whole family fit
Hedges of happy flowers
And a big wooden tower
Hugs it, and pours love shower
Sweet dreams and children
Giggles there and woven
In to untied divine knot
But very different was last morning
Argument in earth’s womb; she was trembling
Innocent sleep disturbed by enormous sound
Body of home had lots of wound
Roof mingle with floor
And window with door
Dead bodies laid on ground
Deep silence and a ret around
Ruined dreams and debris
Victim of that crisis
Nature’s anger manifested in many way
But always innocent has to pay
Now that childish home is no where
And sweet family has no body to care
Aashish Ameya
-
(http://seniorlearn.org/bookclubs/poetry/poetrywinter09.jpg) A Tray of Decorative Carved-Wood Cardinal-Birds Pull up a chair and Join us for...Winter Poetry- Famous Poets and Poems about Winter (http://famouspoetsandpoems.com/thematic_poems/winter_poems.html)
- Winter Poems (http://poetry.about.com/od/ourpoemcollections/a/winterpoems.htm)
Discussion Leaders: Barb (augere@ix.netcom.com) & fairanna (fairanna@verizon.net) |
A January Morning
~Lampman, Archibald (1861-1899)
The glittering roofs are still with frost; each worn
Black chimney builds into the quiet sky
Its curling pile to crumble silently.
Far out to westward on the edge of morn,
The slender misty city towers up-borne
Glimmer faint rose against the pallid blue;
And yonder on those northern hills, the hue
Of amethyst, hang fleeces dull as horn.
And here behind me come the woodmen's sleighs
With shouts and clamorous squeakings; might and
main
Up the steep slope the horses stamp and strain,
Urged on by hoarse-tongued drivers--cheeks
ablaze.
Iced beards and frozen eyelids--team to team,
With frost-fringed flanks, and nostrils jetting
steam.
|
-
Natural Disaster
by Jo Woodnutt
It's happened again, it always does.
Tears are pouring down my face.
Later on, ill ask God why,
But for now, only mourning.
Another disaster, with
Thousands of lives lost to the elements
We pretend to understand science
We should stop fooling ourselves
Nobody could have forecast this.
-
A Prayer seems fitting...
Haiti, Haiti: A Prayer for Haiti
by Dr. Pamela Lightsey
O God, we have been stunned once again by an event
Which seems so unnatural and yet is called "natural disaster."
We have no words to answer the "why" which we feel,
No wisdom to explain away the unexplainable areas of life.
Keep us from attributing this event as a heavenly reprimand,
Or from a certain haughtiness that tempts the distant soul.
Give us to be compassionate and gentle, servants to those in need.
Remind us of your gracious love in the midst of sorrow,
And your ability to work miracles when hope is faint.
We pray for those who suffer in Haiti even now
And for those who await rescue.
For relatives, for the children,
For mothers and fathers,
Sisters and brothers,
Grandparents, aunts and cousins.
For the survivors who question what more they might have done.
And for those who must keep on keeping on, in spite of.
For the leaders,
For those who bring aid
And those who await news.
Strengthen and encourage them we pray.
Now unto you, O God, we take the burdens of this hour and place them in your divine care.
For all you do and are doing, seen and unseen, we give thee thanks, Eternal God of All Creation.
-
It's easy to see that "After Earthquake" was written by someone for whom English is not the native language. The sadness is still there, tho'.
There is little that displays our vulnerability so thoroughly as the weather. With all our science and technology, we are still at the mercy
of the elements. Miss Woodnutt is quite right to remind us we have
little reason to be proud and arrogant.
The prayer was most fitting, BARB. Prayer continues to be needed,
as the damage itself and the limited access makes it difficult to get
people the help they need.
-
These two poets represent Haitian poets from the early part of the 20th century, a period when black intellectuals, influenced by the poets of the Harlem Renaissance, began to question their relationship with Europe and affirm their African heritage.
Trahison
~Léon Laleau
Ce coeur obsédant, qui ne correspond
Pas à mon langage ou à mes costumes
Et sur lequel mordent, comme un crampon,
Des sentiments d’emprunt et des coutumes
D’Europe, sentez-vous cette souffrance
Et ce désespoir à nul autre égal
D’apprivoiser, avec des mots de France,
Ce coeur qui m’est venu du Sénégal?
Betrayal
This unrelenting heart, whose rhythm suits
Neither my language nor my clothing
And into which bite, like jaws of a trap,
Borrowed sentiments and European
Customs—Do you feel this suffering
This despair unlike any other
Of domesticating, with words from France,
This heart that came to me from Senegal?
Léon Laleau (1892-19??) was a Haitian diplomat, intellectual and poet. An early convert to a more authentic approach to writing than had been practised Haitian authors who followed European models, he demonstrates originality both in his affirmation of “Africanness” and his style. Laleau was one of the forerunners of the negritude movement led by Aimé Césaire, L-G Damas, and L-S Senghor.
A New Black Sermon (excerpt)
They have spit on the blackness of Your Face,
Lord, our friend, our comrade,
You who parted the locks of the prostitute's face
Like a curtain of reeds covering the spring of her tears
They have made
the rich the pharisees the landowners the bankers
They have made of the bleeding man the bloodthirsty god
Oh, Judas, laugh,
Oh, Judas, laugh,
Christ between two thieves like a torn flame at the height of the world
Set fire to the slaves' revolt
But Christ is today in the house of the thieves
And his arms spread out like the vast wings of a vulture in the cathedrals
And the priest in the monastery's winecellar counts the interest on thirty pieces of silver
And the church steeples spit death onto the famished multitudes
We will not pardon them, for they know what they do
They have lynched John who organized the trade union
They hunted him with dogs like a weary wolf in the woods
Laughing they hung him from the old sycamore's trunk
No, brothers, comrades,
We will pray no more
Our revolt rises up like the cry of the storm bird over the lapping waters of the stinking swamps
We will no longer sing our despairing spirituals
A different song springs from our mouth
We will spread our red flags
Stained with the blood of our just
Under this banner we will march
Under this banner we are marching
Arise ye wretched of the earth
Arise ye prisoners of starvation
Jacques Roumain (1907-1944) was a Haitian intellectual and author. As a founder of the Haitian Communist Party, he was imprisoned early in his career for his political activities, then became active in the government after the end of the American occupation of Haiti. A student of anthropology in Paris, he worked at the French Musée de L’homme for a time, and later promoted Haitian anthropological studies and research. He helped found an important literary review, La Revue Indigène, which published new writing from Haitian authors who broke with the tradition of imitating French models. He is best known for his novels, in particular Governor's of the Dew (1944), which presents a heroic perspective on the sufferings of the Haitian peasantry. This poem reflects Roumain’s revolutionary fervor and his sharp sense of social and economic injustice.
Hmmm I did not know the negative history between the US and Haiti - no wonder there is such delicacy over how we implement our assistance during this crisis.
American occupation of Haiti: American Marines entered Haiti in 1915 in order to maintain peace and help stabilize the Haitian government. They occupied Haiti until 1934, controlling the Republic through a puppet Haitian government.
http://haitiforever.com/windowsonhaiti/am-occup.htm
Here is the story from another point of view based in American Business interests.
http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/United_States_occupation_of_Haiti
-
A Winter Tale
In the western sky a winter sun does not slowly sink
but blasts the fading sky with one last burst
of blinding light....Grateful for its rapid flight
as it disappears behind he trees and night hurries
to take its space,, A pallid moon hangs in the east
waits to take its place this winter night
A few stars on the rim of darkness
Prepare to give us sparkling beams
to add illumination to this deep dark sky
I am glad to reach my home
aglow with electric lights
my ancient Celtic ancestors
huddled in furs of beasts
tended to a dying fire to keep the night at bay
while I cuddle in my down comfortor
and sleep through a fraudulent day
purchased by electric lights ....
anna alexander December 2, 2006 all rights reserved
Right now we are enjoying a "WINTER BREAK" days warm enough for me to work outdoors with just a sweat shirt and jeans Of course the weather man says NEXT WEEK WILL BE COLD
Can I wish that he be wrong?? hugs to all anna
-
Powerful poems, BARB. There is so much anger there; it had to erupt.
We're having cold and wet here, ANNA, with only brief breaks of an occasional day with sunshine and even more cold. I found this poem
timely, and also good for my attitude.
Rain Sounds
Frosty,
Dripping,
Dismal morning.
Errands put off one day too many.
Bank,
Cleaners,
Grocery Store.
In and out, in and out, in and out of the car.
Miserable, MISERABLE weather.
Unbridled two year old enthusiasm
undampened.
Toys
trail
us
to
the
door.
Purse thrown on my seat,
Leah plopped in her, grinning.
Umbrella uselessly sits in a puddle.
Stepping back on to a saturated lawn bestows
the first soaker of the year.
Exasperated,
Agitated,
WET,
I get into the car
shaking water off my hands
as a petite voice declares
"Mommy, I like that sound"!
So we sit quietly in the driveway and listen
to the rain.
What a great day!
Mary Fishwick
-
Rain Sounds is a perfect message - it often takes a child to change our mood doesn't it. Fairanna I am glad you are having a winter reprieve - even nature knows we cannot stay wrapped without a break till Spring.
I have been looking into the Haitian experience starting with poetry. I always knew it was there but the most I knew it was a place of unrest and there were boat people who were often either rescued or turned back.
I am also seeing more clearly that the best of intentions are hampered after a disaster - makes me think that each city needs a well trained emergency squad and a partnership arranged where folks willing are assigned to care for the family of the police and fire department so they can do their job with the confidence their family is taken care of by a pre-assigned group of citizens.
Here is a poem about Haiti written by Frederick Douglas...
UNTIL SHE SPOKE
Until she spoke, no Christian nation had abolished Negro slavery.
Until she spoke, no Christian nation had given to the world an organized effort to abolish slavery.
Until she spoke, the slave ship, followed by hungry sharks, greedy to devour the dead and dying slaves flung overboard to feed them, ploughed in peace the South Atlantic, painting the sea with the Negro’s blood.
Until she spoke, the slave trade was sanctioned by all the Christian nations of the world, and our land of liberty and light included.
Men made fortunes by this infernal traffic, and were esteemed as good Christians, and the standing types and representations of the Savior of the World.
Until Haiti spoke, the church was silent, and the pulpit was dumb.
Slave-traders lived and slave-traders died.
Funeral sermons were preached over them, and of them it was said that they died in the triumphs of the Christian faith and went to heaven among the just.
-
haitian girl
By Hertz Nazaire [ naz ]
eyes like early morning coffee and soft baked bread
hair like a waterfall that sprays soft mist,
and the sunlight beads its rainbow through your roots
your body a basket of mother natures' sweetest most exotic fruits...
yes as eden... all moist and screwshy parts, plump, ripe and round curves, tender and soft spots...
paradi..se
i can't help but love you, haitian girl...
-
Another helping us realize in the midst of all we are seeing there are caregivers without uniforms or financial backing.
A Prayer for the Caregiver
by Bruce McIntyre
Unknown and often unnoticed, you are a hero nonetheless.
For your love, sacrificial, is God at his best.
You walk by faith in the darkness of the great unknown,
And your courage, even in weakness, gives life to your beloved.
You hold shaking hands and provide the ultimate care:
Your presence, the knowing, that you are simply there.
You rise to face the giant of disease and despair,
It is your finest hour, though you may be unaware.
You are resilient, amazing, and beauty unexcelled,
You are the caregiver and you have done well!
Did y'all know there is a Caregiver magazine? The focus is on Those who take care of Individuals and not the impromptu caregiving that happens during an emergency or natural disaster.
http://www.caregiver.com/magazine/digital/caregiver_july_august/default.html
-
Barb: Thank you so much for the enlightenment of Haiti's poetry and history. I must admit to feeling impatience with them that they couldn't clean up their act, get it together, little realizing how handicapped they were. Simply giving some money seems like so little help.
-
I must be a two-year-old at heart. before I read Mary Fishwick's poem, I had opened the back door to listen to the sound of the rain. I LOVE THAT SOUND!
The Haiti poems are very thought provoking. I will print ou the prayer for the caregiver, to give to my caregivers.
-
Poetry night at Le P'tit Resto
~by Mesye Lozana
This Friday night I went to Le P'tit Resto,
a Haitian restaurant in North Miami where
you can eat some fritay in company of the the greatest
poets Haiti has to offer.
I didn't plan to write so I didn't take notes.
I had my hands burried
in a plate of Griot, Bannane Peze, and Acra that my partner,
Roland Berthold, bought for our table.
Among the performers were Andre Fouad,
who had a special performance with Chandel singer, Mario Morose,
Prosper Sylvain, Jr. a.k.a. Makendal,
Susette Morisseau Leroy a.k.a. Wanga Neges,
who recited a beautiful story with the title "Anba Lanmè".
Amongst some of the people present tonight
were Haitian movie producer Herold Israel,
Actress Farah Larrieux,
just to name a few.
The night as always is ended
by Haitian, Russell Simmons and
self proclaimed Poet of the year, Ed Lozama...
Oh... Eskize-m moun yo... Mesye Lozana!
Yeap! Friday night at Le P'tit Resto, you will definitely be in the company of stars.
Next time I go to poetry night
I will try my best to leave the Griot plate
a long and take some notes
Ou ta poste bèl fèt sa-s nan
-
Names are Links to:
Andre Fouad (http://translate.google.com/translate?hl=en&sl=fr&u=http://www.potomitan.info/ayiti/fouad/index.php&ei=9-FTS42xFIOGNLbgkIcJ&sa=X&oi=translate&ct=result&resnum=3&ved=0CBIQ7gEwAg&prev=/search%3Fq%3DAndre%2BFouad%26hl%3Den%26rlz%3D1T4ADBF_enUS280US338)
Mario Morose, Kiki Wainwright, Yvette {Yvette is French for Susette} Leroy, (Waneges), Eddy Francois (http://public.fotki.com/pikliz/last_event_covered/haitian_miscellaneo/eddyfrancois014.html)
Herold Israel (http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/User:Herold_israel)
Farah Larrieux (http://www.belfim.com/bio.php/369)
-
Once upon a time, BARB, those groups of helpful citizens were one's
friends and neighbors. You didn't even have to ask. Haiti had minimal
government at the best of times; none at all in the face of disaster.
Frederick Douglass poem surprised me. I had the impression that slave
traders were regarded necessary, but hardly respectable. Certainly not
fine examples of Christianity. But that view may be hindsight. After
all, Douglass was much closer to the times.
"Naz" really had that Haitian girl on his mind, didn't he? Screwshy??
There's a word that does manage to convey an image of something soft and malleable, like a pillow.
-
LERMONTOV Cossack Lullaby
By Alexander Pushkin
Sleep, my fine young baby
Lullabye, a-bye.
Quietly the clear moon looks down
Into your cradle
I will tell you stories,
I will sing you a song,
Sleep on, close your eyes,
Lullabye, a-bye.
The Terek runs over its rocky bed
And splashes its dark wave;
A sly brigand crawls along the bank
Sharpening his dagger;
But your father is an old warrior
Hardened in battle;
So sleep, my darling, undisturbed,
Lullaby a-bye.
The time will come, you will learn for yourself
The soldier's way of life,
Boldly you'll place your foot in the stirrup
And grasp your rifle.
Your fighting saddle I myself
Will embroider with silk
Sleep, my darling, my own one,
Lullaby a-bye.
Such a fine warrior you'll be to look at,
And a cossack in your soul.
I will watch you go, see you on your way,
And you'll wave your hand.
How many bitter tears silently
I will weep on that night when you go.
Sleep my angel, sweetly, softly,
Lullaby a-bye.
-
Zimny Vecher or Winter Evening.
By Alexander Pushkin
The storm wind covers the sky
Whirling the fleecy snow drifts,
Now it howls like a wolf,
Now it is crying, like a lost child,
Now rustling the decayed thatch
On our tumbledown roof,
Now, like a delayed traveller,
Knocking on our window pane.
Our wretched little cottage
Is gloomy and dark.
Why do you sit all silent
Hugging the window, old gran?
Has the howling of the storm
Wearied you, at last, dear friend?
Or are you dozing fitfully
Under the spinning wheel's humming?
Let us drink, dearest friend
To my poor wasted youth.
Let us drink from grief - Where's the glass?
Our hearts at least will be lightened.
Sing me a song of how the bluetit
Quietly lives across the sea.
Sing me a song of how the young girl
Went to fetch water in the morning.
The storm wind covers the sky
Whirling the fleecy snow drifts
Now it howls like a wolf,
Now it is crying, like a lost child.
Let us drink, dearest friend
To my poor wasted youth.
Let us drink from grief - Where's the glass?
Our hearts at least will be lightened.
-
Oh Country
by Alexander Pushkin
I
The estate in which our bored Yevgeny
Now lived, was in fact a fine retreat:
There a lover of the simpler pleasures
Would thank the heavens for his fate.
His mansion house was solitary,
Sheltered by hills in windy weather,
And stood by a river. Stretching away
Far off the meadows were bright and gay
With flowers, and the cornfields golden.
And here was a hamlet, there another,
And cattle wandered the meadows at random,
While shade was cast both deep and wide
By a huge garden all overgrown,
For the pensive Dryads a secret home.
II
The stately mansion was built and planned
As all good mansions should really be:
Sturdily set in the peaceful land
In the refined taste of an age gone by.
All of the rooms were wide and lofty,
Silk wall paper embellished the drawing room,
And portraits of tsars hung on the walls,
The stoves were bright with ceramic tiles.
All this is nowadays somewhat passé,
Indeed, for what reason, I cannot say,
But of course for my friend, our story's hero
There was no need for these things at all,
Because he would yawn with equal distraction
At an ancient pile or a modern mansion.
III
He settled in the sitting room
Where the old-timer in his country ways
For forty years had gazed from the window
Or balled at the housekeeper, or swatted flies.
A simple room, with oaken floors,
Two cupboards, a table and a stuffed settee,
And not a single spot of ink.
Onegin opened the cupboard doors;
He found in one a book of expenses,
In another a shelf of home brewed brandy,
And apple water in an earthenware jar,
And from eighteen o eight a calendar.
The old man having such a busy life
Found that looking in books brought too much strife.
-
I'd never gotten into Pushkin's poetry, BARB. Thanks for the introduction. So much rich imagery, all overcast with a touch of sadness.
That seems to be a hallmark of Russian literature. I think long winters and gray days tend to have that infuence on a people.
That's a thought. I wonder if anyone has ever studied that possibility?
-
I did a little research after I left here, and while I didn't find any precise
research on my subject, I did find this quote from John Burroughs:
"Temperament lies behind mood; behind will, lies the fate of character. Then behind both, the influence of family the tyranny of culture; and finally the power of climate and environment; and we are free, only to the extent we rise above these."
-
Babi; That is profound. It explains disciplines such as Sociology.
-
Babi you found a wonderful quote with a trail of Influence on the human psyche - I guess I am hesitant to agree - my thinking is that other nations located as far north with long winters and gray days are not known to share the same sadness as basic to their character and reflected in their literature. I think of the Scandinavian countries, Alaska and even Canada. I wonder though for Pushkin if it is more the 'Tyranny of Culture' during his lifetime.
I know the article is suggesting the Tyranny of Culture is as a result of the power of climate but I see so many Cultures that went through phases of 'Tyranny' of Culture that were in different climate areas of the world.
Just the three poems say a lot - the lullaby is confirming an infant will become a soldier who will leave the family and may not return. As I understand, the way out of desperate poverty that robs a person of any dignity is through being a soldier which says, this family must be on the edge but has achieved one step above serfdom at the price of knowing their boy babies will leave.
Then the winter poem lets us see that during these long wicked winters without industry those dependent on the land or forests for their existence are bored to the point they have what we in this country euphemistically called 'Cabin Fever'.
And then from his novel in verse, "Onegin" we learn the characteristic of some Nobles, who are benefiting from the sacrifice of both soldiers and serfs and it is difficult to see noble characteristics among those so fortunate.
Another, interpretation of this section of "Onegin" is to look at the description as representative of all Russia that at this time in history was a retreat from the horrors in Europe. During the late seventeen hundreds and early eighteen hundreds Europe was up in flames with Revolution and then Napoleon as well as, a powdercake of disruption, energy and activity as the industrial age transformed the countryside and the people. And yet, with all their seclusion Russia was lazy and did not even use its time of safety and peace to educate itself.
I look at the difference in Norway and Sweden where I think their sense of adventure on the sea helped form their national character - Finland is a nation with even less of its land within the temporate climate than Russia and without great ports so it was essentially landlocked - it too had a troubled national character that has changed as industrial development gave people a livelihood and hope.
Maybe that is it - we hear hopelessness in Pushkins poetry as he explores Russia's traditional way of life which bound people to a life filled with futility. He was considered a radical and at one point was exiled to southern Russia - we think of radical poetry filled with roar and action where as Pushkin seems to show a more nuanced picture of life with all its warts during this time in Russian history.
For a change of pace here is one of his love poems that does bring in the very greyness Babi you bring to our attention...
A Magic Moment I Remember
~ Pushkin
A magic moment I remember:
I raised my eyes and you were there,
A fleeting vision, the quintessence
Of all that's beautiful and rare.
I pray to mute despair and anguish,
To vain pursuits the world esteems,
Long did I near your soothing accents,
Long did your features haunt my dreams.
Time passed. A rebel storm-blast scattered
The reveries that once were mine
And I forgot your soothing accents,
Your features gracefully divine.
In dark days of enforced retirement
I gazed upon grey skies above
With no ideals to inspire me,
No one to cry for, live for, love.
Then came a moment of renaissance,
I looked up - you again are there,
A fleeting vision, the quintessence
Of all that`s beautiful and rare.
-
Thank you for bringing us Pushkin. The saying is that "it's impossible to translate Pushkin", since so much of his genius lies in his beautiful use of Russian. But even in English, he is powerful.
I had heard about Finland that the Finns are very subject to depression, but I know little about it. The little Swedish lierature I've read (mostly detective stories) is somber in tone: do others have a different perception?
-
Have not found any Finnish poetry translated into English yet however, most of the Norweigan and Swedish poetry seems to be these long book length sagas.
Here is the beginning of the Fridthjol Saga written by a Swedish poet, Esaias Tegne'r however, it takes place in northern Norway and the Orkney Islands. And here is a link to his bio which shows he lived the same time in history as Pushkin. http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Esaias_Tegn%C3%A9r
FRIDTHJOF'S SAGA.
Fridthjof and Ingeborg.
In Hilding's garden, green and fair,
Protected by his fostering care,
Two rare and stately plants were growing,
Unequaled grace and beauty showing.
The one a sturdy oak tree grew,
With lance-like stem so straight and true,
Its crown in northern tempests shaking
Like helmet plume in battle quaking.
The other like a rose sprang forth
When tardy winter leaves the north,
And spring, which in the buds lies dreaming,
Still waits with gems to set them gleaming.
Around the earth the storm-king raves,
The wrestling oak its anger braves;
The sun dissolves frost's mantle hoary,
The buds reveal their hidden glory.
So they grew up in joy and glee,
And Fridthjof was the young oak tree;
Unfolding in the vale serenely,
The rose was Ingeborg the queenly.
Saw you those two by light of day
You seem in Freyja's house to stay,
Where bride-pairs, golden-haired, were swinging,
Their way on rosy pinions winging.
But seeing them by moonlight pale
Round dancing in the leafy vale,
You'd think: The elf-king now advances,
And leads his queen in fairy dances.
How joyful 'twas, how lovely too,
When firs[ he learned his futhorc through;
No kings had e'er such honor brought them
As when to Ingeborg he taught them.
How joyously his boat would glide
With those two o'er the dark blue tide:
While he the driving sail was veering,
Her small white hands gave hearty cheering.
No bird's nest found so high a spot,
That he for her could find it not;
The eagle's nest from clouds he sundered,
And eggs and young he deftly plundered.
However swift, there ran no brook,
But o'er it Ingeborg he took;
How sweet when roaring torrents frighten,
To feel her soft arms round him tighten.
The first; spring flowers by sunshine fed,
The earliest berries turning red,
The first of autumn's golden treasure,
He proffered her with eager pleasure.
But quickly sped are childhood's days,—
There stands a youth whose ardent gaze
With pleading and with hope is laden,
And there, with budding charms, a maiden.
Young Fridthjof followed oft the chase,
Which led to many a fearful place;
With neither spear nor lance defended,
The wild bear's life he quickly ended.
When, struggling, met they breast to breast,
The hunter won, though hardly pressed,
And brought the bearskin home; such prizes,
Think you, a maiden e'er despises?
For woman values courage rare;
The brave alone deserves the fair,
Each one the other's grace completing,
As brow and helmet fitly meeting.
And when in winter evenings long,
By firelight reading, in a song,
Of fair abodes in radiant heaven
To every god and goddess given,
He thought: "Of gold is Ing'borg's hair,
A net for rose and lily fair:
Like Freyja's bounteous golden tresses,
A wheat-field which the breeze caresses.
-
Not much translated Swedish or Norwegian poetry on-line - Here is an Edith Södergran poem - She was a Finland-Swede (her mother's tongue was Swedish) - she grew up in Finland and Russia, attending a German school in St Petersburg. With the onset of World War I and the consequent revolution, she was isolated from both the cosmopolitan world of St Petersburg and her literary world of Helsinki.
Nocturne
by Edith Södergran
Silverskira månskenskväll,
nattens blåa bölja,
glittervågor utan tal
på varandra följa.
Skuggor falla över vägen,
strandens buskar gråta sakta,
svarta jättar strandens silver vakta.
Tystnad djup i sommarens mitt,
sömn och dröm, –
månen glider över havet
vit och öm.
Translation
Silverclear this moonlit eve,
blue billow of the night,
countless sparkling waves roll in,
dancing in the light.
Shadows fall upon the road,
the bushes weep so soft and sore,
dark giants guard the silver of the shore.
Silence deep in summer’s midst,
sleep and dream, –
tender moon over the ocean,
white agleam
And another...
“My Artificial Flowers”
My artificial flowers
I will send home to you.
My small bronze lions
I will set up by your door.
Myself I will sit down here on the stairway –
a lost pearl of the orient
in the big city’s roaring sea.
-
BARB, you have given the poems, and the subject, a good deal of thought. The difference between Finland and Norway/Sweden is intriguing. Perhaps the access to the sea gave the latter an outlet that prevented any sense of entrapment. Their small size may actually be an advantage, also. The bulk of Russia, before the days of the railroad, was essentially 'walled in'.
I'm thinking of 'cabin fever', where isolated farm women were snowed
in for months. Some could not bear it, becoming ill or even insane.
I noted this line from the Tegne'r saga: The brave alone deserves the fair, That is a sentiment often found in romantic poetry. "Only the
brave deserve the fair." "Faint heart ne'er won fair lady." I wonder
who actually wrote it first.
-
Thank you, thank you, for the examples of Russian and Scandinavian poetry. I read Eugene Onegin years ago and saw the Met opera production on PBS. Must go back and reread in light of your observations of climate, tem[erament and culture.
It there is no Finnish poetry to give you a grasp of their soul, there is Sibelius, especially my favorete of all his works, the 2nd Symphony. You can see the frozen blue lakes and mountains of snowy fir trees, and the northern lights. and finland takes the prize for most beautiful nationsl anthem, Finlandia.
It is a wide world, with so much diverse beauty, isn't it? I willprobablay never see Finland but in the closing chords of the Second Symphony I can feel it.
-
Interesting how we talk about issues just as they hit the media - Finnland is all over the BBC news today because of it push to install fiber Optic cable for faster service, the cost and who will pay since it is the government that wants everyone on the faster service - however, the photos accompanying the story are of deep snow covered houses, fields and even window ledges deep with snow on the library windows of the University. The map accompanying the story shows Finnland not to be a landlocked as I imagined with many small islands, one in particular is where the new's crew is filming in the homes and offices of some of these islanders.
Been looking for as much Russian poetry as I can find translated into English and available on-line. Nearly all the poetry written in the 1800s is filled with sadness and angst where as close to the 1900s and through most of the 1900s it is filled with attitudes about war, freedom and oppression. I found this one poet who wrote before Pushkin and where it is not the noble story of Gods as I find in the 1700s Swedish and Norwegian poetry it does speak about nature and is less grey, less depressive. Here is a link to the poet that includes a few of his other poems... http://web.mmlc.northwestern.edu/~mdenner/Demo/poetpage/lomonosov.htm
An Evening Reflection Upon God's Grandeur Prompted by the Great Northern Lights
~ written in 1743 by M.V. Lomonosov
1
The day conceals its brilliant face,
And dark night covers up the fields,
Black shadows creep upon the hills,
Light's rays recede from us.
Before us gapes a well of stars -
Stars infinite, well fathomless.
2
A grain of sand in ocean swells,
A tiny glint in endless ice,
Fine ash caught in a mighty gale,
A feather in a raging fire,
So I am lost in this abyss,
Oppressed by thoughts profound.
3
The mouths of wise men call to us:
"A multitude of worlds dwell there,
Among them burning suns untold,
And peoples, and the wheel of time:
There, all of nature's strength
Exists God's glory to proclaim"
4
But where, O nature, is your law?
Dawn breaks from out of northern lands!
Is this the home of our sun's throne?
Or are the icy oceans burning?
Behold, cold fire envelops us!
Behold, now day has entered night.
5
O thou, whose lively gaze can see
Into the book of law eternal,
For whom the smallest part of things
Reveals the code in all of nature,
Thou comprehendeth planets' course,
Now tell us what disturbs our souls?
6
Why do these bright rays sparkle in the night?
Why does fine flame assault the land?
Without a thundercloud can lightning
Rise from the earth up toward the heavens?
How can it be that frozen steam
Gives birth to fire from winter's depths?
7
There, oily darkness battles water,
Or rays of sunlight sparkle bright,
Bend toward us through the thickened air;
Or do the peaks of stout hills glow,
Or have the sea winds ceased their song,
And smooth waves struck the space.
8
Regarding what lies right before us
Thine answer's full of doubts
O, tell us, how enormous is the world?
What lies beyond the smallest stars?
Are thou aware of all creation's end?
Tell us, how great is our Creator?
-
A grain of sand in ocean swells,
A tiny glint in endless ice,
Fine ash caught in a mighty gale,
A feather in a raging fire,
So I am lost in this abyss,
Oppressed by thoughts profound.
Oh, my, wouldn't that make you feel tiny and insignificant?
-
To ***
~ A. Pushkin
I still remember that amazing moment
You have appeared before my sight
As though a brief and fleeting omen,
Pure phantom in enchanting light.
Locked in depression's hopeless captive,
In haste of clamorous processions,
I heard your voice-- soft and attractive.
And dreamt of your beloved expressions.
Time passed. In gusts, rebellious and active,
A tempest scattered my affections
And I forgot your voice attractive,
Your sacred and divine expressions.
Detained in darkness, isolation,
My days would slowly drag in strife.
With lack of faith and inspiration,
With lack of tears, and love and life.
My soul attained its waking moment:
You re-appeared before my sight,
As though a brief and fleeting omen,
Pure phantom in enchanting light.
And now, my heart, in fascination
Beats rapidly and finds revived:
Devout faith and inspiration,
And tender tears and love and life.
-
Hmm. This example of Pushkin didn't seem to work as well as the others. Was it the same translator, I wonder. Some of the lines seemed
unclear or awkward. "Locked in depression's hopeless captive" ?
That doesn't really make sense; I suspect it's just a poor translation.
Here's a short poem from Robert Frost that I found refreshing:
Dust of Snow
The way a crow
Shook down on me
A dust of snow
From a hemlock tree
Has given my heart
A change of mood
And saved some part
Of a day I had rued.
-
First Babi I love the Frost poem I remember the first time I read it I smiled, almost laughed because my back yard year round is filled with birds BUT in winter without the leaves to hide them I remember when like fluffy balls of color they waited in the trees for me to open my window and toss seed upon the ground and smooth a place at my window sill and cover it with seed and bits of bread ...I was glad to help them but they gave me the better gift..
All of the poems and discussions of the sadness of Haiti is so moving and the poems written about human tragedy was so moving...many of the poems spoke of places that could not be kept from Natures fury and I am moved by the output of help to those who were in its way ..but the sad thing to me is the help only comes when Nature throws a tantrum
History is FILLED with human cruelty and I often wonder why so many are never addressed unless the ones who have been mistreated rise up ...and when Nature throws a dagger at us we do Is it because inside we really think there but for the Grace of GOd go I? Then we move to help...but why not before?
I am sitting here recovering from bronchitis and thank GOD for medicine that makes it less painful and shorter to heal I wish I had a poem to share but the many here do serve a purpose IT MAKES ONE THINK GOD BLESS .. anna
-
ANNA, I think we've all asked ourselves these questions...and long ago
given up belief that we can change the world. A line of scripture once
caught my eye and gave me serious thought. Jesus said, "It needs must be that evils come." Why?
After long thought, I came to the conclusion that if there were no evils
in the world, there would be no choices to be made. It's easy to be 'good' if there are no other options. The only way we can discover
who we are, the only way we can gain any merit in the way we live, is
by choosing the good over the evil. Moses told his people, "Choose this day whom you will serve.." It must be our choice.
-
I don't want to miss a thing
~ Aerosmith
I could stay awake just to hear you breathing
Watch you smile while you are sleeping
While you're far away dreaming
I could spend my life in this sweet surrender
I could stay lost in this moment forever
Every moment spent with you is a moment I treasure
Don't want to close my eyes
I don't want to fall asleep
Cause I'd miss you baby
And I don't want to miss a thing
Cause even when I dream of you
The sweetest dream will never do
I'd still miss you baby
And I don't want to miss a thing
Lying close to you feeling your heart beating
And I'm wondering what you're dreaming
Wondering if it's me you're seeing
Then I kiss your eyes
And thank God we're together
I just want to stay with you in this moment forever
Forever and ever
I don't want to miss one smile
I don't want to miss one kiss
I just want to be with you
Right here with you, just like this
I just want to hold you close
Feel your heart so close to mine
And just stay here in this moment
For all the rest of time
-
Love's Philosophy
~ P. Shelly
The fountains mingle with river
And the rivers with the ocean
The winds of Heaven mix forever
With a sweet emotion.
Nothing in the world is single
All things by a Law divine
In one spirit meet and mingle
Why not I with thine?
See the mountains kiss high heaven
And the waves clasp one another
No sister flower would be forgiven
If it had stained its brother.
And the sunlight clasps the Earth
And the Moon beams kiss the sea
What is all this sweet work worth
If thou kiss not me?
-
A.C. Пушкин
~by Alexandr Pushkin
I have loved you; even now I may confess,
Some embers of my love their fire retain
but do not let it cause you more distress,
I do not want to sadden you again.
Hopeless and tonguetied, yet, I loved you dearly
With pangs the jealous and the timid know;
So tenderly I loved you- so sincerely;
I pray God grant another love you so.
-
Babi good thinking..and Barbara I love the poems you posted The Shelly poem is one I have always loved IN reading some poems tonight I came across one to share...
The Snow Man
One must have a mind of winter
To regard the frost and the boughs
Of the pine-trees crusted with snow;
And have been cold a long time
To behold the junipers shagged with ice,
The spruces rough in the distant glitter
Of the January sun and not to think
Of any misery in the sound of the wind,
IN the sound of a few leaves,
Which is the sound of the land
Full of the same wind
That is blowing in the same bare place
For the listener , who listens in the snow,
And, nothing himself , beholds
Nothing that is not there and the nothing that is.
WALLACE STEVENS
1879-1955
-
Shelly's poEM is lovely, BARB, but I suspect is motives are not pure.
Sounds like a seduction to me. ;)
-
Ah Seduction / a word unknown to me when first I read that poem I thought it was a plea to a woman he wanted to marry ...a way of telling her how special she was...I guess I will have to read his biography !
-
Ah since I read his biography and found that Mary Shelley was his second wife after his first wife committed suicide due to the
affair,,,
I read one of his poems written to Mary after they married and there seems to be an old fashioned word to describe how Percy felt about MARY BESOTTEN hope that is spelled right...
-
(http://seniorlearn.org/bookclubs/poetry/poetrywinter09.jpg) A Tray of Decorative Carved-Wood Cardinal-Birds Pull up a chair and Join us for...Winter Poetry- Famous Poets and Poems about Winter (http://famouspoetsandpoems.com/thematic_poems/winter_poems.html)
- Winter Poems (http://poetry.about.com/od/ourpoemcollections/a/winterpoems.htm)
Discussion Leaders: Barb (augere@ix.netcom.com) & fairanna (fairanna@verizon.net) |
A Red, Red Rose
~Robert Burns
O MY Luve 's like a red, red rose
That 's newly sprung in June:
O my Luve 's like the melodie
That's sweetly play'd in tune!
As fair art thou, my bonnie lass,
So deep in luve am I:
And I will luve thee still, my dear,
Till a' the seas gang dry:
Till a' the seas gang dry, my dear,
And the rocks melt wi' the sun;
I will luve thee still, my dear,
While the sands o' life shall run.
And fare thee weel, my only Luve,
And fare thee weel a while!
And I will come again, my Luve,
Tho' it were ten thousand mile.
|
-
When all around grew drear and dark
- Lord George Gordon Byron
When all around grew drear and dark,
And reason half withheld her ray -
And hope but shed a dying spark
Which more misled my lonely way;
In that deep midnight of the mind,
And that internal strife of heart,
When dreading to be deemed too kind,
The weak despair -the cold depart;
When fortune changed -and love fled far,
And hatred's shafts flew thick and fast,
Thou wert the solitary star
Which rose, and set not to the last.
Oh, blest be thine unbroken light!
That watched me as a seraph's eye,
And stood between me and the night,
For ever shining sweetly nigh.
And when the cloud upon us came,
Which strove to blacken o'er thy ray -
Then purer spread its gentle flame,
And dashed the darkness all away.
Still may thy spirit dwell on mine,
And teach it what to brave or brook -
There's more in one soft word of thine
Than in the world's defied rebuke.
Thou stood'st as stands a lovely tree
That, still unbroke though gently bent,
Still waves with fond fidelity
Its boughs above a monument.
The winds might rend, the skies might pour,
But there thou wert -and still wouldst be
Devoted in the stormiest hour
To shed thy weeping leaves o'er me.
But thou and thine shall know no blight,
Whatever fate on me may fall;
For heaven in sunshine will requite
The kind -and thee the most of all.
Then let the ties of baffled love
Be broken -thine will never break;
Thy heart can feel -but will not move;
Thy soul, though soft, will never shake.
And these, when all was lost beside,
Were found, and still are fixed in thee;-
And bearing still a breast so tried,
Earth is no desert -e'en to me.
-
She walks in Beauty
Lord George Gordon Byron 1788–1824
SHE walks in beauty, like the night
Of cloudless climes and starry skies;
And all that 's best of dark and bright
Meet in her aspect and her eyes:
Thus mellow'd to that tender light
Which heaven to gaudy day denies.
One shade the more, one ray the less,
Had half impair'd the nameless grace
Which waves in every raven tress,
Or softly lightens o'er her face;
Where thoughts serenely sweet express
How pure, how dear their dwelling-place.
And on that cheek, and o'er that brow,
So soft, so calm, yet eloquent,
The smiles that win, the tints that glow,
But tell of days in goodness spent,
A mind at peace with all below,
A heart whose love is innocent!
-
I would dearly love to know who earned that magnificent praise in
Byron's poem "When all around grew drear and dark".
"And teach it what to brave or brook". That's one of the hardest things to judge, isn't it? When to stand against something and
when to let it go.
"She Walks in Beauty" was a favorite of my Dad's. He said it described my Mother. She was a gentle and calm woman. We lost her when I was only thirteen, before I could really come to know her as a person other than 'Mama'.
-
It is fun finding these classics all about love -
Oh, when I was in love with you...
~ Alfred Edward Housman
Oh, when I was in love with you,
Then I was clean and brave,
And miles around the wonder grew
How well did I behave.
And now the fancy passes by,
And nothing will remain,
And miles around they'll say that I
Am quite my self again.
-
Eulalie
- Edgar Allen Poe
I dwelt alone
In a world of moan
And my soul was a stagnant tide
Till the fair and gentle Eulalie
became my blushing bride-
Till the yellow-haired young Eulalie
became my smiling bride.
Ah, less-- less bright
Are the stars of night
Than the eyes of the radiant girl!
And never a flake
That the vapor can make
With the moon-tints of purple and pearl,
Can vie with the modest Eulalie's
most unregarded curl-
Can compare with the bright-eyed Eulalie's
most humble and careless curl.
Now Doubt-- now Pain
Come never again,
For her soul gives me sigh for sigh
And all day long
Shines, bright and strong,
Astarte within the sky,
While ever to her dear Eulalie
upturns her matron eye-
While ever to her young Eulalie
upturns her violet eye.
-
Housman's poem gave me a big smile. ;D Much appreciated.
-
How Do I Love Thee?
Elizabeth Barrett Browning -
How do I love thee? Let me count the ways.
I love thee to the depth and breadth and height
My soul can reach, when feeling out of sight
For the ends of Being and ideal Grace.
I love thee to the level of every day's
Most quiet need, by sun and candlelight.
I love thee freely, as men strive for Right,
I love thee purely, as they turn from Praise
I love with a passion put to use
In my old griefs, and with my childhood's faith.
I love thee with a love I semed to lose
With my lost saints, - I love thee with the breath,
Smiles, tears, of all my life! - and, if God choose,
I shall but love thee better after death.
-
William Shakespeare - Sonnet 116
Let me not to the marriage of true minds
Admit impediments. Love is not love
Which alters when it alteration finds,
Or bends with the remover to remove:
O no! it is an ever-fixed mark
That looks on tempests and is never shaken;
It is the star to every wandering bark,
Whose worth's unknown, although his height be taken.
Love's not Time's fool, though rosy lips and cheeks
-
Ahhh,....back to the classics! Unfortunately, BARB, the sonnet got
chopped off. Here's a re-do.
SONNET 116
Let me not to the marriage of true minds
Admit impediments. Love is not love
Which alters when it alteration finds,
Or bends with the remover to remove:
O no! it is an ever-fixed mark
That looks on tempests and is never shaken;
It is the star to every wandering bark,
Whose worth's unknown, although his height be taken.
Love's not Time's fool, though rosy lips and cheeks
Within his bending sickle's compass come:
Love alters not with his brief hours and weeks,
But bears it out even to the edge of doom.
If this be error and upon me proved,
I never writ, nor no man ever loved.
-
This is a little counterweight to Valentine's Day, at least at our house.
Sunday Afternoon
The snow is falling, and the world is calm.
The flakes are light but they cool the world
As they fall. and add to the calm of the house.
It's Sunday afternoon and I am reading
Longinus while the Super Bowl is on.
The snow is falling and the world is calm.
Robert Bly, obviously not a rabid football fan. Okay, who is Longinus, Ginny?
-
My daughter tells a story of her high school English class at a Catholic school where the students had been charged with memorizing How Do i Love Thee. the nun was pointing at each student to say the next couple of lines until she got to one who must have given the poem a very cursory readin, and replied: I love thee with a passion put to use in my old briefs. the class howled of course, but Sister turned purple .
-
Thanks for redoing Shakespeare - I didn't even read what I posted and so I missed when I copied and pasted that I chopped it off - thanks.
Funny - Someone else could get away with mixing up the sentence but we do carry around pictures in our heads don't we of how someone in various life experiences is supposed to act.
Another funny is Robert Bly who is hooking us with what has become our penchant to snobbery - because that is what we are as we elevate various spectator forms of entertainment by downplaying others. Longinus, an early Greek wrote a book on writing entitled On the Sublime where he says there are 5 sources of sublime language even going on about how the Odyssey is greater than the Iliad. How about that for snobbery... ;)
-
A quote for you, BARB, from Peter Ustinov...
"Laughter would be bereaved if snobbery died."
-
;) :D ::) Yes, I get a kick out of it Babi as we are all snobs in one way or another aren't we... :-*
-
A DREAM WITHIN A DREAM
- Edgar Allen Poe
Take this kiss upon the brow!
And, in parting from you now,
Thus much let me avow:
You are not wrong who deem
That my days have been a dream;
Yet if hope has flown away
In a night, or in a day,
In a vision, or in none,
Is it therefore the less gone?
All that we see or seem
Is but a dream within a dream.
I stand amid the roar
Of a surf-tormented shore,
And I hold within my hand
Grains of the golden sand--
How few! yet how they creep
Through my fingers to the deep,
While I weep--while I weep!
O God! can I not grasp
Them with a tighter clasp?
O God! can I not save
One from the pitiless wave?
Is all that we see or seem
But a dream within a dream?
-
sometimes a poem can be prophetic and I wrote a short one that certainly became one ...our neighborhood has a monthly newsletter and I was asked to write a poem..as you can see by the date it was BEFORE 8 inches of snow covered everything where I live,,,some areas even had even more but none has less than five...just before we enjoyed a JANUARY THAW but I didnt believe it would last...
A JANUARY THAW DELUDES US
MAKES US THINK THAT SPRING IS NEAR
WINTER SMILES AT OUR BELIEF
WITH A ROAR HE TELLS US I AM HERE !
IF SPRING THINKS SHE CAN ARRIVE
BEFORE I DECIDE TO LEAVE....
SHE WILL SOON WHIMPER AND BID GOODBYE
HER HELLO DELAYED WHILE .........I AM STILL ALIVE!
anna alexander 1/21/2010
-
Wonderful - Great - I love it - it brings a smile to my face with the irony that winter is providing this year. Good show fairanna :-*
-
What a sad poem, the 'Dream Within a Dream'. I find myself longing to
comfort him like a child.
IF SPRING THINKS SHE CAN ARRIVE
BEFORE I DECIDE TO LEAVE....
Why does that sound to me like a couple quarreling? ;)
-
BABI now your comment made me smile ...I guess we could consider the seasons related But I would think of them as siblings Winter being a brother and spring a sister but what does that leave for summer and autumn ? the snow is melted today but more is possible or even worse ICE oooh hmmmm three sisters and one brother ? that I can see....anna
-
A love poem
I CRAVE YOUR MOUTH, YOUR VOICE , YOUR HAIR
DON'T GO FAR OFF , NOT EVEN FOR A DAY
Don't go far off, not even for a day, because-
because--I don't know how to say it ; a day is long
and I will be waiting for you, as in an empty station
when the trains are parked of somewhere else , asleep.
Don;t leave me , ever for an hour, because
then the little drops of anguish will all run together,
the smoke that roams looking for a home will drift
into me, choking my lost heart.
Oh, may your silhouette never dissolve on the beach;
may your eyelids never flutter into the empy distance.
Don't leave me for a second, my dearest,
because in that moment you'll have gone so far
I'll wander mazily over all the earth, asking,
Will you come back? Will you leave me here, dying?
Pablo Neruda
I looked in my book of Pablo Neruda and did not find this poem so I have no idea what mazily means but I do love this poem
Pablo Neruda
-
Fairanna the on-line dictionary says: Resembling a maze, as in design or complexity; labyrinthine, like a maze; wandering; bewildering.
-
The Passionate Shepherd to His Love
~ Christopher Marlowe (1598)
Come live with me and be my love,
And we will all the pleasures prove
That valleys, groves, hills, and fields,
Woods or steepy mountain yields.
And we will sit upon the rocks,
Seeing the shepherds feed their flocks,
By shallow rivers to whose falls
Melodious birds sing madrigals.
And I will make thee beds of roses
And a thousand fragrant posies,
A cap of flowers, and a kirtle
Embroidered all with leaves of myrtle;
A gown made of the finest wool
Which from our pretty lambs we pull;
Fair lined slippers for the cold,
With buckles of th purest gold;
A belt of straw and ivy buds,
With coral clasps and amber studs:
And if these pleasures may thee move,
Come live with me and be my love.
The shepherds’ swains shall dance and sing
For thy delight each May morning:
If these delights thy mind may move,
Then live with me and be my love.
-
Barb another one of my favorite poems I once wrote
Come live with me and be my love
Was not written by me
But I hope the receiver of the poem
Did to that plea accede!
-
Poetry
My library f2f book group, since Valentine's Day is imminent, chose to do Poetry for our February reading! I just want to tell you, that poetry and love for it is not dead! We had 13 people attend, which is amazing. The format was: Bring your favorite poem or two, bring a poem you have written. These will be read aloud and discussed briefly, not in any academic way of course! I can't begin to tell you what a hit this was, and since we had such wonderful response, our librarian group leader has said that we might do it again this year! As for the menu, we had e.e.cummings (twice) Carl Sandburg; Edna St. Vincent Millay; Kay Ryan; 4 people read their own poems, or ones written by a family member; plus there were others that I had not heard of, or poems that we knew most of the lines of; (leave it to me to forget the poets' names). But, wow. we were all so uplifted and most lingered on past our appointed hour, to chat and rehash. If you are in a f2f group, you might give this a try. It goes without saying that not specified, short poems were in order rather than epic odes!
-
Great tomereader - it is always nice to have an unexpected success and it appears reading poems was just that for your group - whatever in the world is f2f - I am assuming it is initials standing for something but have no clue what...HELP!
-
Southern Song
~ by Margaret Walker (1915-1998)
I want my body bathed again by southern suns, my soul
reclaimed again from southern land. I want to rest
again in southern fields, in grass and hay and clover
bloom; to lay my hand again upon the clay baked by a
southern sun, to touch the rain-soaked earth and smell
the smell of soil.
I want my rest unbroken in the fields of southern earth;
freedom to watch the corn wave silver in the sun and
mark the splashing of a brook, a pond with ducks and
frogs and count the clouds.
I want no mobs to wrench me from my southern rest; no
forms to take me in the night and burn my shack and
make for me a nightmare full of oil and flame.
I want my careless song to strike no minor key; no fiend to
stand between my body's soutnern song--the fusion of
the South, my body's song and me.
-
Song of the Moon
~ by Claude McKay (1891-1948)
The moonlight breaks upon the city's domes,
And falls along cemented steel and stone,
Upon the grayness of a million homes,
Lugubrious in unchanging monotone.
Upon the clothes behind the tenement,
That hang like ghosts suspended from the lines,
Linking each flat to each indifferent,
Incongruous and strange the moonlight shines.
There is no magic from your presence here,
Ho, moon, sad moon, tuck up your trailing robe,
Whose silver seems antique and so severe
Against the glow of one electric globe.
Go spill your beauty on the laughing faces
Of happy flowers that bloom a thousand hues,
Waiting on tiptoe in the wilding spaces,
To drink your wine mixed with sweet drafts of dews.
-
Barb, the Marlowe poem is an old favorite. But Margaret Walker is new
to me and I found her poem very moving. Thanks for the introduction.
Here's a Carl Sandburg I hadn't read before, and it's a somewhat different
love poem.
Gone
by Carl Sandburg
Everybody loved Chick Lorimer in our town,
Far off
Everybody loved her.
So we all love a wild girl keeping a hold
On a dream she wants.
Nobody knows now where Chick Lorimer went.
Nobody knows why she packed her trunk.
A few old things... and is gone.
One with her little chin
Thrust ahead of her
And her soft hair blowing careless
From under a wide hat,
Dancer, singer, a laughing passionate lover.
Were there ten men or a hundred hunting Chick?
Were there five men or fifty with aching hearts?
Everybody loved Chick Lorimer.
Nobody knows where she's gone.
-
f2f = face to face ! It took me awhile to get that one too, Barb.
-
THE SNOW IS SNOWING THE WIND IS BLOWING AND I COULD WEATHER THE STORM IF ONLY I HAD MY LOVE TO KEEP ME WARM OF COURSE THOSE ARE NOT THE WORDS BUT WOW IT HAS BEEN TEN YEARS SINCE WE HAVE HAD THIS KIND OF WEATHER AND NORTH OF US AND WHERE MY DAUGHTER LIVES NEAR CHARLOTTESVILLE VA IT IS OVER TWO FEET AND PUSHING TOWARD 3 THANK GOODNESS THE ELECTRIC IS STILL ON AND THE PHONE WORKING BUT THEY HAVE TO KEEP CLEARING AREAS ON THE FRONT PORCH ( IN A SMALL COVERED AREA ) AND THE OPEN DECK FOR THE ANIMALS TO GO OUTSIDE...THANKS FOR THE INTRODUCTION TO THE SOUTHERN AUTHORS AND THE CARL SANDBURG ONE OF HIS POEMS I HAVE MISSED I AM DOING A LOT OF READING AND MOST OF IT POETRY BECAUSE POETRY CAN TAKE ME PLACES I HAVE NEVER BEEN OR BACK TO PLACES AND FEELINGS THAT ONCE WERE MINE...SINCE THESE STORMS SEEM TO BE IN CALIFORNIA FIRST AND THEN SPREAD ACROSS COUNTRY I AM PRAYING ALL ARE WELL AND LIKE ME READY TO WELCOME MORE SPRING LIKE WEATHER ...GOD LOVE YOU ALL ...ANNA
-
Watching the snow today I was moved to write
I have no title so...
I love snow...the first flakes
drifting down, from overburdened clouds.
Gently laying down upon the exposed ground..
carefully filling the arms of trees ...'
with blossoms out of season.
They smile at me across the yard..
dried hydrangeas left unpicked..
now are full of huge , puffy blooms.
White and lovely, even nore than
summer blooms...these remain unpicked..
bouquets for winter days.
Birds fill my winter yard with their bright colors..
Pecking at seed I have left for them,
My dogs, unused to snow, wonder
what is going on when covered with
a cloak of snow flakes, need to rely
on me--to wipe them away with a warm towel.
The streets look smooth and white..
Brave souls leave behind runs of black,
in the snow stockings of the road.
I love snow,,,,,but only for a short time.
When it starts to melt and leaves behind ..
Broken limbs and downed trees,
when my snow shovel weighted with
flakes , suddenly heavy, aches my arms and back.
Somewhere deep inside I feel torn......
To LOVE Something so dear...
ONLY when it arrives and SO GLAD to see it go......
anna alexander 2/6/2010 5:57 PM ©
..
-
This is really so long, but Russian children used to have to memorize it/ It is supposed to give you a glimpse of a Russian woman's soul.
In Pushkin's poem, Tatiana was 17, Onegin, in his thirties.
TATIANA'S LETTER TO ONEGIN
I write to you - what else is there?
What else, what more may I attempt?
I know, now it's only fair
To keep my poor heart in contempt.
For the despondent fate of mine,
And saving empathy's warm tot,
You won't forsake me, you will not!
At first, I wanted to be mute;
Trust me that nothing of my shame
Would see the light of public fame,
If you would seldom, once a week,
Stop by the house of a lonely geek;
To only hear a familiar voice,
To say a word to you, rejoice,
Think more and more of still the same,
And hope that you will come again.
But people say that you're a loner,
That our village you can't bear,
And we don't shine, but for a scorner,
We're simply glad when you are there.
Why did you ever visit us?
In a cloister of a forgotten place
I'd never make that foolish fuss,
I'd never learn that bitter taste.
I would arrest in time (who knows?)
Disquiet of my naif soul,
Find a companion to my heart,
And bear well my spousal part,
Be a good mother, all in all.
Another! No, I can award
with love no one in universe!
It was imparted by the lords,
the will of Heaven: I am yours;
My life was nothing but a gage
Of our gathering ahead.
You will destroy my somber cage,
By a deific precept you've been lead..
In dreams I see, you never fade,
Unknown, already my sweetheart:
Your staring glance my soul would lade,
Your wondrous voice would cheer my heart.
All gone... no, that was not a dream!
I knew it when you stepped inside,
I couldn't move, I couldn't hide
My thoughts. My heart would scream: it's him!
Before I've heard you, haven't I?
Your voice did quell me from the still
When soothe the poor I may have tried,
Or in a pray have pacified
The stirred yearning that I feel.
And have you, in a second's split,
My dear ghost, my love's heartbeat,
Not sneaked in limpidness of night,
And angled stilly to my bed?
Then, led by love and by delight,
the words of promise have you said?
Who are you, my divine defender
Or my iniquitous pretender:
Absolve my doubts, all at once,
All that is maybe just in vain,
The vestal soul's enticed pain,
And for us, there's not a chance..
My lot is such! Away, my fears!
My fate is now in your hands,
In front of you I shed my tears:
In plea for your defense I'm bent
You just imagine, I'm alone,
Nobody understands me here,
My mind's unalterably drawn:
I'll calmly die and disappear.
I wait for you: in a single gleam
Revive the hopes of my heart,
Or break the ropes of a heavy dream
With a reproach in my regard!
I finish... fear to re-read...
With shame and dread I will retreat.
Your honor is my only bond, -
To it my fate I boldly fund...
Translated by Boris Leyvi
-
Poor Timing
By Phyllis McGinley
I sing Saint Valentine, his day,
I spread abroad his rumor--
A gentleman, it’s safe to say
Who owned a sense of humor.
Most practical of jokers, he,
Who bade sweethearts make merry,
With flowers and birds and amorous words,
In the month of February.
The antic, frantic,
Unromantic
Middle of February.
Now Arpil weather’s fine and fair
For love to get a start in.
And May abets a willing pair,
And June you lose your heart in.
There’s many a month when wooing seems
Both suitable and proper.
But the mating call unseasonable
Is bound to come a cropper.
When blizzards rage with might and main,
And a man’s best friend’s his muffler,
Pity the February swain,
That sentimental snuffler.
Whose soul must surge, whose pulse must throb
With passionate cadenza,
When he yearns instead for a cozy bed
Alone with influenza.
When winds blow up and snow comes down
And the whole gray world seems horrider,
And every lass that sulks in town
Thinks wistfully of Florida,
Pity the chapped and wintry maid
Who’d trade the arms that clasped her in
For Vitamin A and a nasal spray
And maybe a bottle of aspirin.
Who wants to bill, who cares to coo,
Who longs for cherry-chopping?
When noses are red and fingers blue
And the hemoglobin’s dropping?
Let summer lovers droop and pine,
Let springtime hearts be airy,
I wouldn’t be anyone’s Valentine
In the month of February.
The spare-able, terrible
Quite unbearable
Middle of February
-
Brave souls leave behind runs of black,
in the snow stockings of the road.
Fairanna, what an imaginative image. You have such a wonderful way of
seeing things most of us don't even notice.
To LOVE Something so dear...
ONLY when it arrives and SO GLAD to see it go......
I think we all know what that feels like.
Geek? Was geek even a word when Pushkin wrote this poem? I suppose
it must have been a modern translation of the original Russian word.
I loved the McGinley poem. I'm not familiar with her as a poet. Are all her poems humorous?
-
My Russian friend gave a scathing criticism of that translation! Said it was the worst she had ever read. She recited the whole thing in Russian, and I have to admit it sounded a lot better. We both wondered where the heck he came up with geek! She gave me an old Penguin paperback copy of Eugene Onegin, and it was so much better, absolutely beautiful.
I took the bad translation from a website that is supposed to help Russians living in American to maintain their traditions. Evidently under the czarist regime there was a holy day in honor of St. Tatiana, some martyr in the early orthodox church. the students of Russia adopted her as their patron and every year on St. Tatiana's Day they would parade around the streets, cutting classes and drinking beer. some of the professors would join in. The Soviet Union outlawede it, but since their demise, it has been somewhat revived. Anyway, my apoligies for the horrible translation, to all of you and to Pushkin, and Tatiana.
Phyllis McGinley was popular in the 50's, not a great poet, but great fun. Her collection that I have is called A Pocket Full of Wry, and it might still be around on used book sites.
-
Somenow, in January, i hibernate. Turn off the brain, lie in bed, sloth-like, and read only fluff. But February, month of my birth, seems more alive, the winter angst is fading as the light clears away the fog in my brain. Here it is said better than i can:
February
by Margaret Atwood
Winter. Time to eat fat
and watch hockey. In the pewter mornings, the cat,
a black fur sausage with yellow
Houdini eyes, jumps up on the bed and tries
to get onto my head. It’s his
way of telling whether or not I’m dead.
If I’m not, he wants to be scratched; if I am
He’ll think of something. He settles
on my chest, breathing his breath
of burped-up meat and musty sofas,
purring like a washboard. Some other tomcat,
not yet a capon, has been spraying our front door,
declaring war. It’s all about sex and territory,
which are what will finish us off
in the long run. Some cat owners around here
should snip a few testicles. If we wise
hominids were sensible, we’d do that too,
or eat our young, like sharks.
But it’s love that does us in. Over and over
again, He shoots, he scores! and famine
crouches in the bedsheets, ambushing the pulsing
eiderdown, and the windchill factor hits
thirty below, and pollution pours
out of our chimneys to keep us warm.
February, month of despair,
with a skewered heart in the centre.
I think dire thoughts, and lust for French fries
with a splash of vinegar.
Cat, enough of your greedy whining
and your small pink bumhole.
Off my face! You’re the life principle,
more or less, so get going
on a little optimism around here.
Get rid of death. Celebrate increase. Make it be spring.
My neutered black cat's name is Beastie; he is a clown.
-
February
February knows his fortune well,
Even in the bitterness of dawn
Breaking in the coldest hour of hell,
Revealing but the worst that must be borne.
Underneath the ice the passions sleep
Ablaze with all the beauty of their burning,
Rendering a richness that will keep
Yet warm within the cavern of his yearning.
© Nicholas Gordon
-
"Pocket Full of Wry". What a great title! Perfectly suited to Phyllis
McGinley.
"pewter mornings". Exactly, JACKIE. Sunshine is such a delightful rarity these days I always rush to open the blinds at the first ray. Then I take a
moment or two to just absorb.
The February poem tempted me to try an 'April'. I squelched the
notion firmly. (No need to thank me; I do recognize what I owe my friends. ) :-X
-
Margaret Atwoods poem is great, cats in all their lovliness and terribleness. What is it about Canadian women authors, there are so many great ones, the late Mavis Gallant ane Carol shields; Atwood, Allice Munroe, must be the cold weather up there!
"The Rose"
Some say love, it is a river
that drowns the tender reed.
Some say love, it is a razor
that leaves your soul to bleed.
Some say love, it is a hunger,
an endless aching need.
I say love, it is a flower,
and you its only seed.
It's the heart afraid of breaking
that never learns to dance.
It's the dream afraid of waking
that never takes the chance.
It's the one who won't be taken,
who cannot seem to give,
and the soul afraid of dyin'
that never learns to live.
When the night has been too lonely
and the road has been to long,
and you think that love is only
for the lucky and the strong,
just remember in the winter
far beneath the bitter snows
lies the seed that with the sun's love
in the spring becomes the rose.
Bette Midler, did she write it or just sing it?
-
(http://seniorlearn.org/bookclubs/poetry/poetrywinter09.jpg) A Tray of Decorative Carved-Wood Cardinal-Birds Pull up a chair and Join us for...Winter Poetry- Famous Poets and Poems about Winter (http://famouspoetsandpoems.com/thematic_poems/winter_poems.html)
- Winter Poems (http://poetry.about.com/od/ourpoemcollections/a/winterpoems.htm)
Discussion Leaders: Barb (augere@ix.netcom.com) & fairanna (fairanna@verizon.net) |
A Red, Red Rose
~Robert Burns
O MY Luve 's like a red, red rose
That 's newly sprung in June:
O my Luve 's like the melodie
That's sweetly play'd in tune!
As fair art thou, my bonnie lass,
So deep in luve am I:
And I will luve thee still, my dear,
Till a' the seas gang dry:
Till a' the seas gang dry, my dear,
And the rocks melt wi' the sun;
I will luve thee still, my dear,
While the sands o' life shall run.
And fare thee weel, my only Luve,
And fare thee weel a while!
And I will come again, my Luve,
Tho' it were ten thousand mile.
|
(http://www.countrymanordesigns.com/dividertransparentfloral1.gif)
Thank youBellemere for quoting the words to that lovely song! I cry everytime I hear it. Believe I will print out your post so I will have the words at hand. I know I have written them down somewhere, but, alas, who knows where?
-
bellemere; Goose pimples!
-
We had a guest once, a young friend of my son's from Germany. He sat at the piano and played and sang The Rose so many times, Iwas ready to hogtie him and ship him back on the next plane to Munich. But it is captivating. My 16 year old granddaugher has a voice that is truly a gift, and she sometimes sings at weddings in her town. Gets a lot of requests for The Rose.
I leave for Mexico on Wednesday, back in three weeks, will be checking the site at Internet Cafes to see what else you can do with making February poetic!
-
Here is one for you Bellemere - Poetry of Henry Wadsworth Longfellow
THE BELLS OF SAN BLAS
What say the Bells of San Blas
To the ships that southward pass
From the harbor of Mazatlan?
To them it is nothing more
Than the sound of surf on the shore,--
Nothing more to master or man.
But to me, a dreamer of dreams,
To whom what is and what seems
Are often one and the same,--
The Bells of San Blas to me
Have a strange, wild melody,
And are something more than a name.
For bells are the voice of the church;
They have tones that touch and search
The hearts of young and old;
One sound to all, yet each
Lends a meaning to their speech,
And the meaning is manifold.
They are a voice of the Past,
Of an age that is fading fast,
Of a power austere and grand,
When the flag of Spain unfurled
Its folds o'er this western world,
And the Priest was lord of the land.
The chapel that once looked down
On the little seaport town
Has crumbled into the dust;
And on oaken beams below
The bells swing to and fro,
And are green with mould and rust.
"Is, then, the old faith dead,"
They say, "and in its stead
Is some new faith proclaimed,
That we are forced to remain
Naked to sun and rain,
Unsheltered and ashamed?
"Once, in our tower aloof,
We rang over wall and roof
Our warnings and our complaints;
And round about us there
The white doves filled the air,
Like the white souls of the saints.
"The saints! Ah, have they grown
Forgetful of their own?
Are they asleep, or dead,
That open to the sky
Their ruined Missions lie,
No longer tenanted?
"Oh, bring us back once more
The vanished days of yore,
When the world with faith was filled;
Bring back the fervid zeal,
The hearts of fire and steel,
The hands that believe and build.
"Then from our tower again
We will send over land and main
Our voices of command,
Like exiled kings who return
To their thrones, and the people learn
That the Priest is lord of the land!"
O Bells of San Blas in vain
Ye call back the Past again;
The Past is deaf to your prayer!
Out of the shadows of night
The world rolls into light;
It is daybreak everywhere.
-
Thread in a Spider's Web
~ by Coral Bracho [translated poem]
A little stream, drawn by the magnets of air and light,
and flowing like time, like copper forming,
is the thread
in a spider's web. Pools of silver shimmer
from one leaf to another, from one path trodden
to another on the soft ground. I see you go across,
over there,
between two lines. ‘I love him',
I say.
The little stream forks; flows between
two possibilities.
Its thread is in thrall to this sea of light,
this liquid,
coursing. This water makes the evening sing, heady
and drunk. Its fire flows
on into the east forever. Held in the sun's
fine balance
I think of you.
-
Marks of Time
~ by Mexican Poet Coral Bracho
Between wind and dark,
between a rush of joy
yet deepest calm,
between my lovely white dress flying
and the dark, dark hole of the mine,
are my father's eyes, so gentle, waiting; his dancing
happiness. I go to meet him. This is a land
of little stars, of pyrite crystals,
wherever it's touched by the sunset. Clouds
of quartz, and flint, up high. His bright gaze,
all-embracing,
has the warmth of amber.
He lifts me up into his arms. He comes in close.
Our one shadow drifts over to the edge of the mine. He puts me down.
He gives me his hand.
The whole way down
is just one joy, in silence:
one dark warmth,
one richness, aglow.
Something in that quietness holds us under its wing, it protects
and uplifts us,
very softly,
as we go down.
-
I suspect, BELLE, that February is much more perfect in Mexico. :)
You know, I went to the heading and read Robert Burns poem. Of the love poems we have read, I still like it best. Old-fashioned, I know.
-
Emily Dickinson (1830–86)
Part Three: Love VII
I HIDE myself within my flower,
That wearing on your breast,
You, unsuspecting, wear me too—
And angels know the rest.
I hide myself within my flower,
That, fading from your vase,
You, unsuspecting, feel for me
Almost a loneliness.
-
Emily Dickinson (1830–86).
Part Three: Love XXIX
THE ROSE did caper on her cheek,
Her bodice rose and fell,
Her pretty speech, like drunken men,
Did stagger pitiful.
Her fingers fumbled at her work,—
Her needle would not go;
What ailed so smart a little maid
It puzzled me to know,
Till opposite I spied a cheek
That bore another rose;
Just opposite, another speech
That like the drunkard goes;
A vest that, like the bodice, danced
To the immortal tune,—
Till those two troubled little clocks
Ticked softly into one.
-
Dear Emily. She always makes me smile.
-
Given the weather reports from around the country, this seems timely:
The Snow Storm
by Edna St. Vincent Millay
No hawk hangs over in this air:
The urgent snow is everywhere.
The wing adroiter than a sail
Must lean away from such a gale,
Abandoning its straight intent,
Or else expose tough ligament
And tender flesh to what before
Meant dampened feathers, nothing more.
Forceless upon our backs there fall
Infrequent flakes hexagonal,
Devised in many a curious style
To charm our safety for a while,
Where close to earth like mice we go
Under the horizontal snow.
-
Ophelia in the River
~ by Carrie A Deveney
Leaves are falling
To cover the maiden
Whose feet quickly traverse
The wilderness
The catch in her hair
Flowing behind her like garland
In the cool wind
And, she's Ophelia as she
Splashes into the winter river
And floats downstream
Blue lips and purple rimmed eyes
She's a picture of icy beauty
As her dress drags her down to the bottom
Where she waits
A century later
To be thawed in a Spring
That never comes
-
~ By LIU ZONG-YUAN (A.D. 773-819) - was a Mid-Tang Dynasty politician and a victim of political intrigues.
River Snow
A thousand hills, but no birds in flight, ten thousand paths, with no people's tracks. A lonely boat, a straw-hatted old man, fishing alone in the cold river snow.
-
Winter in the Country
~ by Claude McKay
Sweet life! how lovely to be here
And feel the soft sea-laden breeze
Strike my flushed face, the spruce's fair
Free limbs to see, the lesser trees'
Bare hands to touch, the sparrow's cheep
To heed, and watch his nimble flight
Above the short brown grass asleep.
Love glorious in his friendly might,
Music that every heart could bless,
And thoughts of life serene, divine,
Beyond my power to express,
Crowd round this lifted heart of mine!
But oh! to leave this paradise
For the city's dirty basement room,
Where, beauty hidden from the eyes,
A table, bed, bureau, and broom
In corner set, two crippled chairs
All covered up with dust and grim
With hideousness and scars of years,
And gaslight burning weird and dim,
Will welcome me . . . And yet, and yet
This very wind, the winter birds
The glory of the soft sunset,
Come there to me in words.
-
I will assume that it is "safe" to print one's own poetry here on this site; so:
PROMISE OF A WINTER'S DAY
Above the slate-grey pall of sky,
Beyond the razored winds,
Beneath the damp that chills the bones
But not the heart
Lies Spring.
For while it sleeps and grows
In some warm place,
We shiver, full of doubt.
But hold its promise as our shield against the cold,
And wait.
Ah, it will come.
In one bright burst of blue before our eyes.
In silken gold caress of sun upon the skin.
And with the fresh, new smell of green
We will, like Spring
Be born again.
Joanne McIntyre, January 1983
-
That's lovely.
-
Thanks for sharing Joanne - I love your lines
Beyond the razored winds,
Beneath the damp that chills the bones
Babi I love the line - Where close to earth like mice we go - snow above or not to me the image is so true after you have been high in a plane and then after a certain altitude we completely disappear from view - with all our power and affect we are like mice - they can take over a kitchen and then a house effecting us with their scurry for food. To me that is similar to us as we effect the atmosphere and climate essentially in our scurry for food or the wealth to buy the food.
-
Blow, Blow, Thou Winter Wind
Blow, blow, thou winter wind
Thou art not so unkind
As man's ingratitude;
Thy tooth is not so keen,
Because thou art not seen,
Although thy breath be rude.
Heigh-ho! sing, heigh-ho! unto the green holly:
Most friendship if feigning, most loving mere folly:
Then heigh-ho, the holly!
This life is most jolly.
Freeze, freeze thou bitter sky,
That does not bite so nigh
As benefits forgot:
Though thou the waters warp,
Thy sting is not so sharp
As a friend remembered not.
Heigh-ho! sing, heigh-ho! unto the green holly:
Most friendship if feigning, most loving mere folly:
Then heigh-ho, the holly!
This life is most jolly.
-
Spellbound
~ by Emily Brontë
The night is darkening round me,
The wild winds coldly blow;
But a tyrant spell has bound me
And I cannot, cannot go.
The giant trees are bending
Their bare boughs weighed with snow.
And the storm is fast descending,
And yet I cannot go.
Clouds beyond clouds above me,
Wastes beyond wastes below;
But nothing dear can move me;
I will not, cannot go.
-
Heavy Snowfall in A Year Gone Past
~ by Laura Jensen
Heavy snowfall in a year gone past
hammered the sudden edge
of the house foundations
to a rounder world
a whiter light after the end of day.
My favorite coat, lush sable
in color, a petty fake
that warmed me to the ears
hangs after the seasons
a beaten animal grinning buttons.
It became quite real to me
and now is matted on a hook.
How far away what mattered
has flourished without me,
along the tasty road in the wood:
clark, clark, the hidden birds call
or do wrong, do wrong, someone
do wrong, snapping apples
from out in the woodside, telling
their fathers names, pie cannonrude
barkwithfist brendanbe with cherries.
It is a vast field
where snow will fall again.
Is the vast field ownership
or a presence of mind?
-
I really like that, JOANNE. Glad you decided to share it with us. I've
written three poems in my life, each under such a stimulus as made the
poem flow almost by itself. I've lost them somewhere, but I assure you
I cannot write poetry without such inspiration.
Emily Bronte's poem is a bit scary and ominous, isn't it? Well, after
all she is the author of "Wuthering Heights". I found that one too
depressing; didn't get very far with it.
I'm afraid Laura Jensen just makes me frown, wondering what on earth
she is nattering on about.
-
Joanne that is lovely and hopefully prophetic ,in the 38 years I have called this house home ...I cant recall any year when by late January the crocus hasnt spread its gold across my yard or a February when my plum tree hasnt been dressed like a debutant at a ball...all is still quiet with no promise of spring... Thankfully the day time temperature is a bit warmer but the wind is frigid to the feel and no hint of spring to the touch,,,,,
Was looking for a love poem but what I found was a poem about a love that never came.....
The Look
Stephon kissed me in the spring
Robin in the fall
But Colin only looked at me
And never kissed at all.
Stephon's kiss was lost in jest
Robin's lost in play
But the kiss in Colin's eyes
Haunts me night and day.
Sara Teasdale
Sort of makes me sad...because it is not only kisses that never happen but promises life makes that are never fulfilled...
I hope if where you live this has been a long winter that spring is near...of course sometimes spring is something to fear.... anna
-
Yes, Fairanna a long winter this year - so much that we are struggling to find winter poems - it is nice when a new season allows us to take the cream of poetry off the top - all the poems we have heard in our lifetime that where we may not know them by heart we sure recognize the words.
I keep forgetting Sandburg and here is one of his...
Winter Milk
THE MILK drops on your chin, Helga,
Must not interfere with the cranberry red of your cheeks
Nor the sky winter blue of your eyes.
Let your mammy keep hands off the chin.
This is a high holy spatter of white on the reds and blues.
Before the bottle was taken away,
Before you so proudly began today
Drinking your milk from the rim of a cup
They did not splash this high holy white on your chin.
There are dreams in your eyes, Helga.
Tall reaches of wind sweep the clear blue.
The winter is young yet, so young.
Only a little cupful of winter has touched your lips.
Drink on … milk with your lips … dreams with your eyes.
-
I thought t his was beautifully done...remember we studied her work for a month back a few years ago.
For Anna Akhmatova
February 1986, on the twentieth anniversary of her death
You, who sang so many poets
and the death of cities and the young century,
your songs have kept us awake when
we should have died.
And may i now living, listen in your release
of the mute screams of a hundred mothers,
waiting before the prison wall,
their lips gone 'blue with cold.'
What is it to endure just one winter,
the childhood willow choked in ice,
the Neva rolling on alone,
or night that teases you, but never comes?
What, to endure your own beauty?
The clap of tall black boots, not dancing naked
feet on the stairs? Your heart beating for a word?
Oh, but the long , dark cloud
--it passes. This day is reborn in your arms!
And sometime, I'll wear your profile,
like a reticent god, where trembling
you translate a different star!
~elaine maria upton
-
here is one of her poems referred to in the Anniversary poem honoring Akhrnatova
How can you bear to look at the Neva?
How can you bear to look at the Neva?
How can you bear to cross the bridges?.
Not in vain am I known as the grieving one
Since the time you appeared to me.
The black angels' wings are sharp,
Judgment Day is coming soon,
And raspberry-colored bonfires bloom,
Like roses, in the snow.
1914
~Anna Akhmatova
The Russian Revolution started in St. Petersburg located on the Neva and in 1914 the city was considered too German so its name was changed to Petrograd. St. Petersburg had been the capitol of Russia for over 200 years until the Soviets moved the capitol to Moscow to avoid anti-soviet forces near and in Petrograd.
this is copied from the Russian news site Kommersant:
In 1902 St. Petersburg celebrated the 100th anniversary of Alexander I's establishment of ministries system. In May 1903 St. Petersburg celebrated its 200th anniversary. The new Troitsky (Trinity) Bridge was officially opened in the royal presence and then a church service took place on the Senate Square next to the Bronze Horseman, the monument to the founder of the city.
The tragedy came in 1905. In January 1905 (it became known as "Bloody Sunday") a peaceful demonstration of workers was fired at by troops at the Palace Square. This led to the start of the 1905-1907 Revolution. On October 17, 1905 Nicholas II had to issue a manifesto proclaiming a number of civil rights and instituting a new parliament, consisting of the Duma and the reformed State Council. The district where the Duma was located soon became one of the most popular residential areas.
However, the government curtailed many of the freedoms and blocked many of the Duma's initiatives. In the end, the people's patience came to an end and the streets were filled with rebels. The city was renamed Petrograd and saw the two revolutions of 1917. But that happened later.
Meanwhile St. Petersburg was the shelter for many of the most prominent artists, musicians, composers, writers and poets who made this period the "Silver Age". In the poetry there appeared trends of symbolism and futurism and mystic tendencies in philosophy. The Russian Orthodox Church was preparing for recovery of patriarchate cancelled by Peter the Great. With a population of 2 million people, the modern metropolis was about to face new challenges, but the war changed all the plans
-
Crossing the Neva in Winter 1900 - 1917
http://www.nlr.ru/petersburg/spbpcards/photos/lo000000044_1_m.jpg
A later photo of the Trinity or Troitsky bridge
http://www.saint-petersburg.com/bridges/trinity-bridge.asp
-
Thanks for posting the poetry of Anna Akhmatova I have her book and this winter I have read many of hers,,,the leader of my poetry class warns - we should read five poems by a poet before starting to write ours...Can I count the books of poetry by a vast number of poets I have read....? Just reading the poems posted .. thanks for posting them ...anna AND THE PICTURES of winter....ah !
-
I'm glad you explained the background of those two poems, BARB. They
had me puzzled until I understood the context. The picture of the Neva in winter had me shivering, tho'.
-
Wonderful news from the BBC this morning - First, here are three Miguel Hernandez Poems translated to English
http://www.press.uchicago.edu/Misc/Chicago/327736.html
Spain to recognise civil war poet Miguel Hernandez
~ By Sarah Rainsford, BBC News, Madrid
Miguel Hernandez is ranked among Spain's finest poets
The Spanish government says it will formally recognise one of the country's best-known poets as a victim of the dictatorship of Gen Francisco Franco.
It will present the family of the poet, Miguel Hernandez, with an official letter rehabilitating his memory.
Hernandez was imprisoned as a traitor 70 years ago for supporting the Republicans in the Spanish Civil War, and died in prison at the age of 31.
The family applied for his rehabilitation under a 2007 law.
The decision to rehabilitate him comes as Spain marks the centenary of the poet's birth with a series of events.
"We have always lived with this sadness, and finally we have cleansed his memory," the poet's daughter-in-law, Lucia Izquierdo, told the BBC.
"We wanted his image restored as a poet of the people, and a great man."
The family applied for the rehabilitation under Spain's Historical Memory Law, passed in 2007 to recognise the victims on both sides of the Civil War, and during Franco's rule.
Hernandez never took up arms, but he staunchly supported Republican forces
According to Spain's justice ministry, 237 people had been recognised under the law out of 831 applications received up until October 2009, with 17 cases refused.
Ranked alongside Federico Garcia Lorca and others as one of Spain's finest poets, Miguel Hernandez was from a poor, peasant family.
A staunch Republican, many of his poems depict the horror of the Civil War.
He was arrested and imprisoned in 1940, when his family say he refused on principle to sign a confession and apology in return for permission to go into exile.
"He was never a traitor, he was always on the side of justice," Ms Izquierdo said. "It is frightening to think what they did to him."
"He never took up arms, but they were against him because he defended Spain with his pen," she added.
"His legacy is some of the most beautiful poetry we have. His unjust death deprived us of more."
Gen Franco commuted the death penalty against the poet to a 30-year sentence, but Hernandez died soon after when he contracted tuberculosis, which went untreated in harsh prison conditions.
Many of the poet's most moving works were written in prison, including the famous "Onion Lullaby".
He addressed that poem to his wife when he learned she and their child were surviving on nothing but onions.
The poet's family did not request compensation from the state for his treatment, as it could under the 2007 law - only his rehabilitation.
They are now preparing an appeal to the Supreme Court to get the original death sentence against him annulled and clear the last black mark against his name.
-
Lullaby of the Onion
~ by Miguel Hernández
Miguel Hernandez
(dedicated to his son, after receiving a letter from his wife
in which she said she had nothing to eat but bread and onions)
The onion is frost
shut in and poor.
Frost of your days
and of my nights.
Hunger and onion,
black ice and frost
large and round.
My little boy
was in hunger's cradle.
He was nursed
on onion blood.
But your blood
is frosted with sugar,
onion and hunger.
A dark woman
dissolved in moonlight
pours herself thread by thread
into the cradle.
Laugh, son,
you can swallow the moon
when you want to.
Lark of my house,
keep laughing.
The laughter in your eyes
is the light of the world.
Laugh so much
that my soul, hearing you,
will beat in space.
Your laughter frees me,
gives me wings.
It sweeps away my loneliness,
knocks down my cell.
Mouth that flies,
heart that turns
to lightning on your lips.
Your laughter is
the sharpest sword,
conqueror of flowers
and larks.
Rival of the sun.
Future of my bones
and of my love.
The flesh fluttering,
the sudden eyelid,
and the baby is rosier
than ever.
How many linnets
take off, wings fluttering,
from your body!
I woke up from childhood:
don't you wake up.
I have to frown:
always laugh.
Keep to your cradle,
defending laughter
feather by feather.
Yours is a flight so high,
so wide,
that your body is a sky
newly born.
If only I could climb
to the origin
of your flight!
Eight months old you laugh
with five orange blossoms.
With five little
ferocities.
With five teeth
like five young
jasmine blossoms.
They will be the frontier
of tomorrow's kisses
when you feel your teeth
as weapons,
when you feel a flame
running under your gums
driving toward the centre.
Fly away, son, on the double
moon of the breast:
it is saddened by onion,
you are satisfied.
Don't let go.
Don't find out what's happening,
or what goes on.
Translated by Don Share
-
Nice Bio of Miguel Hernández (1910 - 1942)
http://www.poetryfoundation.org/archive/poet.html?id=98130
-
As two friends of mine have died in the last weeks, I'll skip some seasons, and post a death haiku:
How easily it lights up,
How easily it goes out--
The firefly.
-
Joan these quote come to mind that say it better - my thoughts are with you...
"The loss of a friend is like that of a limb; time may heal the anguish of the wound, but the loss cannot be repaired." ~ Robert Southey
“Death is not the greatest loss in life. The greatest loss is what dies inside us while we live.” ~ Norman Cousins
-
It is a sad time, JOAN, and you Haiku fits our feelings so well.
Since Spring is so slow in coming this year, I found this little 'interim'
poem. Perhaps it will encourage the snowbound and the sad.
The Wind Sings Welcome in Early Spring
by Carl Sandburg
(For Paula)THE GRIP of the ice is gone now.
The silvers chase purple.
The purples tag silver.
They let out their runners
Here where summer says to the lilies:
“Wish and be wistful,
Circle this wind-hunted, wind-sung water.”
Come along always, come along now.
You for me, kiss me, pull me by the ear.
Push me along with the wind push.
Sing like the whinnying wind.
Sing like the hustling obstreperous wind.
Have you ever seen deeper purple …
this in my wild wind fingers?
Could you have more fun with a pony or a goat?
Have you seen such flicking heels before,
Silver jig heels on the purple sky rim?
Come along always, come along now.
-
Oh, that's lovely.
-
Babi that is a keeper - just makes me feel like Spring is on the way but it was fun to play in the snow today -
We only get snow once every 5 years or so and down it came like a wintery scene in a glass globe. We ended up with about 4 inches so that kids jammed in one afternoon everything they knew about that you do in snow.
Snowmen, angles, snowball fights, sliding down whatever hill they could find on mostly garbage can lids, plastic laundry baskets and cardboard boxes. Since I live across from one of the biggest hills around safe inside a schoolyard the hill was like a Grandma Mosses painting with hundreds of kids gleefully sliding and playing in the snow.
Tomorrow afternoon it will be back up in the 60s so it was one day to remember for years till another snowfall hits Austin.
Snowfall
~ Brady McCrary
Snow snow wonderful snow. Snowman, snow forts, snow igloos, snow mobiles, snow boarding.
All my favorite in the snow, all right, and all white. I hope it snows all night.
-
I was surprised to learn that this Christina Rosetti poem was a Christmas carol.
In the Bleak Mid-Winter
Words: Christina Rosetti
Music: CRANHAM (Gustav Holst)
In the bleak midwinter,
frosty wind made moan,
Earth stood hard as iron,
water like a stone;
Snow had fallen, snow on snow,
snow on snow,
In the bleak midwinter, long ago.
Our God, heaven cannot hold Him,
nor earth sustain;
Heaven and earth shall flee away
when He comes to reign.
In the bleak midwinter
a stable place sufficed
The Lord God Almighty, Jesus Christ.
Angels and archangels
may have gathered there,
Cherubim and seraphim
thronged the air;
But His mother only,
in her maiden bliss,
Worshipped the beloved with a kiss.
What can I give Him,
poor as I am?
If I were a shepherd,
I would bring a lamb;
If I were a Wise Man,
I would do my part;
Yet what I can give Him: give my heart.
-
Babi, I live near Galesburg, IL where Carl Sandburg was born and grew up
( on the wrong side of the tracks as the locals like to say).
And I have always liked his poetry, and this poem speaking of wind.
Sandburg knew what the wind was; as it came in from the west and whipped
about the small house of his parents on 3rd ave.
-
Perhaps since I was born and raised in Illinois I have always loved Sandburg...did I discover him on my own or did my teachers introduce him to me ..doesnt matter his poetry I think was the first I read that wasnt what was called a proper rhyme Here is a small poem I just wrote for our neighborhood news letter not great ..but true for me...sunny and VERY COLD AND WINDY HERE
March
I have always heard ....
When March comes in like a lamb
It will leave like a lion.
Can the reverse then be true?
Haven't decided if I would prefer
A thousand bleating sheep
Or a single lions roar!
I just plead for springtime to be here......
anna alexander 2/25/10 12:09 PM
-
I am feeling low today and this poem says it all...
What Spring Will Bring' Achoo
~ Candy Barstow
Bed sheets on the line flapping in the breeze,
Blooming flowers that make me sneeze,
Bees awakened gathering for honey,
Pollen makes my nose real runny,
Puffy white clouds and crisp blue skies,
Itchy watery red rimmed eyes,
Cutting hay with a baler,
As I reach for my inhaler,
Spring makes my allergies an issue,
Does anyone happen to have a tissue?
-
(http://seniorlearn.org/bookclubs/poetry/poetrymarch.jpg) Pull up a chair and Join us!
Winter may still be on the ground
however,
our hearts are turning to Spring.Winter & Early Spring Poetry- Famous Poets and Poems about Winter (http://famouspoetsandpoems.com/thematic_poems/winter_poems.html)
- Winter Poems (http://poetry.about.com/od/ourpoemcollections/a/winterpoems.htm)
- Spring Poems (http://poetry.about.com/od/ourpoemcollections/a/springpoems.htm)
Discussion Leaders: Barb (augere@ix.netcom.com) & fairanna (fairanna@verizon.net) |
Lines Written in Early Spring
~William Wordsworth (1798)
I heard a thousand blended notes,
While in a grove I sate reclined,
In that sweet mood when pleasant thoughts
Bring sad thoughts to the mind.
To her fair works did Nature link
The human soul that through me ran;
And much it grieved my heart to think
What man has made of man.
Through primrose tufts, in that green bower,
The periwinkle trailed its wreaths;
And ’tis my faith that every flower
Enjoys the air it breathes.
The birds around me hopped and played,
Their thoughts I cannot measure:--
But the least motion which they made
It seemed a thrill of pleasure.
The budding twigs spread out their fan,
To catch the breezy air;
And I must think, do all I can,
That there was pleasure there.
If this belief from heaven be sent,
If such be Nature’s holy plan,
Have I not reason to lament
What man has made of man?
|
-
Winter solitude ---
in a world of one color
the sound of wind.
BASHO
Over the wintry forest
winds howl
in a rage
with no leaves to blow.
SOSEKI
Out of one wintry
twig, one bud,
one blossom's worth
of warmth at long last!
RANSETSU
-
Wonderful selection Kidsal - the wind has certainly picked up and that is often the sign that change is in the air and one bud is so perfect for what many of us see when we step out of our warm homes.
I thought these words about Tea just fit our time together...
I cannot sit and chat with you,
the way I'd like to do.
So brew yourself a cup of tea,
I'll think of you, you think of me.
anonymous
When you're feeling sad & blue
And have no clue what to do
Sit down and have a cup of tea
And a hug or two or maybe three
Feel those troubles melt away
And start you on a better day.
by Paulette, 1998
Tea that helps our head and heart.
Tea medicates most every part.
Tea rejuvenates the very old.
Tea warms the hands of those who're cold.
Jonker, Amsterdam, circa 1670
-
Poor Barb. The back and forth weather is enough to make my sinuses huffy; I keep a tissue pack with me at all times.
Ah, KIDSAL. I know that 'world of one color'. Most dismal. Still, down
here on the Texas Gulf Coast, we can find a hardy rose even in midwinter.
As I've grown older, I've found more and more uses for tea. Especially
the peppermint and the chamomile! ;)
-
Harking back to Valentine's Day is this column by Britain's Poet Laureate, Carol Ann Duffy, devoted to love poems : http://www.telegraph.co.uk/culture/books/7213958/Carol-Ann-Duffy.html
-
Fabulous article - thanks for bringing it to us... :-*
-
I became curious of Donal Og - do not remember it quoted in "The Dead" but I do remember the movie. At the time I was reading Joyce and I thought the movie version of the story was credible if not brilliant.
The more I read the more I learn there are several bits of Donal Og translated into English - and from what I am reading like so many old works there is a difference in the wording as the story was passed along in different communities.
Here is one version...
DONAL ÓG
If you should go far across the water,
Oh, take me with you to be your partner.
In that fair and nice land, you'll be well looked after,
And you shall sleep with the Greek king's daughter.
The first time I saw you on that Sunday evening,
Beside the altar where I was kneeling,
It was of Christ's passion that I was reading,
But my mind was on you and my heart was bleeding.
Oh, Donal Óg, you'll not find me lazy,
Not like so many of the high-born and rich young ladies.
I'll do your milking and I'll nurse your baby,
And if you were set on, I would back you bravely.
For you said you would meet me, but you were lying
Beside the sheepshed as the day it was dying.
I whistled first, then I started ailing,
But all that I heard was the young lambs wailing.
Oh, and come if you will, come when stars are peeping.
Rap at the door that makes no squeaking.
My mother will ask you to name your people.
I'll tell her you're a sire of the night winds weeping.
I got the first kiss and from no craven.
I got the second atop the stairway.
The third kiss came as down you laid me,
But for that one night I'd be a maiden.
Oh, as black as the sloe is the heart inside me.
Oh, as black as the coal is the grief that strides me,
As black as that boot print on my shining hallway,
Ah, it is you who blackened it now, forever and always.
For you took what's before me and what's behind me.
You took East and West when you wouldn't mind me.
Sun, moon and stars from my sky you have taken,
And God himself - or I'm much mistaken.
-
and here is another version...
Donal Og
It is late last night the dog was speaking of you;
the snipe was speaking of you in her deep marsh.
It is you are the lonely bird through the woods;
and that you may be without a mate until you find me.
You promised me, and you said a lie to me,
that you would be before me where the sheep are flocked;
I gave a whistle and three hundred cries to you,
and I found nothing there but a bleating lamb.
You promised me a thing that was hard for you,
a ship of gold under a silver mast;
twelve towns with a market in all of them,
and a fine white court by the side of the sea.
You promised me a thing that is not possible,
that you would give me gloves of the skin of a fish;
that you would give me shoes of the skin of a bird;
and a suit of the dearest silk in Ireland.
When I go by myself to the Well of Loneliness,
I sit down and I go through my trouble;
when I see the world and do not see my boy,
he that has an amber shade in his hair.
It was on that Sunday I gave my love to you;
the Sunday that is last before Easter Sunday.
And myself on my knees reading the Passion;
and my two eyes giving love to you for ever.
My mother said to me not to be talking with you today,
or tomorrow, or on the Sunday;
it was a bad time she took for telling me that;
it was shutting the door after the house was robbed.
My heart is as black as the blackness of the sloe,
or as the black coal that is on the smith's forge;
or as the sole of a shoe left in white halls;
it was you that put that darkness over my life.
You have taken the east from me; you have taken the west from me;
you have taken what is before me and what is behind me;
you have taken the moon, you have taken the sun from me;
and my fear is great that you have taken God from me!
- Anonymous, 8th Century Ireland, translated by Augusta Gregory
-
Sad as the story is, the last line of the second version is chilling for 8th century, truly ominous.
-
I agree, JACKIE. For you took what's before me and what's behind me. Her past reputation and future hopes are both ruined, and she
had to fear that God had turned away also. The careless seducer has always been a despicable character in my thinking.
I think I'll go find a poem about true, caring love.
Oh, I had to smile, JACKIE, when Ms. Duffy confessed re. love poetry, "my
homework grades shot up". :)
-
I've been browsing through the three Kay Ryan books my library has and have found so many I like. Others seem empty, like words scattered on a page. Maybe it's my mood. Anyway this one seems so apt for this infernally dismal weather. Hope I'm not violating copyright; this is from Say Uncle, copyright 2000.
WINTER FEAR
Is it just winter
or is this worse.
Is this the year
when outer damp
obscures a deeper curse
that spring can't fix,
when gears that
turn the earth
won't shift the view.
when clouds won't lift
though all the skies
go blue.
-
Glad you are liking Kay Ryan (for the most part) I had not seen that one before, but my library had only the one volume. Guess I'll have to get an inter-library loan and read the rest.
-
He Lit a Fire with Icicles
by Kay Ryan
For W.G. Sebald, 1944-2001
This was the work
of St. Sebolt, one
of his miracles:
he lit a fire with
icicles. He struck
them like a steel
to flint, did St.
Sebolt. It
makes sense
only at a certain
body heat. How
cold he had
to get to learn
that ice would
burn. How cold
he had to stay.
When he could
feel his feet
he had to
back away.
-
Don't lose hope! We had a beautiful day here yesterday. Blue skies, clouds piled high,high,high
on top of one another, with a plant flying across the sky about one inch long.
Meanwhile, here is the love poem I found. No seducer here.
I Love Thee
by Eliza Acton, 1799-1859.
I love thee, as I love the calm
Of sweet, star-lighted hours!
I love thee, as I love the balm
Of early jes'mine flow'rs.
I love thee, as I love the last
Rich smile of fading day,
Which lingereth, like the look we cast,
On rapture pass'd away.
I love thee as I love the tone
Of some soft-breathing flute
Whose soul is wak'd for me alone,
When all beside is mute.
I love thee as I love the first
Young violet of the spring;
Or the pale lily, April-nurs'd,
To scented blossoming.
I love thee, as I love the full,
Clear gushings of the song,
Which lonely--sad--and beautiful--
At night-fall floats along,
Pour'd by the bul-bul forth to greet
The hours of rest and dew;
When melody and moonlight meet
To blend their charm, and hue.
I love thee, as the glad bird loves
The freedom of its wing,
On which delightedly it moves
In wildest wandering.
I love thee as I love the swell,
And hush, of some low strain,
Which bringeth, by its gentle spell,
The past to life again.
Such is the feeling which from thee
Nought earthly can allure:
'Tis ever link'd to all I see
Of gifted--high--and pure!
-
Babi: What a treasure! This is one I will print so I can read it again every time my eye falls on it. It is perfect. Thank you.
-
That is so perfect Babi - a lovely view of what we would like love to be - I bet there are a few lucky ones who give and receive that kind of love - at least that is our hope so that we are disappointed when life shows us less.
Here is an ancient Pindar Olympic Ode for the boys footrace - the Ode dates from 488BC
Olympian XIV: For Asopichus of Orchomenus, Winner of the Boys' Foot-Race
Strophe 1
Whose haunts are by Kephissus’ river,
You queens beloved of poet’s song,
Ruling Orchomenus, that sunlit city
And land of lovely steeds,
Watch and ward of the ancient Minyan race,
Hear now my prayer, you Graces three.
For in your gift are all our mortal joys,
And every sweet thing, be it wisdom, beauty
Or glory, that makes rich the soul of man.
Nor even can the immortal gods
Order at their behest the dance and festals,
Lacking the Graces’ aid;
Who are the stewards of all the rites of heaven,
Whose thrones are set at Pytho
Beside pollo of the golden bow,
And who with everlasting honour
Worship the Father, lord of great Olympus.
Strophe 2
Euphrosyne, lover of song,
Anda Aglaia revered, daughters
Of Zeus the all-highest, hearken, and with Thalia,
Darling of harmony,
Look on our songs of revel, on ligh feet
Stepping to grace this happy hour.
For in this Lycidan measure, harvested
From the rich fruits of mind, I come to praise
Asopichus, whose Minyan house, Thalia,
Now of your favours wears the prie
Of the Olympian victor. Then let Echo
Speed to Persephone’s
Dark-walled dwelling, to his father Cleodemus
Bearing the glorious tidings,
That his young son, matched in the famous games
Of Pisa’s far-renownéd vale,
Has set the winged garland on his brow.
-
I don't think I've ever read anything of Pindar's before. It's so evocative of his time; I find
myself wishing I could read it in the original. This one is so full of praise for the gods, the graces
and the winner of the footrace, it's easy to see why Pindar was so popular.
-
In memory of Nodar:
TO AN ATHLETE DYING YOUNG
A E Houseman
The time you won your town the race
We chaired you through the market-place;
Man and boy stood cheering by,
And home we brought you shoulder-high.
To-day, the road all runners come,
Shoulder-high we bring you home,
And set you at your threshold down,
Townsman of a stiller town.
Smart lad, to slip betimes away
From fields where glory does not stay,
And early though the laurel grows
It withers quicker than the rose.
Eyes the shady night has shut
Cannot see the record cut,
And silence sounds no worse than cheers
After earth has stopped the ears:
Now you will not swell the rout
Of lads that wore their honours out,
Runners whom renown outran
And the name died before the man.
So set, before the echoes fade,
The fleet foot on the sill of shade,
And hold to the low lintel up
The still-defended challenge-cup.
And round that early-laurelled head
Will flock to gaze the strengthless dead,
And find unwithered on its curls
The garland briefer than a girl's.
Houseman is one of my favorite poets since he seems always to have just the right words.
-
I believe this was the reading Meryl Streep (Karen)gave at the funeral of Denis Finch-Hatton in "Out of Africa". It was so beautiful! One of my favorite movies. It is so timely that you posted this here, mssherlock, since I just watched the movie the other day!
-
So cid I! maybe that is why it was so easily recalled when I read Pindar's Ode coupled with the bittersweetness of the proud athletes in their Olympic victories.
-
I stopped by to see what poems and thoughts were posted ..and all were here...the best that day can bring....thanks so much for sharing the poems you love and for your thoughts of caring...it looks bright and spring like here ..my crocus keeps popping up her golden flower ,,,even the azaleas show tight buds ready to give some birth ,,and the daffodils are pushing through the earth and tell me soon their golden heads will nod in hopefully a gentle springs rebirth..smiles ...anna
-
Not quite what I was looking for but somewhat apt:
A LIGHT EXISTS IN SPRING
A light exists in spring
Not present on the year
At any other period.
When March is scarcely here
A color stands abroad
On solitary hills
That science cannot overtake,
But human naturefeels.
It waits upon the lawn;
It shows the furthest tree
Upon the furthest slope we know;
It almost speaks to me.
Then, as horizons step,
Or noons report away,
Without the formula of sound,
It passes, and we stay:
A quality of loss
Affecting our content,
As trade had suddenly encroached
Upon a sacrament.
Emily Dickinson
I found this fragment but was unable to locate the poem entire:
"The sun is brilliant in the sky but its warmth does not reach my face.
The breeze stirs the trees but leaves my hair unmoved.
The cooling rain will feed the grass but will not slake my thirst.
It is all inches away but further from me than my dreams."
- M. Romeo LaFlamme, The First of March
-
And then, of course, there is as always..Emily Dickinson
MARCH
by Emily Dickinson
Dear March, come in!
How glad I am!
I looked for you before.
Put down your hat-
You must have walked-
How out of breath you are!
Dear March, how are you?
And the rest?
Did you leave Nature well?
Oh, March, come right upstairs with me,
I have so much to tell.
-
Babi: Wonderful!
-
Ahh, Emily Dickenson
-
Babi what a great find - absolutely brilliant!
I'm done in - worked the poles today which is an incredably long 14 and a half hour day - I am going to sleep in tomorrow - thank goodness I knew to have something prepared in the frig for supper - a hot shower is next.
-
Uh, BARB, excuse my ever-present curiosity, but what is 'working the poles'? And my
delighted congratulations on being able to work a 14-hour day! I found 8-hour days
too much some time ago!
-
P O L L S, at the voting polls I think is what she means.
-
Yes, and thanks - poles is very provocative isn't it but Polls is correct. Pretty good showing for a primary - regardless of party loyalty, after yesterday with no run off it looks like Perry is a shoe-in - we understand he is working with Carl Rove and so a run for the White House is what most folks expect is the reason for his continuation as Gov. -
Found an election poem - Fun - Whittier speaks his mind...
Th 1852 election was between Pierce and Scott - Scott was nominated over the incumbent Fillmore who had been vice-president to Taylor therefore, became President when Zach Taylor died. Pierce and his vice-president elect, King trounced Scott.
The Poor Voter on Election Day
~ by John Greenleaf Whittier (1852)
The proudest now is but my peer,
The highest not more high;
To-day, of all the weary year,
A king of men am I.
To-day alike are great and small,
The nameless and the known
My palace is the people’s hall,
The ballot-box my throne!
Who serves to-day upon the list
Beside the served shall stand;
Alike the brown and wrinkled fist,
The gloved and dainty hand!
The rich is level with the poor,
The weak is strong to-day;
And sleekest broadcloth counts no more
Than homespun frock of gray.
To-day let pomp and vain pretence
My stubborn right abide;
I set a plain man’s common sense
Against the pedant’s pride.
To-day shall simple manhood try
The strength of gold and land
The wide world has not wealth to buy
The power in my right hand!
While there’s a grief to seek redress,
Or balance to adjust,
Where weighs our living manhood less
Than Mammon’s vilest dust, --
While there’s a right to need my vote
A wrong to sweep away,
Up! clouted knee and ragged coat!
A man’s a man to-day!
-
Very nice election day poem!
With the poles/polls thing, first thing popped into my mind was "pole dancer's poles" and I thought I probably ought to answer Babi's questions quickly before anyone misunderstood! LOL (but I have an off-color mind sometime!)
-
Oh, Tome, it's hard to repress that naughty sense of humor, isn't it? Luckily I type slowly these days or I'd have been censored long ago.
-
Signs
~ Geraldine Moorkens Byrne
Slight touch of green life
the first blush of bud
the seedlings sprout
before the ides of March
the rain falls in fat tears
the sky clears to egg blue
the air smells of earth
the light changes daily
the season rushes forward
the sap rises high
-
I found reading Genji written in the 11th century, to be long and tedious however, it is filled with poetry exchanged by lovers as well as, entertainment that included group poetry nights where an original poem written on the spot contest was the entertainment. The following poetry is not from Genji but from a 7th century poet who later had to kill himself because he was accused of rebellion by the Empress as a ploy to promote her own son to high office.
The poem is typical of those found in Genji when a man returning home from a tryst. The man would immediately sit down and compose a Tanka of gratitude, perhaps commenting upon some specific event that had occurred. The note would then be immediately dispatched to his lover by messenger or servant and his lover would be expected to instantly compose and return a suitable Tanka response, even if that meant arising from sleep. This form of poetry took on the name of Somonka.
Poem sent by Prince Otsu to Lady Ishikawa
Gentle foothills, and
in the dew drops of the mountains,
soaked, I waited for you--
grew wet from standing there
in the dew drops of the mountains.
Poem by Lady Ishikawa in response (7th C. CE)
Waiting for me,
you grew wet there
in gentle foothills,
in the dew drops of the mountains--
I wish I'd been such drops of dew.
-
mrssherlock, oh, yes it is sometimes hard to suppress the old naughty sense of humor. I have to pray that little prayer we've all seen on line:
Lord, keep your arm around my shoulders and your hand over my mouth!
-
And finally - from the sublime to the silly... Another from the Irish poet, Geraldine Moorkens Byrne
Chortle , Gargoyle , Hullabaloo, Portmanteau, pomegranate, countenance
Stanza 1
You know what makes me chortle?
Said the monster to the Gargoyle
when I jump out of a portmanteau
and my victims make a hullabaloo
One swallowed whole, a pomegranate
Turning puce in her fair countenance.
Stanza 2
The other would not countenance
this; cruelty did not make him chortle
- his was a noble race, The Gargoyle
lofty towers, not cheap portmanteau
Silent watching, not raucous hullabaloo
And no choking on pomegranate.
Stanza 3
She could have choked on that pomegranate
He said with a stern countenance.
While you indulged in your chortle
Why can’t you be more like a gargoyle?
As it is she packed your portmanteau
You’ve lost your place for that hullabaloo!
Stanza 4
The Monster sniggered. That Hullabaloo
Was worth a dozen strangled pomegranate
eating women, however fair her countenance.
Your problem is you never have a chortle.
You don’t know how to live, Gargoyle.
So what if all I have is my portmanteau?
Stanza 5
If you are happy living out of a portmanteau
Then by all means, enjoy the result of your hullabaloo
You’ll never find another girl to feed you pomegranates
Or who will love your ugly countenance
But you’ll have had a good old chortle.
Thus spake the wise old, cool headed Gargoyle
Stanza 6
The monster looked at his friend, the Gargoyle.
He scratched the worn leather of his portmanteau
He was a monster, his business was hullabaloos
It seemed hard that his nature lost him pomegranates
And soft words and kind hands and pretty countenance.
And yet, he could not have stifled that fateful chortle.
Stanza 7
Monster sighed -Gargoyle, I did not mean to chortle
. but jumping out of portmanteau and causing a hullabaloo
Is more to me than sweet pomegranates and fair countenance.
-
This is in memor of Deems - a quote from her written during her leadership of BREAK, BLOW, BURN by Camille Paglia
Deems
June 8, 2005 - 09:50 am
I have a new direct computer connection and it is running very slowly today. It's ordinarily fast as lightning. Since this occurred a week or so ago, I expect it to last the day.
So.
I differ somewhat from Paglia in her reading of this poem. She suggests that the poet is accompanied to church by the soul (her) who goes to a separate part of the chapel to pray while the body goes to the area of the church, or the crypt, where the dead of the parish are buried in sarcophagi with their inscriptions above them and perhaps their shield bearing the family arms. The body (the mortal part of us) is sent to a harsh school where he will learn that he is mortal as are all those buried dead.
I'm not convinced that one has to see this duality represented in the way Paglia presents it. I can see the poet's soul deep in prayer while his body (his intellect perhaps) is concentrating on the church monuments. I'm pretty good at multitasking myself and that's what I see going on here.
Whichever.
The poem can be paraphrased as "while my soul is busy with prayer, I consider my flesh that is subject (as all flesh is) to death. The study of these monuments will be a school lesson that will teach my body how to spell (the names on the monuments) and to note the birth (and death) dates on the stones. The monuments are made of Jet (a black anthracite stone) and Marble and they prevent all the dust of those dead from mingling together. They signify who the dead are, but the poet wonders what will point to the stones when they themselves fall down and "kiss those heaps, which now they have in trust"? Everything falls, all comes to ruin, even the stones meant to keep the names of the dead in the memory of the living.
The poet then addresses his flesh and tells it to learn that it is but the (hour) glass that holds the dust (which he will eventually be) that measures time. The final lesson is to notice how tame the dust inn view is and to teach yourself how to prepare for the ultimate fall.
Paglia's reading is more extensive and creative. We agree on the basic meaning of the poem.
Maryal
-
The poem we were discussing from Paglia's book Break, Blow, Burn that was the subject of Deems remarks -
Church-Monuments
by George Herbert
(1593 - 1633) English Christian : Protestant 17th Century
While that my soul repairs to her devotion,
Here I entomb my flesh, that it betimes
May take acquaintance of this heap of dust;
To which the blast of death's incessant motion,
Fed with the exhalation of our crimes,
Drives all at last. Therefore I gladly trust
My body to this school, that it may learn
To spell his elements, and find his birth
Written in dusty heraldry and lines;
Which dissolution sure doth best discern,
Comparing dust with dust, and earth with earth.
These laugh at jet and marble put for signs,
To sever the good fellowship of dust,
And spoil the meeting. What shall point out them,
When they shall bow, and kneel, and fall down flat
To kiss those heaps, which now they have in trust?
Dear flesh, while I do pray, learn here thy stem
And true descent; that when thou shalt grow fat,
And wanton in thy cravings, thou mayst know
That flesh is but the glass, which holds the dust
That measures all our time; which also shall
Be crumbled into dust. Mark here below
How tame these ashes are, how free from lust,
That thou mayst fit thyself against thy fall.
-
Barb: You pulled off a hat trick, three goals in a row. Much to savor and reflect upon. Looking for haiku I found thism site with "interpretations" by other authors of some of Basho's works. http://www.haikupoetshut.com/basho1.html
-
Thanks, TOME. And to both you and JACKIE... :-X ;D
That did make me grin, BARB, esp. Stanza 3. Not that I actually chortled.
-
Ah the Bane of my existance and dear Margerat has written a poem about it...
SPELLING
~ Margaret Atwood
My daughter plays on the floor
with plastic letters,
red, blue & hard yellow,
learning how to spell,
spelling,
how to make spells.
I wonder how many women
denied themselves daughters,
closed themselves in rooms,
drew the curtains
so they could mainline words.
A child is not a poem,
a poem is not a child.
there is no either/or.
However.
I return to the story
of the woman caught in the war
& in labour, her thighs tied
together by the enemy
so she could not give birth.
Ancestress: the burning witch,
her mouth covered by leather
to strangle words.
A word after a word
after a word is power.
At the point where language falls away
from the hot bones, at the point
where the rock breaks open and darkness
flows out of it like blood, at
the melting point of granite
when the bones know
they are hollow & the word
splits & doubles & speaks
the truth & the body
itself becomes a mouth.
This is a metaphor.
How do you learn to spell?
Blood, sky & the sun,
your own name first,
your first naming, your first name,
your first word.
-
(http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_LqwQxG1c0BM/S352OnAobpI/AAAAAAAAKz0/wTZ4mnqnaTQ/s400/Spring+Chimera.jpg) Spring Poetry- Famous Poets and Poems about Spring (http://famouspoetsandpoems.com/thematic_poems/spring_poems.html)
- Spring Poems (http://poetry.about.com/od/ourpoemcollections/a/springpoems.htm)
|
Cuttings
~ Michael P. Garofalo
Ahh, the wide almond groves in full white flower
Stunning in the morning sun.
Old naked Winter in
his garb of grays and browns has run.
Forsythia blooms
Come and go in the blink of a yellow Eye,
Then, suddenly, mysteriously,
Green erupts; and we sigh.
We would love you to Join us
As our hearts race to meet Spring!Discussion Leaders: Barb (augere@ix.netcom.com) & fairanna (fairanna@verizon.net)
|
-
Jackie: thanks for the link. I am endlessly fascinated with haiku. A good haiku sinks deeper and deeper, with more and more meanings.
I read the link, and some that followed from it, and will spend more time with it later. I often compare three or four translations, and take the one I like best. My best sources are "The Essential Haiku: the poetry of Basho, buson, and Issa", Robert Hass editor, (he sometimes translates, sometimes uses another's) And Henderson: "Haiku", especially "Volume1 Eastern Thought"
-
Ow, Barb, that's harsh! How did she go from daughters playing to burning
at the stake? Brrr!
JOAN, maybe you were Japanese in a previous life. ;)
-
Kenneth Rexroth's One Hundred More Japanese Poems has some lovely non-haikus. Some, however, are the exchanges between lovers and refer to the night's intimacies more explicitly than I care for, feels voyeuristic. Still worth it for the goodies:
Amidst the notes of
Of my koto is another
Deep mysterious tone,
A sound that comes from
Within my own breast.
Like tiny golden
Birds the ginko leaves scatter
From the tree on the
Hill in the sunset glow.
Yosano Akiko
In the dusk the path
You used to come to me
Is overgrown and indistinguishable,
Except for the spider webs
That hang across it
Like threads of sorrow,
Izumi Shikibu
Here is a gingko tree in fall: http://www.alaska-in-pictures.com/data/media/22/fall-ginkgo-tree_9713.jpg
In San Jose there was one street I traveled frequently which became butter-yellow every year around Thanksgiving.
-
Such a thick carpet of leaves! I love it here in the spring when the redbuds shed their
blossoms. I walk through a rosy footpath and become amazingly cheerful.
I found this one for you, JACKIE
Ne-ga-wa-ku wa (I would die in the spring,)
ha-na no shi-ta ni te (under the blossoms,)
ha-ru shi-na-mu (in the second month)
so-no ki-sa-ra-gi no (at the time of)
mo-chi-zu-ki no ko-ro (the full moon)
Script : kanji, hiragana
-
Babi: Thank you. What a way to go.
-
Good stuff... there is something so beautiful in the simplicity of both Japanese and Chinese poetry - thanks for calming my mind :-*
Here is a poet new to me - Rita Dove
Wiring Home
Lest the wolves loose their whistles
and shopkeepers inquire,
keep moving, though your knees flush
red as two chapped apples,
keep moving, head up,
past the beggar's cold cup,
past the kiosk's
trumpet tales of
odyssey and heartbreak-
until, turning a corner, you stand,
staring: ambushed
by a window of canaries
bright as a thousand
golden narcissi.
Exit
Just when hope withers, the visa is granted.
The door opens to a street like in the movies,
clean of people, of cats; except it is your street
you are leaving. A visa has been granted,
"provisionally"-a fretful word.
The windows you have closed behind
you are turning pink, doing what they do
every dawn. Here it's gray. The door
to the taxicab waits. This suitcase,
the saddest object in the world.
Well, the world's open. And now through
the windshield the sky begins to blush
as you did when your mother told you
what it took to be a woman in this life.
Rusks
This is how it happened.
Spring wore on my nerves--
all that wheezing and dripping
while others in galoshes
reaped compost and seemed
enamored most of the time.
Why should I be select?
I got tired of tearing myself down.
Let someone else have
the throne of blues for a while,
let someone else suffer mosquitoes.
As my mama always said:
half a happinnes is better
than noe at all.
-
Oh, I really like her poems. My library has several of her books; think I'll start with Selected Poems.
-
Aching nostalgia-
As evening darkens
And every moment grows
Longer and longer, I feel
Ageless as the thousand year pine,
Anonymous
Oh snail,
climb Mt. Fuji,
but slowly, slowly
ISSA
A camellia drops
and spills yesterday’s rain
BOSUN
-
Two of my favorite haiku.
-
Rita Dove seems to be writing about what it's like to be starting off
in life. The scenes and feelings are very real. When she says she is
tired of tearing herself down, I want to say "Good for you, girl!"
I would love to feel 'ageless as the thousand year-old pine'.
-
DayStar
~ by Rita Dove
She wanted a little room for thinking:
but she saw diapers steaming
on the line,
A doll slumped behind the door.
So she lugged a chair behind
the garage to sit out the
children's naps
Sometimes there were things to watch--
the pinched armor of a vanished cricket,
a floating maple leaf.
Other days she stared until she
was assured when she closed
her eyes she'd only see her own
vivid blood.
She had an hour, at best,
before Liza appeared pouting from
the top of the stairs.
And just what was mother doing
out back with the field mice?
Why, building a palace.
Later that night when Thomas
rolled over and lurched into her,
She would open her eyes
and think of the place that was hers
for an hour--where she was nothing,
pure nothing, in the middle of the day
-
From Mountain Poems
Don't think a mountain home means you're free
a day doesn't pass without its problems
old ladies steal my bamboo shoots
boys lead oxen into the wheat
grubs and beetles destroy my greens
boars and squirrels devour the rice
when what happens isn't what you expect
forget it and turn to yourself
~ by Stonehouse (Shih wu) - translated by Red Pine
-
The River's Blue, The Bird A Perfect White
The river's blue, the bird a perfect white; the mountain is green with flowers about to blaze. I've watched the Spring pass away again, when will I be able to return?
~ by DU FU (A.D. 712-770)
I've read that men were gathered as the army marched through a village and often the men would be gone for years and years - there are poems and stories of young men returning when their hair is white so that poems of longing for home or imagining the wife left behind id gazing at the same moon at the same time are popular themes.
-
With St. Patrick's day only a week away, I thought I'd offer this sma' poem. It's an oldie.
There's a dear little plant
that grows in our isle,
'Twas St. Patrick himself
sure that set it;
And the sun on his labour
with pleasure did smile,
And with dew from his eye
often wet it.
It thrives through the bog,
through the brake,
through the mireland;
And he called it the dear
little shamrock of Ireland—
The sweet little shamrock,
the dear little shamrock,
The sweet little, green little,
shamrock of Ireland!
Andrew Cherry,
Irish Playwright (1762-1812)
-
Ah yes - St. Patricks Day - there are so many wonderful Irish poets - in fact my reading of both lit and poetry is always an extra joy reading the work of an Irish author - they all seem to have an astonishing way with words.
Here is an evening song sung by St. Patrick
An Even-Song
May Thy holy angels, O Christ, son of living God,
Guard our sleep, our rest, our shining bed.
Let them reveal true visions to us in our sleep,
O high-prince of the universe, O great king of the mysteries!
May no demons, no ill, no calamity or terrifying dreams
Disturb our rest, our willing, prompt repose.
May our watch be holy, our work, our task,
Our sleep, our rest without let, without break.
-
Another of Ireland's poets
The Morning Star
~ by George William Russell
IN the black pool of the midnight Lu has slung the morning star,
And its foam in rippling silver whitens into day afar
Falling on the mountain rampart piled with pearl above our glen,
Only you and I, beloved, moving in the fields of men.
In the dark tarn of my spirit, love, the morning star, is lit;
And its halo, ever brightening, lightens into dawn in it.
Love, a pearl-grey dawn in darkness, breathing peace without desire;
But I fain would shun the burning terrors of the mid-day fire.
Through the faint and tender airs of twilight star on star may gaze,
But the eyes of light are blinded in the white flame of the days,
From the heat that melts together oft a rarer essence slips,
And our hearts may still be parted in the meeting of the lips.
What a darkness would I gaze on when the day had passed the west,
If my eyes were dazed and blinded by the whiteness of a breast?
Never through the diamond darkness could I hope to see afar
Where beyond the pearly rampart burned the purer evening star.
-
Another Irish poet - this time a woman - Not many acclaimed women poets so this is special - Katharine Tynan was a prodigious writer of 105 popular Novels, 18 books of Poetry, 5 Plays, 7 books of Devotion, 12 collections of Short Stories, and innumerable newspaper articles. She was a friend to Yeats, married the scholar Hickson, had 3 children and died in 1931. The name of this poem is legend in Ireland - there are several sets of lyrics written by others for song and movie. It is the title chosen for a movie set in 1920 about the IRA and the war for Irish Independence.
The Wind that Shakes the Barley
~ by Katharine Tynan
There's music in my heart all day,
I hear it late and early,
It comes from fields are far away,
The wind that shakes the barley.
Above the uplands drenched with dew
The sky hangs soft and pearly,
An emerald world is listening to
The wind that shakes the barley.
Above the bluest mountain crest
The lark is singing rarely,
It rocks the singer into rest,
The wind that shakes the barley.
Oh, still through summers and through springs
It calls me late and early.
Come home, come home, come home, it sings,
The wind that shakes the barley.
-
Wow, awesome! I have seen that movie. Lovely, lovely poem.
-
WOW! The dear woman must have done nothing but write! No, she had three
children, didn't she? Amazing.
You saw the movie, TOMEREADER? It must have been older than either of us. An
old one reel black and white?
-
Babi here is the movie info - it won the PALME D'OR (Top Honor) award at the 2006 Cannes Film Festival. The Wind That Shakes the Barley (http://www.imdb.com/title/tt0460989/)
My favorite is still the David Lean's film Ryan's Daughter although, this one was pretty good.
Yes, exasperating isn't it - there always are folks who can put us to shame with their accomplishments -
I am not finding information on the kind of novels or even the titles but I did find on Amazon this novel written by Katharine which allows you to bring up the first chapter - if the entire book is written like these pages from the first chapter you can hardly read it without hearing the Irish on your tongue - it does not seem to be a very deep book but then there is only the first pages of the first chapter. Dick Pentreath by Katharine Tynan Hinkson (http://www.amazon.com/Dick-Pentreath-Katharine-Tynan-Hinkson/dp/0543854183/ref=sr_1_6?ie=UTF8&s=books&qid=1268499027&sr=8-6#noop)
-
Thanks for those links, BARB. I'll have to see if Netflix has this
one. The cast seems entirely Irish; a pity I won't be able to hear that
wonderful Irish lilt.
-
For St. Patrick's Day I found this John Locke poem - long lovely and of course he pines for the Texas Skies so I had to share this one... ;)
DAWN ON THE IRISH COAST
Glory to God but there it is
The dawn on the hills of Ireland
With all the pent up love in my heart
I bid you the top of the mornin'.
This one short hour pays lavishly back
For many a year of mourning
I'd almost venture another flight
There is so much joy in returning
Watching out for the hallowed shore
All other attractions scorning
O Ireland don't you hear me shout?
I bid you the top of the mornin'.
Ho ho upon Cloidlma's shelving strand
The surges are grandly beating
And Keary is pushing its headlands out
To give us the kindly greeting
To the shore the seabirds fly
On pinions that know no drooping
And out of the cliffs where welcomes charged
A million of waves come trooping.
O kindly generous Irish land
So leal and fair and loving
No wonder that wondering Celt should think
And dream of you in his roving
The alien home may have gems and gold
Shadows may have never have gloomed it
But the heart will sigh for the absent land
Where the love light first illumed it.
And doesn't old cove look charming there
Watching the wild waves motion
Leaning her back up against the hills
And the tip of her toe in the ocean
I wonder why I don't hear Shannon's bells
Ah! Maybe their chimings over
For its many a year since I began
The life of a western rover.
For thirty summers a stir me Chroialhe
Those hills I now feast my eyes on
Neer met my Vision save when they rose
Over memory's dim horizon
E'en so twas grand and fair they seemed
In the landscape spread before me
But dreams are dreams and my eyes would ope
To see Texas skies still o're me.
Oh often upon the Texas plains
When the day and the chase were over
My thoughts would fly oer the weary wave
And around the coastline hover,
And the prayer would rise that some future day
All danger and doubting scorning
I'd help to win for my native land
The light of young liberty's morning.
Now fuller and truer the shore line shows
Was ever a scene so splendid?
I feel the breath of the Munster breeze
Thank God that my exile's ended
Old scenes, old songs, old friends again,
The vale and the cot I was born in
Oh Ireland up from my heart of hearts
I bid you the top of the morning!
-
Irish poets, learn your trade,
Sing whatever is well made,
Scorn the sort now growing up
All out of shape from toe to top,
Their unremembering hearts and heads
Base-born products of base beds.
Sing the peasantry, and then
Hard-riding country gentlemen,
The holiness of monks, and after
Porter-drinkers' randy laughter;
Sing the lords and ladies gay
That were beaten into clay
Through seven heroic centuries;
Cast your mind on other days
That we in coming days may be
Still the indomitable Irisry.
from Under Ben Bulben, William Butler Yeats
Cast a cold eye
On life, on death.
Horseman, pass by!
And a Yeats quote I just discovered: Education is not the filling of a pail; it is the lighting of a fire.
-
"Education is not the filling of a pail; it is the lighting of a fire"
Wonderful!
Thanks for bringing it to us Bellemere.
-
I'm leaving early tomorrow morning for a trip to Baton Rouge for my son's wedding. I'll be
pretty much out-of-pocket for the next three days, so don't think I've forgotten you. :)
-
Have a good Trip Babi and a wonderful time at the wedding.Just a tad too early for the roadside Texas wildflower show but just maybe there will be a few Bluebonnets - let us know if you spot any.
Beautiful
Lupine
trUe
wildflowEr
Blue
blOoms
spriNgtime
reNewal
sElfless
gifT
"Lovely Bluebonnets, More Beautiful Than All the Rest” (http://drtlibrary.wordpress.com/2009/03/17/%E2%80%9Clovely-bluebonnets-more-beautiful-than-all-the-rest%E2%80%9D) from "The Daughters of The Republic of Texas Library at the Alamo."
-
Barb: When did we do Seamus Heaney? I remember that one of the postings was a very touching poem about grieving.
-
Looks like in March of 2006
Could the poem you are remembering be either of these
Leavings:
A soft whoosh, the sunset blaze
of straw on blackened stubble,
a thatch-deep, freshening
barbarous crimson burn -
I rode down England
as they fired the crop
that was the leavings of a crop,
the smashed tow-colored barley.
down from Ely's Lady Chapel,
the sweet tenor Latin
forever banished
the sumptuous windows
threshed clear by Thomas Cromwell
Which circle does he tread,
scalding on cobbles,
each one a broken statue's head?
After midnight, after summer,
to walk in a sparking field
to smell dw and ashes
and start Will Brangwen's ghost
from the hot soot -
a breaking sheaf of light,
abroad in the hiss
and clash of smoking.
~Seamus Heaney
In Memory of Colum McCartney
Across that strand of yours the cattle graze
Up to their bellies in an early mist
And now they turn their unbewildered gaze
To where we work our way through squeaking sedge
Drowning in dew. Like a dull blade with its edge
Honed bright, Lough Beg half shines under the haze.
I turn because the sweeping of your feet
has stopped behind me, to find you on your knees
with blood and roadside muck in your hair and eyes,
Then kneel in front of you in brimming grass
And gather up cold handfuls of the dew
To wash you, cousin. I dab you clean with moss
Fine as the drizzle out of a low cloud.
I lift you under the arms and lay you flat.
With rushes that shoot green again, I plait
Green scapulars to wear over your shroud.
-
Then there is
Mid-Term Break
I sat all morning in the college sick bay
Counting bells knelling classes to a close.
At two o'clock our neighbors drove me home.
In the porch I met my father crying--
He had always taken funerals in his stride--
And Big Jim Evans saying it was a hard blow.
The baby cooed and laughed and rocked the pram
When I came in, and I was embarrassed
By old men standing up to shake my hand
And tell me they were "sorry for my trouble,"
Whispers informed strangers I was the eldest,
Away at school, as my mother held my hand
In hers and coughed out angry tearless sighs.
At ten o'clock the ambulance arrived
With the corpse, stanched and bandaged by the nurses.
Next morning I went up into the room. Snowdrops
And candles soothed the bedside; I saw him
For the first time in six weeks. Paler now,
Wearing a poppy bruise on his left temple,
He lay in the four foot box as in his cot.
No gaudy scars, the bumper knocked him clear.
A four foot box, a foot for every year.
-
Gosh, it doesn't seem that long ago. Thanks, Barb, it wasn't any of those you posted, maybe it wasn't Heaney, but it was in the poetry discussion. Steph was mentioning that she carries that poem:
Do not stand at my grave and weep,
I am not there, I do not sleep.
(1) I am a thousand winds that blow.
I am the diamond glint on snow.
I am the sunlight on ripened grain.
I am the gentle autumn rain.
(2) When you wake in the morning hush,
I am the swift, uplifting rush
Of quiet birds in circling flight.
I am the soft starlight at night.
Do not stand at my grave and weep.
I am not there, I do not sleep.
(Do not stand at my grave and cry.
I am not there, I did not die!)
Text by Mary Frye
I was reminded of that poem I'm trying to remember, for my widowed sister, for my daughter who lost a friend like another mother. for me grieving my baby sister's deqth at 49. Guess it's lost now though I'll keep searching.
-
There were a surprising number of wildflowers blooming, BARB. Not a
great variety, but masses of some yellow blossoms and some white ones.
Couldn't identify them, but suspect in your yard they would be considered
weeds. Beautiful, nonetheless. I saw a couple of beautiful tulip trees
blooming in LA., but after that cold front moved in yesterday morning,
a lot of those blossoms were on the ground.
I was most thankful the weather held just long enough for the outdoor
wedding!
The poems are so sad. The Irish do know how to write of sadness.
-
babi; glad the weather cooperated, for once. is this your first term as mother-in-law?
-
I'm wondering if Steph's poem is Stop All The Clocks by W.H.Auden?
Stop all the clocks,/cut off the telephone,/Prevent the dog from barking with a juicy bone,/Silence the pianos...... it was in Four Weddings and a Funeral.
Another poem is niggling in the back of my mind, but it won't come through :).
-
BABI: were you in LA? I live just 15 minutes from LAX. If I'd known, we could have met for coffee.
-
I was not ready for this cold wind that blew in here over the weekend - it is finally warming up again and it was lovely today.
Joan I think Babi was in Baton Rouge - I believe she lives in Houston and it is a nice run over of sevaral hours on I-10 from Houston to Beaumont and on to Orange the entry town to Texas at the Louisiana border, then on to Lake Charles and Layfayette finally Baton Rouge. Just past Baton Rouge is the cut off to New Orleans or continue on the I-12 spur to Slidell - all so familiar to me since i drive it every year on my way home from my daughter's in North Carolina - I usualy go by way of I-20 and return by way of I-10 where I have less risk of cold, ice or snow.
I-20 is probably a prettier drive however, folks in northern Louisiana and northern Mississippi are not comfortable sharing the road with the eighteen wheelers were as along I-10 folks just barrel along with a lot of long distance drivers from the license plates.
All this traveling reminds me of the Willie Nelson song
On the road again -
Just can't wait to get on the road again.
The life I love is making music with my friends
And I can't wait to get on the road again.
On the road again
Goin' places that I've never been.
Seein' things that I may never see again
And I can't wait to get on the road again.
On the road again -
Like a band of gypsies we go down the highway
We're the best of friends.
Insisting that the world keep turning our way
And our way
is on the road again.
Just can't wait to get on the road again.
The life I love is makin' music with my friends
And I can't wait to get on the road again.
On the road again
Like a band of gypsies we go down the highway
We're the best of friends
Insisting that the world keep turning our way
And our way
is on the road again.
Just can't wait to get on the road again.
The life I love is makin' music with my friends
And I can't wait to get on the road again.
And I can't wait to get on the road again.
-
I love these Basho Haku Spring poems - simple story telling.
Wrapping dumplings in
bamboo leaves, with one finger
she tidies her hair
-
in my new clothing
i feel so different, i must
look like someone else
-
Heated spring air
In tiny waves of an inch or two -
Above wintery grass
-
Spring rain
Leaking through the roof,
Dripping from the wasps' nest
From all these trees –
in salads, soups, everywhere –
cherry blossoms fall
-
(http://seniorlearn.org/bookclubs/poetry/poetryspring'10.jpg) Spring Poetry- Famous Poets and Poems about Spring (http://famouspoetsandpoems.com/thematic_poems/spring_poems.html)
- Spring Poems (http://poetry.about.com/od/ourpoemcollections/a/springpoems.htm)
|
Cuttings
~ Michael P. Garofalo
Ahh, the wide almond groves in full white flower
Stunning in the morning sun.
Old naked Winter in
his garb of grays and browns has run.
Forsythia blooms
Come and go in the blink of a yellow Eye,
Then, suddenly, mysteriously,
Green erupts; and we sigh.
We would love you to Join us
As our hearts race to meet Spring!Discussion Leaders: Barb (augere@ix.netcom.com) & fairanna (fairanna@verizon.net)
|
-
Here is one of Auden's poems that has to do with stopping clocks. And yes, from all I read this is the poem in Four Weddings and a Funeral. I think he used that expression or maybe it was the dogs stop barking in his poem written when Yeats died.
Funeral Blues
Stop all the clocks, cut off the telephone,
Prevent the dog from barking with a juicy bone,
Silence the pianos and with muffled drum
Bring out the coffin, let the mourners come.
Let aeroplanes circle moaning overhead
Scribbling on the sky the message He is Dead.
Put crepe bows round the white necks of the public doves,
Let the traffic policemen wear black cotton gloves.
He was my North, my South, my East and West,
My working week and my Sunday rest,
My noon, my midnight, my talk, my song;
I thought that love would last forever: I was wrong.
The stars are not wanted now; put out every one,
Pack up the moon and dismantle the sun,
Pour away the ocean and sweep up the woods;
For nothing now can ever come to any good.
-
No dogs there is only the mention of wolves
In Memory of W. B. Yeats
~ by W. H. Auden
He disappeared in the dead of winter:
The brooks were frozen, the airports almost deserted,
And snow disfigured the public statues;
The mercury sank in the mouth of the dying day.
What instruments we have agree
The day of his death was a dark cold day.
Far from his illness
The wolves ran on through the evergreen forests,
The peasant river was untempted by the fashionable quays;
By mourning tongues
The death of the poet was kept from his poems.
But for him it was his last afternoon as himself,
An afternoon of nurses and rumours;
The provinces of his body revolted,
The squares of his mind were empty,
Silence invaded the suburbs,
The current of his feeling failed; he became his admirers.
Now he is scattered among a hundred cities
And wholly given over to unfamiliar affections,
To find his happiness in another kind of wood
And be punished under a foreign code of conscience.
The words of a dead man
Are modified in the guts of the living.
But in the importance and noise of to-morrow
When the brokers are roaring like beasts on the floor of the Bourse,
And the poor have the sufferings to which they are fairly accustomed,
And each in the cell of himself is almost convinced of his freedom,
A few thousand will think of this day
As one thinks of a day when one did something slightly unusual.
What instruments we have agree
The day of his death was a dark cold day.
-
Here is a special poem by Mary Lee Hall, read at the funeral of Princess Diana by her eldest sister, Lady Sarah McCorquodale
Turn Again to Life
If I should die and leave you here a while,
be not like others sore undone,
who keep long vigil by the silent dust.
For my sake turn again to life and smile,
nerving thy heart and trembling hand
to do something to comfort other hearts than thine.
Complete these dear unfinished tasks of mine
and I perchance may therein comfort you.
-
ah and this one by Robert Louis Stevenson with its famous last lines.
Requiem
Under the wide and starry sky,
Dig the grave and let me lie.
Glad did I live and gladly die,
And I laid me down with a will.
This be the verse you gave for me:
Here he lies where he longed to be;
Home is the sailor, home from the sea,
And the hunter home from the hill.
-
Oh, no, JACKIE. I've had that honor with all three of my kids.
OOPS! I've run into that confusion before, JOANK. Here in east Texas,
LA is Louisiana. I see Barbara has posted on that, too.
Barb, what a powerful description of dying!
"But for him it was his last afternoon as himself,
An afternoon of nurses and rumours;
The provinces of his body revolted,
The squares of his mind were empty,
Silence invaded the suburbs,.."
I love the Mary Hall poem. I can't think of anything more appropriate.
In view of the long, harsh winter we're having in the northeast, I thought this poem would
be timely:
To Spring
William Blake (1783)
O thou with dewy locks, who lookest down
Through the clear windows of the morning, turn
Thine angel eyes upon our western isle,
Which in full choir hails thy approach, O Spring!
The hills tell one another, and the listening
Valleys hear; all our longing eyes are turn’d
Up to thy bright pavilions: issue forth
And let thy holy feet visit our clime!
Come o’er the eastern hills, and let our winds
Kiss thy perfumèd garments; let us taste
Thy morn and evening breath; scatter thy pearls
Upon our lovesick land that mourns for thee.
O deck her forth with thy fair fingers; pour
Thy soft kisses on her bosom; and put
Thy golden crown upon her languish’d head,
Whose modest tresses are bound up for thee.
-
I love Spring Haiku, too:
The breeze
raises a hair
on the caterpillers back.
Buson (I think).
-
Frost in a mood:
SPRING POOLS
by Robert Frost
These pools that, though in forests, still reflect
The total sky almost without defect,
And like the flowers beside them, chill and shiver,
Will like the flowers beside them soon be gone,
And yet not out by any brook or river,
But up by roots to bring dark foliage on.
The trees that have it in their pent-up buds
To darken nature and be summer woods --
Let them think twice before they use their powers
To blot out and drink up and sweep away
These flowery waters and these watery flowers
From snow that melted only yesterday.
-
The same mood?
VERY EARLY SPRING
by Katherine Mansfield
The fields are snowbound no longer;
There are little blue lakes and flags of tenderest green.
The snow has been caught up into the sky--
So many white clouds--and the blue of the sky is cold.
Now the sun walks in the forest,
He touches the bows and stems with his golden fingers;
They shiver, and wake from slumber.
Over the barren branches he shakes his yellow curls.
Yet is the forest full of the sound of tears....
A wind dances over the fields.
Shrill and clear the sound of her waking laughter,
Yet the little blue lakes tremble
And the flags of tenderest green bend and quiver.
-
The frontier between winter and spring:
SPRING THUNDER
by Mark van Doren
Listen, The wind is still,
And far away in the night --
See! The uplands fill
With a running light.
Open the doors. It is warm;
And where the sky was clear--
Look! The head of a storm
That marches here!
Come under the trembling hedge--
Fast, although you fumble...
There! Did you hear the edge
of winter crumble
-
Interesting Jackie how these poets share a similar vision using a few of the same words and yet, each poem is so different than the other. I do like especially the Van Doren Spring Thunder - although it reminds me less of thunder and more of a romantic description of winter breaking into spring. The lines that caught my breath
There! Did you hear the edge
of winter crumble
-
Can you believe in another week it is April - here is an appropriate poem...
The West Wind
~ by John Masefield
IT'S a warm wind, the west wind, full of birds' cries;
I never hear the west wind but tears are in my eyes.
For it comes from the west lands, the old brown hills.
And April's in the west wind, and daffodils.
It's a fine land, the west land, for hearts as tired as mine,
Apple orchards blossom there, and the air's like wine.
There is cool green grass there, where men may lie at rest,
And the thrushes are in song there, fluting from the nest.
"Will ye not come home brother? ye have been long away,
It's April, and blossom time, and white is the may;
And bright is the sun brother, and warm is the rain,--
Will ye not come home, brother, home to us again?
"The young corn is green, brother, where the rabbits run.
It's blue sky, and white clouds, and warm rain and sun.
It's song to a man's soul, brother, fire to a man's brain,
To hear the wild bees and see the merry spring again.
"Larks are singing in the west, brother, above the green wheat,
So will ye not come home, brother, and rest your tired feet?
I've a balm for bruised hearts, brother, sleep for aching eyes,"
Says the warm wind, the west wind, full of birds' cries.
It's the white road westwards is the road I must tread
To the green grass, the cool grass, and rest for heart and head,
To the violets, and the warm hearts, and the thrushes' song,
In the fine land, the west land, the land where I belong.
-
Four beautiful poems by four of the best. Thank you so much.
-
Reviewing the past couple of days poem offerings and Babi I thought to look up William Blake to see if he had accompanied the To Spring poem you shared with any art work - didn't find art work but did find he wrote another poem about Spring where as the one you shared is To Spring.
Here is William Blake's
Spring
Sound the flute!
Now it’s mute.
Birds delight
Day and night.
Nightingale
In the dale,
Lark in the sky,
Merrily,
Merrily, merrily to welcome in the year.
Little boy
Full of joy,
Little girl
Sweet and small.
Cock does crow,
So do you.
Merry voice,
Infant noise,
Merrily, merrily to welcome in the year.
Little lamb
Here I am
Come and lick
My white neck.
Let me pull
Your soft wool.
Let me kiss
Your soft face,
Merrily, merrily we welcome in the year.
Also, reading about his life and his art I had no idea that his art were these tiny drawings - some only an inch high that he did on copper plate etchings and his wife is the one who colored them.
-
I've a balm for bruised hearts, brother, sleep for aching eyes,
How many times has my heart been bruised, my eyes ached?
-
March haiku
March is vanishing
with the leafless winter trees
- each week is greener
Peter S. Quinn
-
We had gotten not only greener grass but redbuds and ornamental pears blooming. Then
the cold rudely returned and many of those blossoms disappeared. (sigh)
Here's a quote I appreciate:
I frequently tramped eight or ten miles through the deepest snow
to keep an appointment with a beech-tree,
or a yellow birch, or an old acquaintance among the pines.- Henry David Thoreau, 1817 - 1862
-
Lovely memory that you raised Babi - we read Thoreau's Walden back when we were with SeniroNet - it is a book that can be easily read many times and each time another sentence says more than an earlier read. There are many bits of the book but vivid was a story of his watching ants - he notices a large black ant battling with a smaller red ant. Looking more closely, he sees that it is actually part of a large conflict pitting an army of black ants against an army of red ants twice its number, but whose soldiers are half the size of the black army. Thoreau meditates on its resemblance to human wars, and concludes that the ants are just as fierce and spirited as human soldiers. The ant battles remind him of the legions of Myrmidons. Of course I had to look up Myrmidons and learned they were the supporters of Achilles during the Trojan Wars.
I often wondered after reading his chapter on Spring; where he describes the thundering of the pond as air bubbles are released because of the sun melting the ice from the underside in addition to the ice melting from direct sunlight, I wondered if the thundering sound of ponds melting is still heard in the north where ponds freeze over the winter months or is there so much housing that the sound is not an event because of the sound of traffic etc. overwhelms. I am assuming the ponds still thunder just the sound may no longer be heard by those living near a pond.
Here you go Jackie, a couple of translations of the Matsuo Bashô Haiku about ponds and frogs.
Old pond — frogs jumped in — sound of water.
A lonely pond in age-old stillness sleeps . . .
Apart, unstirred by sound or motion . . . till
Suddenly into it a lithe frog leaps
I love this translation by Allen Ginsberg
The old pond
A frog jumped in,
Kerplunk!
Oh and this is funny - by Alfred H. Marks
There once was a curious frog
Who sat by a pond on a log
And, to see what resulted,
In the pond catapulted
With a water-noise heard round the bog.
-
I looked to see if Allen Ginsberg had any poem that was rooted in Spring - couldn't find anything but did find this one which is one of his shorter poems.
New Stanzas for Amazing Grace
~ by Allen Ginsberg
I dreamed I dwelled in a homeless place
Where I was lost alone
Folk looked right through me into space
And passed with eyes of stone
O homeless hand on many a street
Accept this change from me
A friendly smile or word is sweet
As fearless charity
Woe workingman who hears the cry
And cannot spare a dime
Nor look into a homeless eye
Afraid to give the time
So rich or poor no gold to talk
A smile on your face
The homeless ones where you may walk
Receive amazing grace
I dreamed I dwelled in a homeless place
Where I was lost alone
Folk looked right through me into space
And passed with eyes of stone
-
The little South Boston nun who taught me fresheman English loved Robert Frost so much; at this time of year she liked to declaim :
"Come with rain thou loud southwestah!
Bring the singah! Bring the nestah!
-
Frost is my favorite, too. This Dickinson verse baffles me
Absent Place -- an April Day --
by Emily Dickinson
Absent Place -- an April Day --
Daffodils a-blow
Homesick curiosity
To the Souls that snow --
Drift may block within it
Deeper than without --
Daffodil delight but
Him it duplicate --
-
Barb, Myrmidons are an apt analogy for the ants. Not only were they the
supporters of Achilles, they had a reputation for unquestioning
obedience to orders. The term is still used for people who do that
for their employers. Such as politicians and gangsters. :-X
I've never seen that Dickinson poem before, JACKIE. Sorry, it baffles
me, too. ???
-
Robert Frost's "Two Tramps in Mud Time" is too long to post but this verse is too good to pass up.
The sun was warm but the wind was chill.
You know how it is with an April day
When the sun is out and the wind is still,
You’re one month on in the middle of May.
But if you so much as dare to speak,
A cloud comes over the sunlit arch,
A wind comes off a frozen peak,
And you’re two months back in the middle of March.
-
I love it - here is a link to the entire Frost poem http://www.etymonline.com/poems/tramps.htm
OK here is my take on the poem
Absent Place -- an April Day --
Daffodils a-blow
Homesick curiosity
To the Souls
That much says to me the absent place is someplace where the "soul" exists with a memory of the April Day where Daffodils blow - the only place I can think of is where ever we go upon death.
that snow --
Drift may block within it
Read as a sentence with no period after snow or after the two "--" but there is a period after "it". Frost uses the word, "within" - a snow drift is freezing cold and the cold is a block within.
Deeper than without --
Says to me make a mind leap because, how can anything be deep "without" except maybe thoughts - OK if it is thoughts the deep place he is speaking about that is blocked by cold has to be a place where even thoughts are blocked - again, death seems the only possibility.
Daffodil delight but
Him it duplicate --
Confusing phrase however what I get is "Deeper than without" the "Daffodil delight" - as an April day memory -
"But" used here could easily be considered meaning "save". (Meaning of save (preposition) except; besides; but.) -
Now for the big question - since it is the end of the poem the last line would be the turn or punch line - and so, How do we understand the "Him" - OK who is the "Him" - could "Him" be God that duplicates the daffodil - that thought makes sense but the way the line is written I am not sure exactly what it means - we are assuming "Him" is the subject and "it" is the object - as if it said 'Him duplicate it.'
We know that "duplicate" is an action verb - however, if we switch and make "Him" the object and "it" the subject the phrase seems to be saying that the "Him" can duplicate "it" meaning the daffodil or the switch, "it" meaning the daffodil can duplicate "Him" -
Either way we agree, no one has ever seen God and we give God the power to create everything that ever was and ever will be. Therefore, the Daffodil, if not directly God is certainly a bit of His handiwork and by God's Handiwork He is known therefore, the daffodil could be Handiwork of God or the daffodil could be a duplicate of a frozen memory of God.
Quote from the Bible - Romans 1:19-20, "For what can be known about God is plain to them, because God has shown it to them. For his invisible attributes, namely, his eternal power and divine nature, have been clearly perceived, ever since the creation of the world, in the things that have been made."
Then for the other perspective, we have Thomas Aquinas writing a long dissertation on memory and intelligence where he suggests that within each of us is a natural pull towards God. Aquinas believed that "several sensations grouped together would create a memory, and that many memories grouped together equal sense experience. Sense knowledge is only understandable by the action of the intellect. Knowledge begins in sense and is completed in the intellect."
He writes, "Belief occurs through faith... Objects of belief deal with divine matters which exceed man's cognitive capabilities."
All to say, Aquinas' belief supports the idea that there is a sense knowledge that is beyond our cognitive understanding and could be re-activated upon death when we are again in the presence of God therefore, the daffodil as a memory after death along with the blowing could be duplicating God.
Without adding more quotes and research to this post there is the whole issue of the air being God as our breath, our first breath and our last breath is God and given reverence in the Om sound prayed by Tibetian monks.
Most agree that Dickinson used her Transcendental beliefs in her poetry - which includes submission to an interior God which is reached by meditation through the surrender of the breath - http://itech.fgcu.edu/faculty/wohlpart/alra/edidwell.htm
-
This is long but so appropriate...
The End Of March
~ by Elizabeth Bishop
For John Malcolm Brinnin and Bill Read: Duxbury
It was cold and windy, scarcely the day
to take a walk on that long beach
Everything was withdrawn as far as possible,
indrawn: the tide far out, the ocean shrunken,
seabirds in ones or twos.
The rackety, icy, offshore wind
numbed our faces on one side;
disrupted the formation
of a lone flight of Canada geese;
and blew back the low, inaudible rollers
in upright, steely mist.
The sky was darker than the water
--it was the color of mutton-fat jade.
Along the wet sand, in rubber boots, we followed
a track of big dog-prints (so big
they were more like lion-prints). Then we came on
lengths and lengths, endless, of wet white string,
looping up to the tide-line, down to the water,
over and over. Finally, they did end:
a thick white snarl, man-size, awash,
rising on every wave, a sodden ghost,
falling back, sodden, giving up the ghost...
A kite string?--But no kite.
I wanted to get as far as my proto-dream-house,
my crypto-dream-house, that crooked box
set up on pilings, shingled green,
a sort of artichoke of a house, but greener
(boiled with bicarbonate of soda?),
protected from spring tides by a palisade
of--are they railroad ties?
(Many things about this place are dubious.)
I'd like to retire there and do nothing,
or nothing much, forever, in two bare rooms:
look through binoculars, read boring books,
old, long, long books, and write down useless notes,
talk to myself, and, foggy days,
watch the droplets slipping, heavy with light.
At night, a grog a l'américaine.
I'd blaze it with a kitchen match
and lovely diaphanous blue flame
would waver, doubled in the window.
There must be a stove; there is a chimney,
askew, but braced with wires,
and electricity, possibly
--at least, at the back another wire
limply leashes the whole affair
to something off behind the dunes.
A light to read by--perfect! But--impossible.
And that day the wind was much too cold
even to get that far,
and of course the house was boarded up.
On the way back our faces froze on the other side.
The sun came out for just a minute.
For just a minute, set in their bezels of sand,
the drab, damp, scattered stones
were multi-colored,
and all those high enough threw out long shadows,
individual shadows, then pulled them in again.
They could have been teasing the lion sun,
except that now he was behind them
--a sun who'd walked the beach the last low tide,
making those big, majestic paw-prints,
who perhaps had batted a kite out of the sky to play with.
-
BARB, I do admire your exegesis on the Dickinson poem. Frankly, my own
thought was that she was 'under the influence' and couldn't say exactly
what she was trying to say. But of course, if that were true, she wouldn't
have kept the result, would she?
-
That puzzled me, too. Why was this poem preserved? There must be more to it than I could discern but it was too subtle for me. A magnificent analysis, Barb. Thank you.
I do like the imagery in Bishop's poem. She invites me to smell the salt air, feel the wind, the sun, wonder at the paw prints and kite string. And the house, bleak as it sounds, is seductively calling me to become one with it. I'll want to read more of Bishop's works.
-
I was looking in my poetry collection for a Bishop poem to post, and found this instead. I don't remember where I got it -- maybe from this site:
Al Young
Sea Level
1. Even a hair
when you bend closely
to look at it on the beach
beams read & yellow & blue
& green the very way
prisms imprison light
& break it up into colors
It all seems to be
a matter of getting down
close enough to look
& see what is & what isn't
Sea level is where we
mostly don't live
yet under the cloud-bright sky
next to the endless sea
next to the endless ocean
we see on the level
& blending vision oceanic
with the shy horizon
the distances shorten
& the moments lengthen
rather after the manner
of sand that doesn't know
it's sand all by itself
but only when a billion grains
gather together in its name
Let white light flame
into every color it wishes
Just give us the power to see
-
Words to live by
Just give us the power to see
-
And here's Bishop, but not the one I was looking for:
Elizabeth Bishop - Sandpiper
1.
The roaring alongside he takes for granted,
and that every so often the world is bound to shake.
He runs, he runs to the south, finical, awkward,
in a state of controlled panic, a student of Blake.
The beach hisses like fat. On his left, a sheet
of interrupting water comes and goes
and glazes over his dark and brittle feet.
He runs, he runs straight through it, watching his toes.
--Watching, rather, the spaces of sand between them
where (no detail too small) the Atlantic drains
rapidly backwards and downwards. As he runs,
he stares at the dragging grains.
The world is a mist. And then the world is
minute and vast and clear. The tide
is higher or lower. He couldn't tell you which.
His beak is focussed; he is preoccupied,
looking for something, something, something.
Poor bird, he is obsessed!
The millions of grains are black, white, tan, and gray
mixed with quartz grains, rose and amethyst.
-
I really like the Al Young poem, JOAN. I think I know the feeling he is
describing.
"..a state of controlled panic, a student of Blake."
;) Oh, my. what is she saying about Blake?
Here's another Frost I like:
Tree at my Window
by Robert Frost
Tree at my window, window tree,
My sash is lowered when night comes on;
But let there never be curtain drawn
Between you and me.
Vague dream-head lifted out of the ground,
And thing next most diffuse to cloud,
Not all your light tongues talking aloud
Could be profound.
But tree, I have seen you taken and tossed,
And if you have seen me when I slept,
You have seen me when I was taken and swept
And all but lost.
That day she put our heads together,
Fate had her imagination about her,
Your head so much concerned with outer,
Mine with inner, weather.
-
Oh, Babi, That one is a treasure. I've never read it and I thought I had read all of Frost. Thank you,
-
A treat - Two Gems -
I like the Sandpiper and see the antics of the Sandpiper as a metaphor to most of us as we go through life looking for something while we are surrounded with colors and the precious, made so by beauty and scarcity.
The Robert Frost, like you Jackie, I do not remember ever reading it - the last word 'weather' describing our inner concerns is wonderful...!
Today is a grand Spring day. The new leaves a lighter green against a sky which is so blue it almost looks unreal. Opening the patio door to look out it is scary unreal, pinch yourself are you still dreaming unreal.
Went for a short walk last night rather than watch the news. What a treat. The moon is full, big and bright shining so much light there were shadows from the trees on the sidewalk.
Here is a poem about the moon and its shadow by Li Po who lived 701 - 762 and who is considered one of China's greatest premodern poets.
Three—With the Moon and His Shadow
With a jar of wine I sit by the flowering trees.
I drink alone, and where are my friends?
Ah, the moon above looks down on me;
I call and lift my cup to his brightness.
And see, there goes my shadow before me.
Ho! We're a party of three, I say,—
Though the poor moon can't drink,
And my shadow but dances around me,
We're all friends to-night,
The drinker, the moon and the shadow.
Let our revelry be meet for the spring time!
I sing, the wild moon wanders the sky.
I dance, my shadow goes tumbling about.
While we're awake, let us join in carousal;
Only sweet drunkenness shall ever part us.
Let us pledge a friendship no mortals know,
And often hail each other at evening
Far across the vast and vaporous space!
-
A lovely poem, BARB, but I can't help thinking Li Po had a drinking problem, and his drinking,
singing and dancing by moonlight probably disturbed his neighbors no end. ;)
-
I have missed you ....Easter Sunday will be a year since my friend and companion left for a far better place than we hold dear...Winter has been so cruel to most of the world this year.. and being locked in with snow and ice has frustrated all I know... I leave a couple of weeks from now for a month in California My youngest brother lives in Sacramento and they are having a family reunion as the youngest and last grandson graduates from High School so I shall be there Also in San Francisco to see my youngest who is temporally residing there If any one lives in those areas let me know and perhaps we can meet ..
My many thanks to Barbara for keeping this going...and for the contributions of all...I keep feeling I will heal enough and am hoping this trip by train will allow that to happen. I haven't been writing or reading a lot lately ..there is a lot of work getting ready to leave for such a long time..Looking for another poem I found some haiku's I wrote for a poetry assignment in /98 it was spring and so this is about that time but as I added to the top of my paper haiku is too terse for gabby me ..but perhaps you will enjoy them
and this was true this year
Winter wind scours
frozen frigid frosted land
Spring cringes
Spring rains
Semen for the birth
Of eager earth
Winter moon
Polished pewter plate
Frozen light
Doves beak to beak
Carry straw to the fragrant fir
Homesteading
and my favorite
Dandelions ignorant
Do not know they are a weed
They just breed
MY PRAYERS ARE WITH YOU AND HOPES THAT THIS WILL BE A WONDERFUL SPRING FOR ALL HAPPY EASTER AND A GLORIOUS DAY ALWAYS ..anna
-
Anna: Lovely haiku. Thank you for thinking of us. We are missing you, our chorus sounds flat with your lovely voice silenced by grief. All your friends, past and present, are standing by, eager to help you along your journey.
-
God Speed Fairanna - hope you have a wonderful time and the trip goes well.
Here is a 'listening' poem; a skill that most who write use to reflect the universe in terms of the human condition. To you Fairanna one of our 'listeners'.
The Listeners
-- Walter de la Mare
'Is there anybody there?' said the Traveller,
Knocking on the moonlit door;
And his horse in the silence champed the grasses
Of the forest's ferny floor:
And a bird flew up out of the turret,
Above the Traveller's head
And he smote upon the door again a second time;
'Is there anybody there?' he said.
But no one descended to the Traveller;
No head from the leaf-fringed sill
Leaned over and looked into his grey eyes,
Where he stood perplexed and still.
But only a host of phantom listeners
That dwelt in the lone house then
Stood listening in the quiet of the moonlight
To that voice from the world of men:
Stood thronging the faint moonbeams on the dark stair,
That goes down to the empty hall,
Hearkening in an air stirred and shaken
By the lonely Traveller's call.
And he felt in his heart their strangeness,
Their stillness answering his cry,
While his horse moved, cropping the dark turf,
'Neath the starred and leafy sky;
For he suddenly smote on the door, even
Louder, and lifted his head:-
'Tell them I came, and no one answered,
That I kept my word,' he said.
Never the least stir made the listeners,
Though every word he spake
Fell echoing through the shadowiness of the still house
From the one man left awake:
Ay, they heard his foot upon the stirrup,
And the sound of iron on stone,
And how the silence surged softly backward,
When the plunging hoofs were gone.
-
What a vivid picture he paints with so few words. The cadence reminded me of Noyes' The Highwayman, the nameless horseman futilely knocking is so clear. This is one I will long remember.
-
We are so close to changing the page I want to change it this morning while I am online - so here are two posts to get us to the magic number.
Spring Rain
~ Sara Teasdale -
I thought I had forgotten,
But it all came back again
To-night with the first spring thunder
In a rush of rain.
I remembered a darkened doorway
Where we stood while the storm swept by,
Thunder gripping the earth
And lightning scrawled on the sky.
The passing motor busses swayed,
For the street was a river of rain,
Lashed into little golden waves
In the lamp light's stain.
With the wild spring rain and thunder
My heart was wild and gay;
Your eyes said more to me that night
Than your lips would ever say. . . .
I thought I had forgotten,
But it all came back again
To-night with the first spring thunder
In a rush of rain.
-
Matsuo Basho
Spring rain
Spring rain
leaking through the roof
dripping from the wasps' nest.
-
(http://seniorlearn.org/bookclubs/poetry/poetryspring10.jpg) Spring Poetry- Famous Poets and Poems about Spring (http://famouspoetsandpoems.com/thematic_poems/spring_poems.html)
- Spring Poems (http://poetry.about.com/od/ourpoemcollections/a/springpoems.htm)
|
Cuttings
~ Michael P. Garofalo
Ahh, the wide almond groves in full white flower
Stunning in the morning sun.
Old naked Winter in
his garb of grays and browns has run.
Forsythia blooms
Come and go in the blink of a yellow Eye,
Then, suddenly, mysteriously,
Green erupts; and we sigh.
We would love you to Join us
As our hearts race to meet Spring!Discussion Leaders: Barb (augere@ix.netcom.com) & fairanna (fairanna@verizon.net)
|
-
When there isn't the right word, make it up:
JUST BEFORE APRIL CAME
by Carl Sandburg
THE SNOW piles in dark places are gone.
Pools by the railroad tracks shine clear.
The gravel of all shallow places shines.
A white pigeon reels and somersaults.
Frogs plutter and squdge—and frogs beat the air with a recurring thin steel sliver of melody.
Crows go in fives and tens; they march their black feathers past a blue pool; they celebrate an old festival.
A spider is trying his webs, a pink bug sits on my hand washing his forelegs.
I might ask: Who are these people?
-
Nothing Gold Can Stay
Robert Frost
Nature's first green is gold,
Her hardest hue to hold.
Her early leaf's a flower;
But only so an hour.
Then leaf subsides to leaf.
So Eden sank to grief,
So dawn goes down to day.
Nothing gold can stay.
-
ANNA, I especially loved the doves and the 'fragrant fir homesteading'.
Have a wonderful time with your family; California should be lovely in
May.
JACKIE, I always confuse Noyes and de la Mare, I guess for just that
reason. They both produce that poignant, sad atmosphere in their poetry.
This one, the man who returned as he had promised but too late, is a
perfect example.
"Plutter and squdge". How marvelous!
-
Yes, "plutter and squdge" also made me smile - I thought we would do this in sections - Part one here and Part two in the next post...
Alfred Noyes (1880-1958)
The Highwayman
PART ONE
I
THE wind was a torrent of darkness among the gusty trees,
The moon was a ghostly galleon tossed upon cloudy seas,
The road was a ribbon of moonlight over the purple moor,
And the highwayman came riding—
Riding—riding—
The highwayman came riding, up to the old inn-door.
II
He'd a French cocked-hat on his forehead, a bunch of lace at his chin,
A coat of the claret velvet, and breeches of brown doe-skin;
They fitted with never a wrinkle: his boots were up to the thigh!
And he rode with a jewelled twinkle,
His pistol butts a-twinkle,
His rapier hilt a-twinkle, under the jewelled sky.
III
Over the cobbles he clattered and clashed in the dark inn-yard,
And he tapped with his whip on the shutters, but all was locked and barred;
He whistled a tune to the window, and who should be waiting there
But the landlord's black-eyed daughter,
Bess, the landlord's daughter,
Plaiting a dark red love-knot into her long black hair.
IV
And dark in the dark old inn-yard a stable-wicket creaked
Where Tim the ostler listened; his face was white and peaked;
His eyes were hollows of madness, his hair like mouldy hay,
But he loved the landlord's daughter,
The landlord's red-lipped daughter,
Dumb as a dog he listened, and he heard the robber say—
V
"One kiss, my bonny sweetheart, I'm after a prize to-night,
But I shall be back with the yellow gold before the morning light;
Yet, if they press me sharply, and harry me through the day,
Then look for me by moonlight,
Watch for me by moonlight,
I'll come to thee by moonlight, though hell should bar the way."
VI
He rose upright in the stirrups; he scarce could reach her hand,
But she loosened her hair i' the casement! His face burnt like a brand
As the black cascade of perfume came tumbling over his breast;
And he kissed its waves in the moonlight,
(Oh, sweet, black waves in the moonlight!)
Then he tugged at his rein in the moonliglt, and galloped away to the West.
-
PART TWO
I
He did not come in the dawning; he did not come at noon;
And out o' the tawny sunset, before the rise o' the moon,
When the road was a gypsy's ribbon, looping the purple moor,
A red-coat troop came marching—
Marching—marching—
King George's men came matching, up to the old inn-door.
II
They said no word to the landlord, they drank his ale instead,
But they gagged his daughter and bound her to the foot of her narrow bed;
Two of them knelt at her casement, with muskets at their side!
There was death at every window;
And hell at one dark window;
For Bess could see, through her casement, the road that he would ride.
III
They had tied her up to attention, with many a sniggering jest;
They had bound a musket beside her, with the barrel beneath her breast!
"Now, keep good watch!" and they kissed her.
She heard the dead man say—
Look for me by moonlight;
Watch for me by moonlight;
I'll come to thee by moonlight, though hell should bar the way!
IV
She twisted her hands behind her; but all the knots held good!
She writhed her hands till her fingers were wet with sweat or blood!
They stretched and strained in the darkness, and the hours crawled by like years,
Till, now, on the stroke of midnight,
Cold, on the stroke of midnight,
The tip of one finger touched it! The trigger at least was hers!
V
The tip of one finger touched it; she strove no more for the rest!
Up, she stood up to attention, with the barrel beneath her breast,
She would not risk their hearing; she would not strive again;
For the road lay bare in the moonlight;
Blank and bare in the moonlight;
And the blood of her veins in the moonlight throbbed to her love's refrain .
VI
Tlot-tlot; tlot-tlot! Had they heard it? The horse-hoofs ringing clear;
Tlot-tlot, tlot-tlot, in the distance? Were they deaf that they did not hear?
Down the ribbon of moonlight, over the brow of the hill,
The highwayman came riding,
Riding, riding!
The red-coats looked to their priming! She stood up, straight and still!
VII
Tlot-tlot, in the frosty silence! Tlot-tlot, in the echoing night!
Nearer he came and nearer! Her face was like a light!
Her eyes grew wide for a moment; she drew one last deep breath,
Then her finger moved in the moonlight,
Her musket shattered the moonlight,
Shattered her breast in the moonlight and warned him—with her death.
VIII
He turned; he spurred to the West; he did not know who stood
Bowed, with her head o'er the musket, drenched with her own red blood!
Not till the dawn he heard it, his face grew grey to hear
How Bess, the landlord's daughter,
The landlord's black-eyed daughter,
Had watched for her love in the moonlight, and died in the darkness there.
IX
Back, he spurred like a madman, shrieking a curse to the sky,
With the white road smoking behind him and his rapier brandished high!
Blood-red were his spurs i' the golden noon; wine-red was his velvet coat,
When they shot him down on the highway,
Down like a dog on the highway,
And he lay in his blood on the highway, with the bunch of lace at his throat.
* * * * * *
X
And still of a winter's night, they say, when the wind is in the trees,
When the moon is a ghostly galleon tossed upon cloudy seas,
When the road is a ribbon of moonlight over the purple moor,
A highwayman comes riding—
Riding—riding—
A highwayman comes riding, up to the old inn-door.
XI
Over the cobbles he clatters and clangs in the dark inn-yard;
He taps with his whip on the shutters, but all is locked and barred;
He whistles a tune to the window, and who should be waiting there
But the landlord's black-eyed daughter,
Bess, the landlord's daughter,
Plaiting a dark red love-knot into her long black hair.
-
Ah, I'm an old woman now, and that poem still hasn't lost it's power.
-
Babi: So true, so true.
-
PatH and I both memorized that poem when we were young. She can still recite it from memory.
-
Ah yes, how a girl was taught her place and the expected behavior even in the choice of classroom poetry while the boys learned to give air to their sexual and dare devil behavior. Another favorite was Longfellow's 'The Wreck of the Hesperus' where she perishes tied to the mast for her own safety - talk about a metaphor for women tied to what men thought was the polarity of their world.
If you can get past the message of these poems the rhythm and word choices cannot be beat. We do not have poets today that can hammer it out while they grab our attention with high drama. It is almost like the old movies with the gal tied to the rails while the train looms down - a world where what matters is - black or white, good or bad, women or men, cavalry or foot soldier, swashbuckler or dull steady all the dualities of past centuries passed on in song and poetry.
From just a bit later in time here is a poem with a different view of the world.
Lines Written In Early Spring
by William Wordsworth.
I heard a thousand blended notes,
While in a grove I sate reclined,
In that sweet mood when pleasant thoughts
Bring sad thoughts to the mind.
To her fair works did Nature link
The human soul that through me ran;
And much it grieved my heart to think
What man has made of man.
Through primrose tufts, in that green bower,
The periwinkle trailed its wreaths;
And 'tis my faith that every flower
Enjoys the air it breathes.
The birds around me hopped and played,
Their thoughts I cannot measure: --
But the least motion which they made,
It seemed a thrill of pleasure.
The budding twigs spread out their fan,
To catch the breezy air;
And I must think, do all I can,
That there was pleasure there.
If this belief from heaven be sent,
If such be Nature's holy plan,
Have I not reason to lament
What man has made of man?
-
Thought I knew where that one was going but the ending was a shocker.
-
looks like we could use a couple of cheerful Spring poems in here after all that rumble with a mighty stead or the depression expressed about man's inadequacies...
First Crocus
by Christine Klocek-Lim
This morning, flowers cracked open
the earth’s brown shell. Spring
leaves spilled everywhere
though winter’s stern hand
could come down again at any moment
to break the delicate yolk
of a new bloom.
The crocus don’t see this as they chatter
beneath a cheerful petal of spring sky.
They ignore the air’s brisk arm
as they peer at their fresh stems, step
on the leftover fragments
of old leaves.
When the night wind twists them to pieces,
they will die like this: laughing,
tossing their brilliant heads
in the bitter air.
First Sight
by Philip Larkin -
Lambs that learn to walk in snow
When their bleating clouds the air
Meet a vast unwelcome, know
Nothing but a sunless glare.
Newly stumbling to and fro
All they find, outside the fold,
Is a wretched width of cold.
As they wait beside the ewe,
Her fleeces wetly caked, there lies
Hidden round them, waiting too,
Earth's immeasurable surprise.
They could not grasp it if they knew,
What so soon will wake and grow
Utterly unlike the snow.
-
A poem in my pocket
~ Barbara Kasey Smith
The poem in my pocket...
its tattered, torn and stained everywhere
words do not come easy when life stands still
it's been wadded, retrieved, and pulled out of the trash
its hung in my pants pocket throughout the nights
its like a rabbits foot to bring me good luck.
Its rode miles were situations weren't great
I often slip in my hand to touch it to give me faith.
The ages of time shows its toll
the words are smeared...its hard to fold
time may erase written words of truth
its a part of my soul...where I've bared it all.
A poem in my pocket...
speaks of things right and wrong
heartaches, deaths, loves, and surprises
these declarations came straight from my soul
this poem in my pocket keeps me writing for sure
its eventual ending will complete my story
-
BARB, that "Poem in My Pocket" sounds like it was made for you, with your love for poetry.
I couldn't find a resurrection poem I liked, to celebrate this Easter Sunday, so I am offering
this instead. I've always liked it.
L'Envoi
When Earth's last picture is painted, and the tubes are twisted and dried,
When the oldest colors have faded, and the youngest critic has died,
We shall rest, and, faith, we shall need it -- lie down for an aeon or two,
Till the Master of All Good Workmen shall set us to work anew!
And those that were good shall be happy: they shall sit in a golden chair;
They shall splash at a ten-league canvas with brushes of comets' hair;
They shall find real saints to draw from -- Magdalene, Peter, and Paul,
They shall work for an age at a sitting and never be tired at all!
And only the Master shall praise us, and only the Master shall blame;
And no one shall work for money, and no one shall work for fame;
But each for the joy of the working, and each, in his separate star;
Shall draw the Thing as he sees it, for the God of Things as They Are!
Rudyard Kipling
-
Treasures all, today's offerings. Today I'm grateful for the reminders of how wondrous is Spring. The Master Painter gives me solace sorely needed. I almost lost my dear sister Thursday; she began hemorrhaging from her nose and when the ambulance came they could not find her blood pressure, her heart went in arrhythmia, it was touch and go. She's fine now and will be seen by the cardiac team at her HMO Monday. Her daughter flew up from San Jose though I was prepared to stay with her. What precipitated the hemorrhage we still don't know. My deepest thanks.
-
Oh Jackie, you must have been scared out of your wits - thank goodness her daughter lives as close as she does so that in a few hours she could be there - you are probably not resting wanting to be by her side and yet, your own energy is less than what is needed for a 24 hour vigil - is there ever a time in our lives when we can handle well what is happening to a loved one - I guess we just know the risk is greater as we age when loss seems harder to contemplate.
Jackie I know you probably will not rest solid till after you hear from the doctors but please try to nap and conserve your energy. This may be a busy few days not only with your sister having greater needs but there is more family in and out of your lives. A change in routine is always draining - Jackie our prayers will be with and for you and your sister and your your family. Thanks for letting us know.
Prayer is the little implement
~ by Emily Dickinson
Prayer is the little implement
Through which Men reach
Where Presence -- is denied them.
They fling their Speech
By means of it -- in God's Ear --
If then He hear --
This sums the Apparatus
Comprised in Prayer --
-
EASTER-WINGS
By George Herbert
LORD, who createdst man in wealth and store,
Though foolishly he lost the same,
Decaying more and more,
Till he became
Most poor:
With thee
O let me rise
As larks, harmoniously,
And sing this day thy victories:
Then shall the fall further the flight in me.
My tender age in sorrow did beginne:
And still with sicknesses and shame
Thou didst so punish sinne,
That I became
Most thinne.
With thee
Let me combine,
And feel this day thy victorie,
For, if I imp my wing on thine,
Affliction shall advance the flight in me
-
We'll be getting together today at her son's place in Corvallis. Exciting news on that front is that he will be dining at the White House in the near future. Stay Tuned
I do feel shaky; seeing her today will be a boon though she sounds fine on the phone.
-
Oh, my, JACKIE, I am so glad to hear your sister pulled through the
crisis. Sisters are so close. I never had one, but it is a deep pleasure
to me to see how wonderfully my two daughters relate.
Your phrase, 'Master Painter', reminds me of a hymn that used to be sung
at my church, a beautiful song that I loved very much. It featured the term
'Master Artist'. I have tried and tried to find the lyrics to that hymn, but
without success. The title must be different. I wondered, when I read your
post, if you knew of it?
-
I wish I did, BABI. My sister looks fine but her energy is still low. Her daughter is going with her to the cardio eval, armed with questions and she will demand answers. Best news, my sister will be going down to San Jose; her grandson who works in Omaha, will be in SJ mid-month. We had a lovely time with lots of laughter. Hope your Easter was fine, too.
-
Jackie: I'm so glad your sister is recovering. I'll keep her in my thoughts.
-
Acquainted with the Night
~ Robert Frost (1923)
I have been one acquainted with the night.
I have walked out in rain — and back in rain.
I have outwalked the furthest city light.
I have looked down the saddest city lane.
I have passed by the watchman on his beat
And dropped my eyes, unwilling to explain.
I have stood still and stopped the sound of feet
When far away an interrupted cry
Came over houses from another street,
But not to call me back or say good-bye;
And further still at an unearthly height,
One luminary clock against the sky
Proclaimed the time was neither wrong nor right.
I have been one acquainted with the night.
-
Spring, the Sweet Spring
~ from Summer’s Last Will and Testament by Thomas Nashe (1600)
Spring, the sweet spring, is the year’s pleasant king,
Then blooms each thing, then maids dance in a ring,
Cold doth not sting, the pretty birds do sing:
Cuckoo, jug-jug, pu-we, to-witta-woo!
The palm and may make country houses gay,
Lambs frisk and play, the shepherds pipe all day,
And we hear aye birds tune this merry lay:
Cuckoo, jug-jug, pu-we, to-witta-woo!
The fields breathe sweet, the daisies kiss our feet,
Young lovers meet, old wives a-sunning sit,
In every street these tunes our ears do greet:
Cuckoo, jug-jug, pu-we, to witta-woo!
-
And another from similar time in history using the cuckoo - I think of the cuckoo clock and the song sung by the Trapp family in the movie with Julie Andrews - evidently the cuckoo is a species of birds that according to this article is not prolific in North America where as it is in Europe - http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Cuckoo
Spring
~ Song, from Act V, Scene 2 of Love’s Labors Lost by William Shakespeare (1598)
When daisies pied, and violets blue,
And lady-smocks all silver-white,
And cuckoo-buds of yellow hue
Do paint the meadows with delight,
The cuckoo then, on every tree,
Mocks married men, for thus sings he:
“Cuckoo!
Cuckoo, cuckoo!” O word of fear,
Unpleasing to a married ear.
When shepherds pipe on oaten straws,
And merry larks are ploughmen’s clocks,
When turtles tread, and rooks, and daws,
And maidens bleach their summer smocks,
The cuckoo then, on every tree,
Mocks married men, for thus sings he:
“Cuckoo!
Cuckoo, cuckoo!” O word of fear,
Unpleasing to a married ear.
-
Frost's words are so evocative, I feel as though I took those walks, too.
Times have changed. The 'old wives' aren't sitting in the sun; they're down at
the Senior Center playing bridge!
-
What a treasure to read your posts..and the Highwayman and others reminded me why I love poems ..I thought as I read the Highwayman how a narrative poem tells a whole story with a few lines that rhyme while it will take a book to tell the same in a 1000 words ..so verse is terse and books are often too long
I wish I could pack my spring here and deliver it to your door...yesterday was spent in my yard ( I have to make sure it survives my absence) every flowering tree was in full bloom and overhead my apple tree held a million pale pink blooms ..I wish the wind would blow its fragrance to where you are..it makes me so glad God gave us lungs to breathe and noses to inhale...
Some azaleas have put out blooms mine are just about ready ..the iris ( I call empresses) have the knights ( the green swords ) reaching for the sky to announce the empresses will be here soon..since I dont have grass I get to enjoy tiny flower gifts that show over the brass of moss... even my roses have tiny tight buds and the lilacs and hydrangeas are showing where their blooms will be....when I return I hope all will welcome me...
God Bless everyone and prayers and good thoughts are sent your way for your sister Jackie
Thanks for keeping this haven alive ....love to all ,,,anna and one good thing I plan on meeting Joan K while I am in CA
-
Super - fill us in please - we would love to live vicariously your visit with each other.
-
There are some truly touching and beautiful poems in the last couple of pages. I've had sore eyes, so I'm catching up.
We're in Autumn here, but I was struck by how interchangeable Spring and Autumn poems are,
although it's so hot today, it feels like summer hasn't left.
The Highwayman took me straight back to Senior English with our shirts sticking to our backs, flies buzzing at the windows and the smell of textbooks and chalk.
I think we were all half in love with The Highway Man.
-
Yesterday was too HOT to work outdoors so I spent the morning buying supplies for my daughter who will care for my Golden Boys while I am away..and some things to aid me on my trip I love traveling by train and they do offer a sort of shower but I will wait till I am at my brothers and when he asks what I want to do I will SHOUT TAKE A SHOWER so I bought some things one can use when a shower is not about...Everywhere Virginia seems to say IT IS SPRING and looks like MAY The plains of Illinois where I grew up had its own beauty but here it is STUPENDOUS
SURPRISE when I reached home I found one of my lilac bushes in bloom... I love all flowers but since I saw the first bush in full flower as a child it has been my favorite and was reminded of a poem I wrote I will share..it has been 16 years since my husband died but I dont love him less because he is no longer here so many of my poems reflect my deepest feelings
Lilac Time
When lilacs bloomed and diffused the air
Soft and faintly with fragrant perfume rare-
When early spring warmed by solar heat
Soothed cold winter leisurely retreat-
Then I would meet you,'neath the greened hills-
Where robins nest and song notes trill.
We would bask upon the sun warmed fields.
I to your loving arms would yield.
There I would clove to you in nature's bower-
Our senses drugged by the blissful flower.
My reverie, startled by a mourning dove-
My open eyes disclose a ghostly love.
Fading softly into a gentle sky,
My soul , alone and lost, without you...cries........
anna alexander
4/25/00
all rights reserved
-
Anna: Heartbreaking.
-
Cleaning getting ready to leave and keep finding STUFF JUST now I found my attempt at a prose poem and I think it is a good example of how we can turn annoying things into joy.
A Prose Poem
I dont know why my neighbor placed his security light so high, or why he would turn the dark night into noontime's bright. Installed at roof level , second story, it beam covers my yard and shines into my bedroom window. In the beginning we used a room darkening shade,,but why have a window if you put out its eye? So , we left the shade up and learned to live with the lights intrusion. It was spring when first it peered into our room Shadows cast on white walls revealed fluctuating lacy patterns as new leaves trembled in March winds. Awakened by night sounds I would lie in bed and watch the changing designs. In time I learned the nuances of the seasons through the pattern on that wall. In summer -- leaves were a heavy curtain and blocked it's glow. Only sparse splinters of light splashed against the wall. A coming storm would announce its presence when twitching branches heaved and hung a wind tossed painting in my room.....Autumn we could tell how close we were to winter as each night the lace became more tattered ...Falling leaves slid down the wall like gray ghosts..It is nearly time for winter to appear. I can tell because the wall is almost bare. Just the leaves hang there etching a moving tracery of black. I dont think my neighbor meant for me to enjoy his light, or appreciate the beauty as it marks the seasons for me. I wont tell him because I am sure he would turn it off and leave a blank, uninteresting wall. Some things are best kept to oneself......
anna alexander
11/6/98
all rights reserved
-
Oh, ANNA, that is terribly sad, but so lovely.
And your prose poem,...I loved the image of 'a wind tossed painting in
my room'.
JACKIE, this isn't a haiku, but I thought of you when I found it.
"O Day after day we can't help growing older.
Year after year spring can't help seeming younger.
Come let's enjoy our winecup today,
Nor pity the flowers fallen."- Wang Wei, On Parting with Spring
-
Babi: I'll drink to that!
-
Ah what makes us write I cannot say
But a friend whose age is mine
Perplexed as to a choice
Bother with the needs of life
Or just enjoy what it offers
my reply
take my hand and come with me
the grass is soft beneath our feet
though stones my bruise
I can't and won't retreat
anna alexander 4/9/10
I think spring inspires me .but then do does fall ...and summers blooms .. and winter when it calls... ama this minute :-)
-
Well I wanted to make some corrections but couldnt figure out how please let me stones MAY bruise and so does fall that is what I get for not being observant ..warm greetings to all .. it feels like late fall here today ...anna
-
This is really not a "reply" but I can't find anything where it says "Post/Write a New Message". Anyway, I have subscribed to a wonderful on-line site, Poem-A-Day by Knopf (Publishers). There is a beauty here today by Vera Pavlova. I hope you can access the site, but alternatively I am going to try and forward this to you. (I doubt it will work for me!)
This poem is #66 in the hundred poems that make up If There Is Something To Desire, the first collection in English by the stunning Russian poet Vera Pavlova—stunning because of what she can do in under ten lines, sometimes under five. Her work is translated by her husband, Steven Seymour. Pavlova rarely titles her poems—this one is an exception—and her book is the first in the history of Knopf's poetry list to show an entire poem on the front jacket. (Follow the link below to get a printable broadside of that jacket, designed by Knopf's Peter Mendelsund with hand-lettering by the illustrator Leanne Shapton.)
http://poem-a-day.knopfdoubleday.com/2010/04/09/remedy-for-insomnia-pavlova/
--------------------------------------------------------------------------------
A Remedy for Insomnia
Not sheep coming down the hills,
not cracks on the ceiling—
count the ones you loved,
the former tenants of dreams
who would keep you awake,
once meant the world to you,
rocked you in their arms,
those who loved you . . .
You will fall asleep, by dawn, in tears.
--------------------------------------------------------------------------------
Keep Clicking:
Go to the Poem-A-Day website to comment on this poem, share it on Facebook and Twitter, and much more
-
Hope that helps I added the URL to the web site to your post - and you are so right it is a wonderful web site.
Anna it is so good to see you posting again - as always your poetry touches our hearts.
Babi a great find with the Wang Wei poem.
Gotta run, one of those busy weeks - working with a very young couple, who have a passing command of English but they are here alone without any family, she is pregnant, and of course t hey are scared stiff. Trying to stay professional and wanting to wrap my arms around both of them has been my challenge. We will get through this.
-
I like your 'reply', ANNA. Philosophically, tho', I think the best
approach is to both deal with the needs and enjoy what life offers.
"REPLY" covers it all, TOMEREADER. Vera Pavlova looks like an interesting
find, though I can't agree with her lines, "If there was something to
recall, there was nothing to regret." The things I regret and can no
longer do anything about...those tend to linger in the mind.
BARB, it sounds as though you are involved in very rewarding work. If
you've told us before what work you do, it's fallen in one of the cracks
in my brain. Some form of social work, it appears. Do you mind telling
me more?
-
hehehe social work is often part of the job along with babysitter and marriage councilor - I am a Real Estate Broker.
With so much at stake folks get scared. This couple is in a new situation, in a strange country where, they do not know well the language much less the legal language of Real Estate. They are still becoming acquainted with our customs. Buying a home is daunting at any age much less when you are young buying your first home. A home that will be the center and protective shell for your life!
Here are some of what I am aware a Home means to folks and so it sounds corny but I think I am doing heartstring work.
The fairest Home I ever knew
~ by Emily Dickinson
The fairest Home I ever knew
Was founded in an Hour
By Parties also that I knew
A spider and a Flower --
A manse of mechlin and of Floes --
Home Fires
~ by Carl Sandburg
IN a Yiddish eating place on Rivington Street … faces … coffee spots … children kicking at the night stars with bare toes from bare buttocks.
They know it is September on Rivington when the red tomaytoes cram the pushcarts,
Here the children snozzle at milk bottles, children who have never seen a cow.
Here the stranger wonders how so many people remember where they keep home fires.
When the Children Come Home
~ by Henry Lawson
On a lonely selection far out in the West
An old woman works all the day without rest,
And she croons, as she toils 'neath the sky's glassy dome,
`Sure I'll keep the ould place till the childer come home.'
She mends all the fences, she grubs, and she ploughs,
She drives the old horse and she milks all the cows,
And she sings to herself as she thatches the stack,
`Sure I'll keep the ould place till the childer come back.'
It is five weary years since her old husband died;
And oft as he lay on his deathbed he sighed
`Sure one man can bring up ten children, he can,
An' it's strange that ten sons cannot keep one old man.'
Whenever the scowling old sundowners come,
And cunningly ask if the master's at home,
`Be off,' she replies, `with your blarney and cant,
Or I'll call my son Andy; he's workin' beyant.'
`Git out,' she replies, though she trembles with fear,
For she lives all alone and no neighbours are near;
But she says to herself, when she's like to despond,
That the boys are at work in the paddock beyond.
Ah, none of her children need follow the plough,
And some have grown rich in the city ere now;
Yet she says: `They might come when the shearing is done,
And I'll keep the ould place if it's only for one.'
-
You've given me a whole new view of the real estate broker, BARB. :)
That last poem was sad. I find I want to go find one or two of those sons, grab them
by the ear and demand to know why they aren't taking care of their old mother. I'm so
grateful for my three kids, God bless them!
This reminds me of an old, old song, Mother Machree.
There's a spot in my heart which no colleen may own.
There's a depth in my soul never sounded or known.
There's a place in my memory, my life, that you fill.
No other can take it, no one ever will.
Chorus:
Sure, I love the dear silver that shines in your hair,
And the brow that's all furrowed and wrinkled with care.
I kiss the dear fingers so toilworn for me.
Oh, God bless you and keep you, Mother Machree.
Every sorrow or care in the dear days gone by
Was made bright by the light of that smile in your eye.
Like a candle that's set in the window at night
Your fond love has cheered me and guided me right.
Chorus:
-
(http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_LqwQxG1c0BM/S352OnAobpI/AAAAAAAAKz0/wTZ4mnqnaTQ/s400/Spring+Chimera.jpg) Spring Poetry- Famous Poets and Poems about Spring (http://famouspoetsandpoems.com/thematic_poems/spring_poems.html)
- Spring Poems (http://poetry.about.com/od/ourpoemcollections/a/springpoems.htm)
|
Cuttings
~ Michael P. Garofalo
Ahh, the wide almond groves in full white flower
Stunning in the morning sun.
Old naked Winter in
his garb of grays and browns has run.
Forsythia blooms
Come and go in the blink of a yellow Eye,
Then, suddenly, mysteriously,
Green erupts; and we sigh.
We would love you to Join us
As our hearts race to meet Spring!Discussion Leaders: Barb (augere@ix.netcom.com) & fairanna (fairanna@verizon.net)
|
-
Yes, sad and yet, it shows the fierce attachment and love of home we maintain through out our life - Mother Machree is a lovely honor to the older woman - Reading the words I could hear Dennis Day singing in my head. Remember he used to sing on the Jack Benny show.
I love and re-visit this poem often. There are several translations... here is one
Hearing A Flute On A Spring Night In Luoyang
~ Li Po
From whose home secretly flies the sound of a jade flute?
It's lost amid the spring wind which fills Luoyang city.
In the middle of this nocturne I remember the snapped willow,
What person would not start to think of home!
-
I love the idea of the music of a flute floating among a spring wind. I wonder if it makes a
difference that the flute is jade. I would think it must be different from, say, a wooden or
bamboo flute.
-
The culture of Jade is long in china - it is used to symbolize peace and other characteristics - Confucius says:
"Men of olden days regarded Jade as a symbol of the virtues.
Its gentle, smooth, glossy appearance suggests charity of heart;
its fine close texture and hardness suggests wisdom;
it is firm and yet does not wound, suggesting duty to one's neighbor;
it hangs down as though sinking, suggesting ceremony;
struck, it gives a clear note, long drawn out, dying gradually away and suggesting music;
its flaws do not hide its excellences, nor do its excellences hide its flaws, suggesting loyalty; it gains our confidence, suggesting truth;
its spirituality is like the bright rainbow, suggesting the heavens above;
its energy is manifested in hill and stream, suggesting the earth below;
as articles of regalia it suggests the exemplification of that than which there is nothing in the world of equal value, and thereby is Tao itself."
-
By Tu Fu (sometimes written Du Fu), who lived in the Tang Dynasty, 712-720.
JADE FLOWER PALACE
The stream whirls. The wind moans in
The pines. Grey rats scurry over
Broken tiles. What prince, long ago,
Built this palace, standing in
Ruins beside the cliffs? There are
Green ghost fires in the black rooms.
The shattered pavements are all
Washed away. Ten thousand organ
Pipes whistle and roar. The storm
Scatters red autumn leaves.
His dancing girls are yellow dust.
Their painted cheeks have crumbled
Away. His gold chariots
And courtiers are gone. Only
A stone horse is left of his
Glory. I sit on the grass and
Start a poem, but the pathos of
It overcomes me. The future
Slips imperceptibly away.
Who can say what the years will bring?
-
A Traveller's Song
~ Po Chü-I.
The thread in the hands of a fond-hearted mother
Makes clothes for the body of her wayward boy;
Carefully she sews and thoroughly she mends,
Dreading the delays that will keep him late from home.
But how much love has the inch-long grass
For three spring months of the light of the sun?
-
Here is a more recent poet - from a partial translation entitled ‘Old Idea of Choan by Rosoriu’
Birds with flowery wing, hovering butterflies
crowd over the thousand gates.
Trees that glitter like jade,
terraces tinged with silver,
The seed of a myriad hues,
a network of arbours and passages and covered ways,
Double towers, winged roofs,
border the network of ways:
A place of felicitous meeting
~ Hu Shi (1891–1962)
-
Barb, thank you, so much, for the "Highwayman". It was one of my dad's favorite poems. He loved poetry! We often drove from Northern California to Southern California, and he recited poetry all the way. The "Highwayman" was one of my favorites, too.
Babi, I also enjoyed "L'Envoi". It was another of my favorites. You and Barb touched my heart by sharing these 2 favorites. They brought back many, happy memories for me.
Sheila
-
Ah, another line of poetry that leaves me with a blank where a response
should be. But how much love has the inch-long grass
For three spring months of the light of the sun? ???
But Hu Shi,...I wish I could see that place of the 'thousand gates'.
-
Babi: As her son unthinkingly accepts her gifts of love, so, too, does the grass accept the rays of the sun which gives it life.
-
Ah, okay, JACKIE. That makes sense.
Maybe because it's April, and I'm enjoying a bit of warmth, I went exploring and found this
old Edgar Guest poem.
Old Age
By Edgar A Guest
I used to think that growing old was reckoned just in years,
But who can name the very date when weariness appears?
I find no stated time when man, obedient to a law,
Must settle in an easy chair and from the world withdraw.
Old Age is rather curious, or so it seems to me.
I know old men at forty and young men at seventy-three.
I'm done with counting life by years or temples turning gray.
No man is old who wakes with joy to greet another day.
What if the body cannot dance with youth's elastic spring?
There's many a vibrant interest to which the mind can cling.
'Tis in the spirit Age must dwell, or this would never be:
I know old men at forty and young men at seventy-three.
Some men keep all their friendships warm,
and welcome friendships new,
They have no time to sit and mourn the things they used to do.
This changing world they greet with joy and never bow to late;
On every fresh adventure they set out with hearts elate
From chilling fear and bitter dread they keep their spirits free
While some seem old at forty they stay young at seventy-three.
So much to do, so much to learn, so much in which to share!
With twinkling eyes and minds alert some brave both time and care.
And this I've learned from other men, that only they are old
Who think with something that has passed the tale of life is told.
For Age is not alone of time, or we should never see
Men old and bent at forty and men young at seventy-three.
-
I must forego the opportunity to hear Billy Collins tomorrow, speaking at the community college in the next town, because I cannot imagine where to park! The place is a zoo, and not in the best neighborhood to leave a car on the street. Has anyone heard him?
-
Not heard him, but read some of his poems.
-
It was exciting to hear Nancy Pearl speak today on NPR about National Poetry Month, There were new names (to me) in her references to modern poets; I suspect I will be reading as many of them as my library purchases. http://www.npr.org/templates/story/story.php?storyId=125997807
-
Spring
~ William Shakespeare
When daisies pied, and violets blue,
And lady-smocks all silver-white,
And cuckoo-buds of yellow hue
Do paint the meadows with delight,
The cuckoo then, on every tree,
Mocks married men, for thus sings he:
“Cuckoo!
Cuckoo, cuckoo!” O word of fear,
Unpleasing to a married ear.
When shepherds pipe on oaten straws,
And merry larks are ploughmen’s clocks,
When turtles tread, and rooks, and daws,
And maidens bleach their summer smocks,
The cuckoo then, on every tree,
Mocks married men, for thus sings he:
“Cuckoo!
Cuckoo, cuckoo!” O word of fear,
Unpleasing to a married ear.
Although it was chilly the last few days - and rainy - the grass has grown and I need to call the young man who mows my lawn - and so it starts - the heat of summer is not too far behind when the grass needs cutting.
-
I've already had my grass...and weeds..cut twice. I am doing battle with the weeds, esp. the
ivy that would take over the world if allowed. But, my miniature rose bush is covered with
small yellow roses. There are compensations. :)
Our England is a garden, and such gardens are not made
By singing 'Oh how wonderful' and sitting in the shade,
While better men than we go out, and start their working lives
By grubbing weeds from garden paths with broken dinner knives.
- Rudyard Kipling
-
OK - this is backwards - I found a poem written by a woman who attended the University of Utah in 1934 where her father was a professor and as immigrants she grew up speaking Swedish in her home - the poem - what can I say I will print it out in a second post - however, after reading it I had to find something else this woman wrote to find out if the first poem I read was typical of what and how she wrote - thank goodness I found this poem - I can breath
Water Picture
~ by May Swenson
In the pond in the park
all things are doubled:
Long buildings hang and
wriggle gently. Chimneys
are bent legs bouncing
on clouds below. A flag
wags like a fishhook
down there in the sky.
The arched stone bridge
is an eye, with underlid
in the water. In its lens
dip crinkled heads with hats
that don't fall off. Dogs go by,
barking on their backs.
A baby, taken to feed the
ducks, dangles upside-down,
a pink balloon for a buoy.
Treetops deploy a haze of
cherry bloom for roots,
where birds coast belly-up
in the glass bowl of a hill;
from its bottom a bunch
of peanut-munching children
is suspended by their
sneakers, waveringly.
A swan, with twin necks
forming the figure 3,
steers between two dimpled
towers doubled. Fondly
hissing, she kisses herself,
and all the scene is troubled:
water-windows splinter,
tree-limbs tangle, the bridge
folds like a fan.
-
Here it is Folks - what I happened onto that stopped me in my tracks. The interesting phenomenon is that this concept was typical of some Christians especially those who were Orthodox Christian that originated in Eastern Byzantium as well as it was a belief in very early Christiandom when Jerusalum was still the center and the Essanes went into the desert to practice their faith - these groups believed Jesus was all God rather than Man and God so that to be like Jesus you have to deny the body. There were and still are many monastic groups as well as single hermits who practice denying the body - We have some of that belief when we practice denial during Lent. I never heard the expression though to Wax Plump the Soul but that could be either a poetic turn of phrase or a typical expression in the tradition of Mary Swenson's mother.
That the Soul May Wax Plump
~ by May Swenson
"He who has reached the highest degree of
emptiness will be secure in repose."
--A Taoist saying
My dumpy little mother on the undertaker's slab
had a mannequin's grace. From chin to foot
the sheet outlined her, thin and tall. Her face
uptilted, bloodless, smooth, had a long smile.
Her head rested on a block under her nape,
her neck was long, her hair waved, upswept. But later,
at "the viewing," sunk in the casket in pink tulle,
an expensive present that might spoil, dressed
in Eden's green apron, organdy bonnet on,
she shrank, grew short again, and yellow. Who
put the gold-rimmed glasses on her shut face, who
laid her left hand with the wedding ring on
her stomach that really didn't seem to be there
under the fake lace?
Mother's work before she died was self-purification,
a regimen of near starvation, to be worthy to go
to Our Father, Whom she confused (or, more aptly, fused)
with our father, in Heaven long since. She believed
in evacuation, an often and fierce purgation,
meant to teach the body to be hollow, that the soul
may wax plump. At the moment of her death, the wind
rushed out from all her pipes at once. Throat and rectum
sang together, a galvanic spasm, hiss of ecstasy.
Then, a flat collapse. Legs and arms flung wide,
like that female Spanish saint slung by the ankles
to a cross, her mouth stayed open in a dark O. So,
her vigorous soul whizzed free. On the undertaker's slab, she
lay youthful, cool, triumphant, with a long smile.
-
After that we have to include a read of Yeats
Sailing to Byzantium
~ by William Butler Yeats
I
That is no country for old men.The young
In one another's arms, birds in the trees
- Those dying generations - at their song,
The salmon-falls, the mackerel-crowded seas,
Fish, flesh, or fowl, commend all summer long
Whatever is begotten, born, and dies.
Caught in that sensual music all neglect
Monuments of unageing intellect.
II
An aged man is but a paltry thing,
A tattered coat upon a stick, unless
Soul clap its hands and sing, and louder sing
For every tatter in its mortal dress,
Nor is there singing school but studying
Monuments of its own magnificence;
And therefore I have sailed the seas and come
To the holy city of Byzantium.
III
O sages standing in God's holy fire
As in the gold mosaic of a wall,
Come from the holy fire, perne in a gyre,
And be the singing-masters of my soul.
Consume my heart away; sick with desire
And fastened to a dying animal
It knows not what it is; and gather me
Into the artifice of eternity.
IV
Once out of nature I shall never take
My bodily form from any natural thing,
But such a form as Grecian goldsmiths make
Of hammered gold and gold enamelling
To keep a drowsy Emperor awake;
Or set upon a golden bough to sing
To lords and ladies of Byzantium
Of what is past, or passing, or to come.
-
I love the "Water Picture". I always mentally 'adjust' what I see in
a water reflection; I never simply looked at the image as it was. "That
The Soul May Wax Plump" I found shockingly graphic for a woman writing
about her mother's death. So,...I don't know....detached an observation.
These lines from Yeats; don't they reflect the attitude and actions of
Ms.Swenson's mother?
Consume my heart away; sick with desire
And fastened to a dying animal
It knows not what it is;
-
of course I know I have fewer years
than what I have left behind
but if I can leave safe within my bed
and all the sprits of the my past
come to whisper a hello
and all the loved ones still alive
can be there to say goodbye
I think I shall not mind
anna alexnder written just now ..
-
I once worked with a lady who told me, after we got to know each other, about her personal
death experience. She had been in an auto accident, and 'coded' for an indeterminate period
of time. During that time, she experienced the 'distant light' that so many others have reported and walked toward it. Many loved ones were there to greet her and she felt
joyful and at peace. She was approached by a being who gently informed her that it was not
truly her time to die, but as she was there she had the option of staying or returning.
This lady said she really wanted to stay, but she seemed to hear the voices of her children,
crying, and she felt she must go back to them. Naturally, her attitude toward death is entirely
free of any fear, now. I can testify that I don't think I have ever met a more serene woman.
-
Remember making May Baskets and leaving them on the doorknob of the neighbor's front doors - ringing the bell and running like crazy to hide.
May-Baskets
~ by Evaleen Stein
Let us take our baskets early
To the meadows green,
While the wild-flowers still are pearly
With the dewdrops' sheen.
Fill them full of blossoms rosy,
Violets and gay
Cowslips, every pretty posy
Welcoming the May.
Then our lovely loads we'll carry
Down the village street,
On each door, with laughter merry,
Hang a basket sweet.
Hey-a-day-day! It is spring now,
Lazy folks, awake!
See the pretty things we bring now
For the May-day's sake!
-
I don't remember May baskets at all. I suppose it wasn't the custom where I lived.( except I
lived so many places growing up.)
"'Tis like the birthday of the world,
When earth was born in bloom;
The light is made of many dyes,
The air is all perfume:
There's crimson buds, and white and blue,
The very rainbow showers
Have turned to blossoms where they fell,
And sown the earth with flowers."
- Thomas Hood
-
In Sacramento CA May Baskets a friend and I years ago made them and hung them on our neighbors doors with an invite to tea it was wonderful until our homes in the country were eventually surrounded by city and neighbor ness disappeared
Here is a poem I wrote for our little monthly news letter before I left for my visit here
there is something about May
that makes my heartstrings sing
remnants of spring still survive
and May never tries to hide
Her joyous givings
the first roses bless us with their beauty
their fragrance fills the air
gives a blessing to our hearts
I will miss MAY
When she must depart ....but June
is waiting in the wings
and ........summer just begins to start ...
anna alexander 4/16/2010
-
Long but oh so worth it...
The Cloud
~ by Percy Bysshe Shelley
I bring fresh showers for the thirsting flowers,
From the seas and the streams;
I bear light shade for the leaves when laid
In their noonday dreams.
From my wings are shaken the dews that waken
The sweet buds every one,
When rocked to rest on their mother's breast,
As she dances about the sun.
I wield the flail of the lashing hail,
And whiten the green plains under,
And then again I dissolve it in rain,
And laugh as I pass in thunder.
I sift the snow on the mountains below,
And their great pines groan aghast;
And all the night 'tis my pillow white,
While I sleep in the arms of the blast.
Sublime on the towers of my skiey bowers,
Lightning, my pilot, sits;
In a cavern under is fettered the thunder,
It struggles and howls at fits;
Over earth and ocean, with gentle motion,
This pilot is guiding me,
Lured by the love of the genii that move
In the depths of the purple sea;
Over the rills, and the crags, and the hills,
Over the lakes and the plains,
Wherever he dream, under mountain or stream,
The Spirit he loves remains;
And I all the while bask in Heaven's blue smile,
Whilst he is dissolving in rains.
The sanguine Sunrise, with his meteor eyes,
And his burning plumes outspread,
Leaps on the back of my sailing rack,
When the morning star shines dead;
As on the jag of a mountain crag,
Which an earthquake rocks and swings,
An eagle alit one moment may sit
In the light of its golden wings.
And when Sunset may breathe, from the lit sea beneath,
Its ardors of rest and of love,
And the crimson pall of eve may fall
From the depth of Heaven above,
With wings folded I rest, on mine aery nest,
As still as a brooding dove.
That orbed maiden with white fire laden,
Whom mortals call the Moon,
Glides glimmering o'er my fleece-like floor,
By the midnight breezes strewn;
And wherever the beat of her unseen feet,
Which only the angels hear,
May have broken the woof of my tent's thin roof,
The stars peep behind her and peer;
And I laugh to see them whirl and flee,
Like a swarm of golden bees,
When I widen the rent in my wind-built tent,
Till the calm rivers, lakes, and seas,
Like strips of the sky fallen through me on high,
Are each paved with the moon and these.
I bind the Sun's throne with a burning zone,
And the Moon's with a girdle of pearl;
The volcanoes are dim, and the stars reel and swim
When the whirlwinds my banner unfurl.
From cape to cape, with a bridge-like shape,
Over a torrent sea,
Sunbeam-proof, I hang like a roof,--
The mountains its columns be.
The triumphal arch through which I march
With hurricane, fire, and snow,
When the Powers of the air are chained to my chair,
Is the million-colored bow;
The sphere-fire above its soft colors wove,
While the moist Earth was laughing below.
I am the daughter of Earth and Water,
And the nursling of the Sky;
I pass through the pores of the ocean and shores;
I change, but I cannot die.
For after the rain when with never a stain
The pavilion of Heaven is bare,
And the winds and sunbeams with their convex gleams
Build up the blue dome of air,
I silently laugh at my own cenotaph,
And out of the caverns of rain,
Like a child from the womb, like a ghost from the tomb,
I arise and unbuild it again.
-
A beautiful poem, BARB. I was startled, tho', in reading the fourth section, that he was unable
to maintain he rhyme scheme at the end. The rest of the poem was so rhythmic. Like the
lines: Over the rills, and the crags, and the hills,
Over the lakes and the plains,
Even the interior lines were melodious and fit perfectly.
-
Grandmother's Blanket
~ By Ann Murray Smith
Grandmother's Blanket holds the sweet smell of sage
Woven by enchantment, as the Spirits feel no rage.
Trimmed in eyelet shadows, cast into the snow
Tumbleweeds and deserts She traveled long ago.
The threads are Her wisdom She passes on to you,
Reflections wrap around us, as if we always knew.
The patchwork shows directions North, East, South, West
The needle points the way so we know when to rest.
Grandmother's Blanket holds the soft warmth of down
From fine-feathered friends and foliage all around.
Covered by a breeze and a soft summer rain
Lightning dances wildly, as the Thunder heals Her pain.
The colors are Her passions beneath the cotton lining
For She knows the Spirit world, is free and never binding.
Footsteps walk below the soil, Mother Earth is listening
Frost paints the Blanket edges, above the stars are glistening.
Grandmother's Blanket has many stories to tell
The colors have faded, for the years have turned it pale.
Comforted by the Oneness, Her head bows down in grace,
Thanking Great Spirit for Her Honor in this place.
-
Is Ann Murray Smith native American, BARB. Her name hardly fits, but she seems to be trying
for that effect. Not too successfully, IMO. 'Spirits' thrown in here and there, and puzzling random capital letters.
Have we had this one yet? Shakespeare, of course.
SONNET XVIII
Shall I compare thee to a summer's day?
Thou art more lovely and more temperate:
Rough winds do shake the darling buds of May,
And summer's lease hath all too short a date:
Sometime too hot the eye of heaven shines,
And often is his gold complexion dimmed,
And every fair from fair sometime declines,
By chance, or nature's changing course untrimmed:
But thy eternal summer shall not fade,
Nor lose possession of that fair thou ow'st,
Nor shall death brag thou wander'st in his shade,
When in eternal lines to time thou grow'st,
So long as men can breathe, or eyes can see,
So long lives this, and this gives life to thee.
-
Ah the 'Darling buds of May' - let's hope the heat doesn't burn up our Darling Buds before the month is over...so far it has been a nice Spring hasn't it been - not too hot and some lovely rain - the Highland Lakes are full after two summer's of draught but they are on the edge - a couple of weeks of heat with no rain and we could be in trouble.
Babi do you get any of the problems from the Gulf spill - smells or lost birds flying overhead? Looks like the Texas coast is not affected and so a bit of time at the beach this summer may be on the books this year.
The month of May was come, when every lusty heart beginneth to blossom, and to bring forth fruit; for like as herbs and trees bring forth fruit and flourish in May, in likewise every lusty heart that is in any manner a lover, springeth and flourisheth in lusty deeds. For it giveth unto all lovers courage, that lusty month of May.
~ By Sir Thomas Malory
from Le Morte d'Arthur (1485)
-
The Fawn
There it was I saw what I shall never forget
And never retrieve.
Monstrous and beautiful to human eyes, hard to
believe,
He lay, yet there he lay,
Asleep on the moss, his head on his polished cleft
small ebony hoves,
The child of the doe, the dappled child of the deer.
Surely his mother had never said, "Lie here
Till I return," so spotty and plain to see
On the green moss lay he.
His eyes had opened; he considered me.
I would have given more than I care to say
To thrifty ears, might I have had him for my friend
One moment only of that forest day:
Might I have had the acceptance, not the love
Of those clear eyes;
Might I have been for him in the bough above
Or the root beneath his forest bed,
A part of the forest, seen without surprise.
Was it alarm, or was it the wind of my fear lest he
depart
That jerked him to his jointy knees,
And sent him crashing off, leaping and stumbling
On his new legs, between the stems of the white
trees?
~ Edna St. Vincent Millay
-
I haven't noticed any odd smells around here, BARB. But then, living so near the industries
along the ship channel I wouldn't pay much attention to any odd odor drifting by. Haven't noticed many birds. I don't know if that's due to any changes or simply that I don't spend much time out of doors. A half-hour of yard work or drives here and there is about my limit.
-
May
The foreign world calls it summer,
We call it dry season.
The most lovely and favoured of all the seasons,
Mild because it is a mixture of seasons.
I love her not because of her countenance, but because i believe that we are what we answer.
Her name is maybell but i prefer calling her may, because i know that she will be lovely like the fifth month of the year which falls in this lovely season.
If i would be back to my mothers womb,
Then i will come back in may,
To hear a bell,
To meet her in may,
And probably write her this poem of mine in may,
And may be one day in may,
She will call me to tell how much she has fallen for my May poem.
Onyenankeya Nzubejah
-
Lovely poem - but more an interesting name - tried to find out more about the poet - it appears he is a contemporary poet I think from the Middle East but not sure - for a bit i thought Native American - do you know his background Jackie...?
-
i believe that we are what we answer.
I wonder what he meant by this?
-
I believe it is referring Babi to how we are attracted or repelled by those who reflect our values - we choose to say certain people, things, sounds etc. are beautiful because we each determine what is beauty and what behavior is acceptable therefore, lovely.
'Her countenance' pleasing him says more about who he is and his view of May as a 'lovely' month during a 'lovely season' - Lovely: an adverb that means 'Having beauty that appeals to the emotions as well as to the eye.'
-
Sitting here at my laptop in California must say I am surprised that it is not warm Each day the sun does shine but a wind from the north makes it chill and I need to wear a jacket to keep me warm and thankful at night when the temperature is in the 40's I have a down comforter on my bed and a warm place to lay my head Will be here until June when I will head back to Virginia and everyone there says it is HOT
Have some books of poetry with me and while I cant find one that shouts SPRING I will share a Shakespeare one I like
LET ME NOT TO THE MARRIAGE OF TRUE MINDS
Let me not to the marriage of true minds
Admit impediments . Love is not love
Which alters when it alteration finds,
Or bends with the remover to remove:
O, no! it is an ever-fixed mark,
That looks on tempests and is never shaken;
It is the star to every wandering bark,
Whose worth's unknown, although his height be taken
Love's not Tiime's fool, though rosy lips and cheeks
Within his bending sickle's compass come;
Love alters not with his brief hours and weeks,
But bears it out even to the edge of doom.
If this be error , and upon me prov'd,
I never writ , nor no man ever lov'd.
William Shakespeare
-
Putting my feelings into words when reading this sonnet is impossible but oh, how apt are the Bard's words. Gives me a thrill each time anew. Each line, even a mere phrase, strikes home. This is what genius truly is.
Alas, I know nothing about Onyenankeya Nzubejah but his whimsical punning plus the exotic spelling of his name were irresistible. I Googled "May" and found that what I needed to ask for was "Month of May".
-
Good explanation, BARB. That makes sense and I like the idea.
That is one of my favorite sonnets, ANNA. Here is a Robert Frost, too.
SPRING POOLS, by Robert Frost
These pools that, though in forests, still reflect
The total sky almost without defect,
And like the flowers beside them, chill and shiver,
Will like the flowers beside them soon be gone,
And yet not out by any brook or river,
But up by roots to bring dark foliage on.
The trees that have it in their pent-up buds
To darken nature and be summer woods --
Let them think twice before they use their powers
To blot out and drink up and sweep away
These flowery waters and these watery flowers
From snow that melted only yesterday
-
Who but a poet could see the romance in those little spots on the forest floor?
-
(http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_LqwQxG1c0BM/S352OnAobpI/AAAAAAAAKz0/wTZ4mnqnaTQ/s400/Spring+Chimera.jpg) Spring Poetry- Famous Poets and Poems about Spring (http://famouspoetsandpoems.com/thematic_poems/spring_poems.html)
- Spring Poems (http://poetry.about.com/od/ourpoemcollections/a/springpoems.htm)
|
Cuttings
~ Michael P. Garofalo
Ahh, the wide almond groves in full white flower
Stunning in the morning sun.
Old naked Winter in
his garb of grays and browns has run.
Forsythia blooms
Come and go in the blink of a yellow Eye,
Then, suddenly, mysteriously,
Green erupts; and we sigh.
We would love you to Join us
As we celebrate Spring!Discussion Leaders: Barb (augere@ix.netcom.com) & fairanna (fairanna@verizon.net)
|
My Poet Soul enjoys reading what you post and what you say
Who but a poet could see the romance in those little spots on the forest floor?
That is why I love poetry Because poets see what we do not ....
Ever since I was a child poetry knocked on my door and said SEE SEE SEE
FEEL FEEL FEEL
AND it has never failed to enrich my life ,stretched me out so I COULD TOUCH THE STARS
ONE thing I am finding small children , teenagers and young adults coming to our poetry readings
and writing as well...that encourages me thanks for keeping this place open I know there are many who only stop by and read ..wonderful day today in Sacramento wish you all a great tomorrow
-
I am finding small children , teenagers and young adults coming to our poetry readings
and writing as well
(ANNA)
And that encourages me as well, ANNA. I'm glad to hear that younger generation are into something besides computers, iPods and twittier.
-
Believe it or not this is by Dorothy Parker, a look at one mother in a different way;
Prayer For a New Mother
by Dorothy Parker
The things she knew, let her forget again-
The voices in the sky, the fear, the cold,
The gaping shepherds, and the queer old men
Piling their clumsy gifts of foreign gold.
Let her have laughter with her little one;
Teach her the endless, tuneless songs to sing,
Grant her her right to whisper to her son
The foolish names one dare not call a king.
Keep from her dreams the rumble of a crowd,
The smell of rough-cut wood, the trail of red,
The thick and chilly whiteness of the shroud
That wraps the strange new body of the dead.
Ah, let her go, kind Lord, where mothers go
And boast his pretty words and ways, and plan
The proud and happy years that they shall know
Together, when her son is grown a man.
-
A sad poem, and, I agree, a departure for Dorothy Parker. I like to tell myself that sons were
men at 13 in those days, and she had her son for twenty years. That's something at least...
Not nearly enough, but she did have that much.
I have three children who are the comfort and pride of my life. I had two that I did not get
a chance to know. I hope to meet them some day.
-
Babi: I have one who never made it past the 30th week of gestation. I did get to see her before they took her away. My MIL, who adopted when she couldn't carry past three months, said that you never miss what you didn't have but that's not true.
-
Yes. It's not something one thinks of often, but from time to time I can't help wondering
what those boy would have been like, what they would have become. But then I have to
remind myself that if they had lived, it's quite likely I would never have had my two present
younger children and that is a thought I can't bear.
Aren't you glad this sort of choice is out of our hands?
-
A poem I remember from grade school.
Tiny Angels
Tiny Angels rest your wings
sit with me for awhile.
How I long to hold your hand,
And see your tender smile.
Tiny Angel, look at me,
I want this image clear....
That I will forget your precious face
Is my biggest fear.
Tiny Angel can you tell me,
Why you have gone away?
You weren't here for very long....
Why is it, you couldn't stay?
Tiny Angel shook his head,
"These things I do not know....
But I do know that you love me,
And that I love you so".
Author Unknown
-
Barb: Astonishing that you always have le mot juste. The poem is one I shall hold in my heart forever.
Babi: The absent child has given me a greater sense of the miracle of birth and increased my love for the two I still have.
-
How about this one?
The Enkindled Spring
D.H. Lawrence (1916)
This spring as it comes bursts up in bonfires green,
Wild puffing of emerald trees, and flame-filled bushes,
Thorn-blossom lifting in wreaths of smoke between
Where the wood fumes up and the watery, flickering rushes.
I am amazed at this spring, this conflagration
Of green fires lit on the soil of the earth, this blaze
Of growing, and sparks that puff in wild gyration,
Faces of people streaming across my gaze.
And I, what fountain of fire am I among
This leaping combustion of spring? My spirit is tossed
About like a shadow buffeted in the throng
Of flames, a shadow that’s gone astray, and is lost.
-
A Spring View
Tu Fu (c. 750)
Though a country be sundered, hills and rivers endure;
And spring comes green again to trees and grasses
Where petals have been shed like tears
And lonely birds have sung their grief.
...After the war-fires of three months,
One message from home is worth a ton of gold.
...I stroke my white hair. It has grown too thin
To hold the hairpins any more.
-
Forgive me if this is a repeat.
A Prayer in Spring
Robert Frost (1915)
Oh, give us pleasure in the flowers to-day;
And give us not to think so far away
As the uncertain harvest; keep us here
All simply in the springing of the year.
Oh, give us pleasure in the orchard white,
Like nothing else by day, like ghosts by night;
And make us happy in the happy bees,
The swarm dilating round the perfect trees.
And make us happy in the darting bird
That suddenly above the bees is heard,
The meteor that thrusts in with needle bill,
And off a blossom in mid air stands still.
For this is love and nothing else is love,
The which it is reserved for God above
To sanctify to what far ends He will,
But which it only needs that we fulfil.
-
Poetry speaks volumes in just a few words...it paints pictures without a brush or tubes of color
I hear its song even when there is no tune it is the light in a darkened room
I know it can heal a broken heart and soothe pain without medicine .. GOD BLESS ALL , anna
-
We can never read Robert Frost too often can we - found this one that I cannot remember ever reading
Spring Night
~ by Sara Teasdale
THE park is filled with night and fog,
The veils are drawn about the world,
The drowsy lights along the paths
Are dim and pearled.
Gold and gleaming the empty streets,
Gold and gleaming the misty lake,
The mirrored lights like sunken swords,
Glimmer and shake.
Oh, is it not enough to be
Here with this beauty over me?
My throat should ache with praise, and I
Should kneel in joy beneath the sky.
O beauty, are you not enough?
Why am I crying after love,
With youth, a singing voice, and eyes
To take earth's wonder with surprise?
Why have I put off my pride,
Why am I unsatisfied,—
I, for whom the pensive night
Binds her cloudy hair with light,—
I, for whom all beauty burns
Like incense in a million urns?
O beauty, are you not enough?
Why am I crying after love?
-
Oh and another by Tu Fu also spelled - Dù Fu
Delighting in Rain on a Spring Night
A good rain knows its proper time;
It waits until the Spring to fall.
It drifts in on the wind, steals in by night,
Its fine drops drench, yet make no sound at all.
The paths between the fields are cloaked with clouds;
A river-skiff’s lone light still burns.
Come dawn, we’ll see splashes of wet red –
The flowers in Chengdu*, weighed down with rain.
-
Sara, Tu Fu, Frost....what a lovely start to my day.
-
Babi: My sentiments exactly.
Barb: Thank you for the pleasure this discussion has given me, my life is richer for it.
-
THE MERRY MONTH OF MAY
by: Thomas Dekker
THE month of May, the merry month of May,
So frolic, so gay, and so green, so green, so green!
O, and then did I unto my true love say,
Sweet Peg, thou shalt be my Summer's Queen.
Now the nightingale, the pretty nightingale,
The sweetest singer in all the forest quire,
Entreats thee, sweet Peggy, to hear thy true love's tale:
Lo, yonder she sitteth, her breast against a brier.
But O, I spy the cuckoo, the cuckoo, the cuckoo;
See where she sitteth; come away, my joy:
Come away, I prithee, I do not like the cuckoo
Should sing where my Peggy and I kiss and toy.
O, the month of May, the merry month of May,
So frolic, so gay, and so green, so green, so green;
And then did I unto my true love say,
Sweet Peg, thou shalt be my Summer's Queen.
-
hehehe - Here you are Babi offering us the Merry Month of May all springiness and light and all I can think of is dark clouds thunder and driving rain. Needless to say after 5 days in a row of overcaste sky and then today the thunder rolls and the lightening flashes I am hard pressed to share the scrubbing going on outside my window and the dark dreary inside this house -
I hate to put on all the lights and so there is a pool of light in the Den and light from the computer that makes me remember as a small child days when life went on in the semi-dark - how she did it I cannot imagine but wi th no artificial light Mama would be at her sewing machine on rainy days or at the window for the best light as she hand sewed - There was always work to be done regardless the weather however, a day like this meant no visiting and chatting with the neighbors standing outside before they all rushed off to start dinner.
Well here goes with -
The Spring Storm
~ William Carlos Williams
The sky has given over
its bitterness.
Out of the dark change
all day long
rain falls and falls
as if it would never end.
Still the snow keeps
its hold on the ground.
But water, water
from a thousand runnels!
It collects swiftly,
dappled with black
cuts a way for itself
through green ice in the gutters.
Drop after drop it falls
from the withered grass-stems
of the overhanging embankment.
The Dark Day
~ William Carlos Williams
A three-day-long rain from the east--
an terminable talking, talking
of no consequence--patter, patter, patter.
Hand in hand little winds
blow the thin streams aslant.
Warm. Distance cut off. Seclusion.
A few passers-by, drawn in upon themselves,
hurry from one place to another.
Winds of the white poppy! there is no escape!--
An interminable talking, talking,
talking . . .it has happened before.
Backward, backward, backward.
-
I am not fond of Elliot mostly because he treated his wife so poorly and then tried to abandon his heritage - so it is him and not his poetry that rankles however this is too perfect considering the day.
Morning at the Window
THEY are rattling breakfast plates in basement kitchens,
And along the trampled edges of the street
I am aware of the damp souls of housemaids
Sprouting despondently at area gates.
The brown waves of fog toss up to me
Twisted faces from the bottom of the street,
And tear from a passer-by with muddy skirts
An aimless smile that hovers in the air
And vanishes along the level of the roofs.
T. S. Eliot
-
Well obviously this poet does not know a Texas/Midwest rain that brings with it distruction as tornadoes swirl up at a moments notice. However, she writes a lovely portrait of rain.
Oh, gray and tender is the rain
OH, gray and tender is the rain,
That drips, drips on the pane!
A hundred things come in the door,
The scent of herbs, the thought of yore.
I see the pool out in the grass,
A bit of broken glass;
The red flags running wet and straight,
Down to the little flapping gate.
Lombardy poplars tall and three,
Across the road I see;
There is no loveliness so plain
As a tall poplar in the rain.
But oh, the hundred things and more,
That come in at the door! --
The smack of mint, old joy, old pain,
Caught in the gray and tender rain.
Lizette Woodworth Reese
-
Williams certainly provided you with two appropriate poems for your rainy
weather, BARB. We had a rainstorm last night, but it has cleared up now.
Rains that last for days really are depressing.
I knew nothing about Eliot's personal life, but I love the poem. "..the
damp souls of housemaids sprouting despondently at area gates." I'm afraid
you cannot expect genius to be confined to the nice people.
I like Reese's rain also. We do, if rarely, get that soft rain here in
Texas. Just not, usually, at this time of year. My favorite rain is that
which falls while the sun is out, glittering and sparkling and cooling.
-
While I bask in sunshine here in Sacramento my home in Va is drenched with pouring rain and and thunderheads unzips the clouds and throws daggers at the ground I wonder at my flowers there no one to prop them up or pick off the ground What will I find when I return ? green grass like unripe wheat waving above the soil and dead flowers composting on the ground ? Do they wonder where I am ? or do they really care ?I like to think when I am back they will not blame me for my lack of care but respond like orphans and just be glad I am there and they are found...
inspired by posted poems I cant seem to zap a poem in my documentary file and add it anywhere
God Bless all and it is a joy to read what you have shared //anna
-
This poem Fairanna emailed for our site - she is not able to navigate her Mac Laptop while on the west coast as she can at home in Virginia.
Come ye heroes Rise Up
From your graves, wherever they may be.
Some honored, some unmarked, some beneath the sea.
Today we need to celebrate each of you,
Who fought ,though ill supplied, against enemies
On every side. We need to honor you .
Do not let US forget the price you paid.
The debt we owe, and less we forget
Amidst the picnics and parades
To honor you. Let us kneel down and PRAY!
To thank you for your sacrifice, for your family
Left alone to face the future. They too were brave,
To kiss you and say goodbye and never know
If you would die and left behind in an unmarked spot,
Or maimed and crippled return to say,
I am glad and have no remorse for the gift I fought
To save. Freedom, Oh use it well for it can tarnish
Without your help. I beg of you don't let anyone take it away.
Ring your bells, wave the flags, cheer the living
And bless the dead. AND Thank God with heart and soul
Or come and lie with me.
anna alexander
July 3, 2003©
-
The Box
~ by Kendrew Lascelles
Once upon a time, in the land of Hush-A-Bye,
Around about the wondrous days of yore,
They came across a kind of box
Bound up with chains and locked with locks
And labeled "Kindly do not touch; it's war."
A decree was issued round about,
and all with a flourish and a shout
And a gaily colored mascot
tripping lightly on before.
Don't fiddle with this deadly box,
Or break the chains, or pick the locks.
And please don't ever play about with war.
The children understood.
Children happen to be good
And they were just as good around the time of yore.
They didn't try to pick the locks
Or break into that deadly box.
They never tried to play about with war.
Mommies didn't either;
sisters, aunts, grannies neither
'Cos they were quiet, and sweet, and pretty
In those wondrous days of yore.
Well, very much the same as now,
And not the ones to blame somehow
For opening up that deadly box of war.
But someone did. Someone battered in the lid
And spilled the insides out across the floor.
A kind of bouncy, bumpy ball made up of guns and flags
And all the tears, and horror,
and death that comes with war.
It bounced right out and went bashing all about,
Bumping into everything in store.
And what was sad and most unfair
Was that it didn't really seem to care
Much who it bumped, or why, or what, or for.
It bumped the children mainly.
And I'll tell you this quite plainly,
It bumps them every day and more, and more,
And leaves them dead, and burned, and dying
Thousands of them sick and crying.
'Cos when it bumps, it's really very sore.
Now there's a way to stop the ball.
It isn't difficult at all.
All it takes is wisdom, and I'm absolutely sure
That we can get it back into the box,
And bind the chains, and lock the locks.
But no one seems to want to save the children anymore.
Well, that's the way it all appears,
'Cos it's been bouncing round for years and years
In spite of all the wisdom wizzed
since those wondrous days of yore
And the time they came across the box,
Bound up with chains and locked with locks,
And labeled "Kindly do not touch; it's war."
-
I only wish it were true,...that bit about 'it isn't difficult at all', to stop wars. "Wisdom" tells me, tho', that first we've got to end greed, and fear,
and the lust for power. That is very difficult indeed.
-
Mommies didn't either;
sisters, aunts, grannies neither
'Cos they were quiet, and sweet, and pretty
And that leaves who as the naughty one?
Very powerful.
-
The Galloping Cat
~ by Stevie Smith
Oh I am a cat that likes to
Gallop about doing good
So
One day when I was
Galloping about doing good, I saw
A figure in the path; I said
Get off! (Be-
cause
I am a cat that likes to
Gallop about doing good)
But he did not move, instead
He raised his hand as if
To land me a cuff
So I made to dodge so as to
Prevent him bringing it orf,
Un-for-tune-ately I slid
On a banana skin
Some Ass had left instead
Of putting in the bin. So
His hand caught me on the cheek
I tried
To lay his arm open from wrist to elbow
With my sharp teeth
Because I am
A cat that likes to gallop about doing good.
Would you believe it?
He wasn’t there
My teeth met nothing but air,
But a Voice said: Poor Cat,
(Meaning me) and a soft stroke
Came on me head
Since when
I have been bald.
I regard myself as
A martyr to doing good
Also I heard a swoosh
As of wings, and saw
A halo shining at the height of
Mrs Gubbins’s backyard fence,
So I thought: What’s the good
Of galloping about doing good
When angels stand in the path
And do not do as they should
Such as having an arm to be bitten off
All the same I
Intend to go on being
A cat that likes to
Gallop about doing good
So
Now with my bald head I go,
Chopping the untidy flowers down, to
and fro,
An’ scooping up the grass to show
Underneath
The cinder path of wrath
Ha ha ha ha, ho,
Angels aren’t the only ones who do
not know
What’s what and that
Galloping about doing good
Is a full time job
That needs
An experienced eye of earthly
Sharpness, worth I dare say
(if you’ll forgive a personal note)
A good deal more
Than all that skyey stuff
Of angels that make so bold as
To pity a cat like me that
Gallops about doing good.
-
Is that the same cat, I wonder,..husky, gray fellow with slit eyes....who said, "I categorically
deny all allegations".
Here's another Robert Frost with the unexpected closure.
Come In
by Robert Frost
As I came to the edge of the woods,
Thrush music -- hark!
Now if it was dusk outside,
Inside it was dark.
Too dark in the woods for a bird
By sleight of wing
To better its perch for the night,
Though it still could sing.
The last of the light of the sun
That had died in the west
Still lived for one song more
In a thrush's breast.
Far in the pillared dark
Thrush music went --
Almost like a call to come in
To the dark and lament.
But no, I was out for stars;
I would not come in.
I meant not even if asked;
And I hadn't been.
-
Wow! How can each Frost poem exceed the last?
-
You are finding treasures for us Babi - the poem has an in-out theme that I am having difficulty getting to the nub of what Frost is saying. What do y'all think -
Out is at first dusk as compared to in being dark - but then the woods too dark are out. Then the dark calls and he wants to wait for the stars although I guess he is saying the stars had not asked him for his company - or is in and out about our interior and exterior life -
Reading the poem sounds wonderful and speaks with such charm about a Thrush which is more than a bird bringing up all our associations with a Thrush romanticized by other authors - and then the woods, dark and light, and the stars - a thrilling combination of elements however, the in and out aspect is where I am bogging down.
-
Barb: The poet, out (of doors) to look at the stars, hears the thrush in the woods where it is already too dark to see is singing as if still in sunlight. the song tempts the poet but he realizes that the song is not an invitation so he would not be welcome. He is there for the stars, after all, not to share the lament of the thrush (for the day/sun now past?) That's my take.
-
Thanks - reading your post makes me aware that it is the word Lament that is throwing me - there are few clues as to what the Lament of the Thrush is all about - lamenting the end of day maybe? - or lamenting time gone in the form of a day as though that is something to lament - something about the dark being where lamenting takes place - pillard dark at that - he is saying he is there for the stars - OK I get that but the stars are out - the woods are in - a ha... just thought the stars are eternal light where as the woods with its unknown perils is dark out of which comes the song of the Thrush like a messenger or spirit coming out of the dark.
Do you think he is saying our soul or our spirit like the Thrush sings a lament in the dark - is he suggesting that those who look for the light even at night sky do not lament at the end of day - where the sun may set we do not settle for the dark as long as we look for the light even if only in the stars...?
-
Or perhaps Frost is just in a lighthearted mood, and is saying one has
an option whether to go into the dark where the thrush laments, or stay
out and watch for the starlight.
-
This poem is long for our web site but it has been years since I read it and it is too perfect for this weekend.
Ode in Memory of the American Volunteers Fallen for France
~ by Alan Seeger
I
Ay, it is fitting on this holiday,
Commemorative of our soldier dead,
When -- with sweet flowers of our New England May
Hiding the lichened stones by fifty years made gray --
Their graves in every town are garlanded,
That pious tribute should be given too
To our intrepid few
Obscurely fallen here beyond the seas.
Those to preserve their country's greatness died;
But by the death of these
Something that we can look upon with pride
Has been achieved, nor wholly unreplied
Can sneerers triumph in the charge they make
That from a war where Freedom was at stake
America withheld and, daunted, stood aside.
II
Be they remembered here with each reviving spring,
Not only that in May, when life is loveliest,
Around Neuville-Saint-Vaast and the disputed crest
Of Vimy, they, superb, unfaltering,
In that fine onslaught that no fire could halt,
Parted impetuous to their first assault;
But that they brought fresh hearts and springlike too
To that high mission, and 'tis meet to strew
With twigs of lilac and spring's earliest rose
The cenotaph of those
Who in the cause that history most endears
Fell in the sunny morn and flower of their young years.
III
et sought they neither recompense nor praise,
Nor to be mentioned in another breath
Than their blue coated comrades whose great days
It was their pride to share -- ay, share even to the death!
Nay, rather, France, to you they rendered thanks
(Seeing they came for honor, not for gain),
Who, opening to them your glorious ranks,
Gave them that grand occasion to excel,
That chance to live the life most free from stain
And that rare privilege of dying well.
IV
O friends! I know not since that war began
From which no people nobly stands aloof
If in all moments we have given proof
Of virtues that were thought American.
I know not if in all things done and said
All has been well and good,
Or if each one of us can hold his head
As proudly as he should,
Or, from the pattern of those mighty dead
Whose shades our country venerates to-day,
If we've not somewhat fallen and somewhat gone astray.
But you to whom our land's good name is dear,
If there be any here
Who wonder if her manhood be decreased,
Relaxed its sinews and its blood less red
Than that at Shiloh and Antietam shed,
Be proud of these, have joy in this at least,
And cry: "Now heaven be praised
That in that hour that most imperilled her,
Menaced her liberty who foremost raised
Europe's bright flag of freedom, some there were
Who, not unmindful of the antique debt,
Came back the generous path of Lafayette;
And when of a most formidable foe
She checked each onset, arduous to stem --
Foiled and frustrated them --
On those red fields where blow with furious blow
Was countered, whether the gigantic fray
Rolled by the Meuse or at the Bois Sabot,
Accents of ours were in the fierce melee;
And on those furthest rims of hallowed ground
Where the forlorn, the gallant charge expires,
When the slain bugler has long ceased to sound,
And on the tangled wires
The last wild rally staggers, crumbles, stops,
Withered beneath the shrapnel's iron showers: --
Now heaven be thanked, we gave a few brave drops;
Now heaven be thanked, a few brave drops were ours."
V
There, holding still, in frozen steadfastness,
Their bayonets toward the beckoning frontiers,
They lie -- our comrades -- lie among their peers,
Clad in the glory of fallen warriors,
Grim clusters under thorny trellises,
Dry, furthest foam upon disastrous shores,
Leaves that made last year beautiful, still strewn
Even as they fell, unchanged, beneath the changing moon;
And earth in her divine indifference
Rolls on, and many paltry things and mean
Prate to be heard and caper to be seen.
But they are silent, calm; their eloquence
Is that incomparable attitude;
No human presences their witness are,
But summer clouds and sunset crimson-hued,
And showers and night winds and the northern star.
Nay, even our salutations seem profane,
Opposed to their Elysian quietude;
Our salutations calling from afar,
From our ignobler plane
And undistinction of our lesser parts:
Hail, brothers, and farewell; you are twice blest, brave hearts.
Double your glory is who perished thus,
For you have died for France and vindicated us.
-
Wilfred Gibson (1878-1962)
BACK
They ask me where I've been,
And what I've done and seen.
But what can I reply
Who know it wasn't I,
But someone just like me,
Who went across the sea
And with my head and hands
Killed men in foreign lands...
Though I must bear the blame,
Because he bore my name.
-
That is surely one of the most horrible aspects of war, JACKIE, that young men and women must take upon themselves the terrible burden of taking lives. Is it any wonder that so many
are unable to cope with it?
Michael N. Audenaert
Guilt
these pale shades of countless sins
they dance and play and they hold sway
this mind of mine a wretched tomb
unwelcome home of these foul bones
this war i fight i can no more
your peace oh Lord for me you've sworn
bid them away to their home etern
i'm risen with You no longer dead.
-
Oh, Babi, that one made me cry.
-
It made me feel sad and helpless.
-
I am astounded - this poem by Baudelaire has been translated into English 5 times and each time there is a difference -
We are not talking about some exotic language here - this is only French - this is not translating Chinese with 4000 letters all in symbols - we are talking French! The mother language of nearly half of Lousiana - the language most of us studied for a few years during our high school days - then we wonder why there is misinterpretation when visiting dignitaries visit another nation.
I have little experience reading Baudelaire although he has been on my list for years so here we go...
Harmonie du soir
— Charles Baudelaire
Voici venir les temps où vibrant sur sa tige
Chaque fleur s'évapore ainsi qu'un encensoir;
Les sons et les parfums tournent dans l'air du soir;
Valse mélancolique et langoureux vertige!
Chaque fleur s'évapore ainsi qu'un encensoir;
Le violon frémit comme un coeur qu'on afflige;
Valse mélancolique et langoureux vertige!
Le ciel est triste et beau comme un grand reposoir.
Le violon frémit comme un coeur qu'on afflige,
Un coeur tendre, qui hait le néant vaste et noir!
Le ciel est triste et beau comme un grand reposoir;
Le soleil s'est noyé dans son sang qui se fige.
Un coeur tendre, qui hait le néant vaste et noir,
Du passé lumineux recueille tout vestige!
Le soleil s'est noyé dans son sang qui se fige...
Ton souvenir en moi luit comme un ostensoir!
Evening Harmony
The season is at hand when swaying on its stem
Every flower exhales perfume like a censer;
Sounds and perfumes turn in the evening air;
Melancholy waltz and languid vertigo!
Every flower exhales perfume like a censer;
The violin quivers like a tormented heart;
Melancholy waltz and languid vertigo!
The sky is sad and beautiful like an immense altar.
The violin quivers like a tormented heart,
A tender heart, that hates the vast, black void!
The sky is sad and beautiful like an immense altar;
The sun has drowned in his blood which congeals...
A tender heart that hates the vast, black void
Gathers up every shred of the luminous past!
The sun has drowned in his blood which congeals...
Your memory in me glitters like a monstrance!
— William Aggeler, The Flowers of Evil (Fresno, CA: Academy Library Guild, 1954)
Evening Harmony
Now comes the eve, when on its stem vibrates
Each flower, evaporating like a censer;
When sounds and scents in the dark air grow denser;
Drowsed swoon through which a mournful waltz pulsates!
Each flower evaporates as from a censer;
The fiddle like a hurt heart palpitates;
Drowsed swoon through which a mournful waltz pulsates;
The sad, grand sky grows, altar-like, immenser.
The fiddle, like a hurt heart, palpitates,
A heart that hates oblivion, ruthless censor.
The sad, grand sky grows, altar-like, immenser.
The sun in its own blood coagulates...
A heart that hates oblivion, ruthless censor,
The whole of the bright past resuscitates.
The sun in its own blood coagulates...
And, monstrance-like, your memory flames intenser!
— Roy Campbell, Poems of Baudelaire (New York: Pantheon Books, 1952)
Harmonie du soir
the hours approach when vibrant in the breeze,
a censer swoons to every swaying flower;
blown tunes and scents in turn enchant the bower;
languorous waltz of swirling fancies these!
a censer swoons in every swaying flower;
the quivering violins cry out, decrease;
languorous waltz of swirling fancies these!
mournful and fair the heavenly altars tower.
the quivering violins cry out, decrease;
like hearts of love the Void must overpower!
mournful and fair the heavenly altars tower.
the drowned sun bleeds in fast congealing seas.
a heart of love the Void must overpower
peers for a vanished day's last vestiges!
the drowned sun bleeds in fast congealing seas...
and like a Host thy flaming memories flower!
— Lewis Piaget Shanks, Flowers of Evil (New York: Ives Washburn, 1931)
Evening Harmony
Now is the time when trembling on its stem
Each flower fades away like incense;
Sounds and scents turn in the evening air;
A melancholy waltz, a soft and giddy dizziness!
Each flower fades away like incense;
The violin thrills like a tortured heart;
A melancholy waltz, a soft and giddy dizziness!
The sky is sad and beautiful like some great resting-place.
The violin thrills like a tortured heart,
A tender heart, hating the wide black void.
The sky is sad and beautiful like some great resting-place;
The sun drowns itself in its own clotting blood.
A tender heart, boring the wide black void,
Gathers all trace from the pellucid past.
The sun drowns itself in clotting blood.
Like the Host shines O your memory in me!
— Geoffrey Wagner, Selected Poems of Charles Baudelaire (NY: Grove Press, 1974)
-
later this month we tip into Summer according to the big clock outside London. We have been experiencing summer like weather for the past few weeks however, until the children are out of school it does not feel like summer to me. Well yesterday was the last day of school and next week we start - yep, 100 degree temps day after day -
I wonder how many days in a row it will be this year - last year it was well over 40 - I think 47 or 48 - I do remember the heat didn't break with the usual crashing storm and so where it never reached 50 days in a row the predictions were still high for 50 days total and we avoided it by only one or two days. Well onward - here is a Summer Poem.
Summer Sun
~ by Robert Louis Stevenson
Great is the sun, and wide he goes
Through empty heaven with repose;
And in the blue and glowing days
More thick than rain he showers his rays.
Though closer still the blinds we pull
To keep the shady parlour cool,
Yet he will find a chink or two
To slip his golden fingers through.
The dusty attic spider-clad
He, through the keyhole, maketh glad;
And through the broken edge of tiles
Into the laddered hay-loft smiles.
Meantime his golden face around
He bares to all the garden ground,
And sheds a warm and glittering look
Among the ivy's inmost nook.
Above the hills, along the blue,
Round the bright air with footing true,
To please the child, to paint the rose,
The gardener of the World, he goes.
-
(http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_LqwQxG1c0BM/S352OnAobpI/AAAAAAAAKz0/wTZ4mnqnaTQ/s400/Spring+Chimera.jpg) Spring Poetry- Famous Poets and Poems about Spring (http://famouspoetsandpoems.com/thematic_poems/spring_poems.html)
- Spring Poems (http://poetry.about.com/od/ourpoemcollections/a/springpoems.htm)
|
Cuttings
~ Michael P. Garofalo
Ahh, the wide almond groves in full white flower
Stunning in the morning sun.
Old naked Winter in
his garb of grays and browns has run.
Forsythia blooms
Come and go in the blink of a yellow Eye,
Then, suddenly, mysteriously,
Green erupts; and we sigh.
We would love you to Join us
As we celebrate Spring!Discussion Leaders: Barb (augere@ix.netcom.com) & fairanna (fairanna@cox.net)
|
-
Barb: Each translation has some charm but they all miss the mark somehow. I suspect that there is too much adherence to the literal leaving out the soul. Although maybe it is the original which lacks substance. The scheme of repeated lines is an interesting extra. As always, you have provided us with fascinating intellectual stimulation.
-
Yes, it is type of poetry that I have forgotten its name - but you take every other line and repeat them as the first and third line in the next stanza and so forth... I need to look it up... reading the poem in French there is a lovely ending to the lines that just is not coming through in the translations. English is so much more guttural than French and it is poetry that calls our attention to the difference.
-
here we go - the poem form is called Pantoum
Brought to the West by Victor Hugo, the pantoum is derived from a Malaysian form of interlocking four-line stanzas in which lines 2 and 4 of one stanza are used as lines 1 and 3 of the next. The lines may be of any length, and the poem can go on for an indefinite number of stanzas. Usually the paired lines are also rhymed. The form may be resolved at the end either by picking up lines 1 and 3 of the first stanza as lines 2 and 4 of the last, thus closing the circle of the poem, or simply by closing with a rhymed couplet.
-
I think I prefer the Stevenson to the Baudelaire. That repeated pick=up of
previous lines rather annnoyed me. A personal quirk, I think. I never
liked retracing my steps or repeating my words.
-
Sub Rosa
~ Niko Tiliopoulos
I missed the Spring.
I fell asleep under the shadows of my desires,
with mandolin sounds for lullabies
and my grandfather’s pipe,
in dreams dressed in herbal smoke and honey scents
and the beauty of my loved ones.
I missed the Spring.
I was late for my soul,
too late for a song,
deceived by the lotus flowers
and the smiles of the sirens,
their seductive bodies waving my sanity away.
I missed the Spring.
The ring of oblivion was Time’s gift,
a nursery rhyme’s forgotten curse,
here like now, absent like never,
a colourless rainbow reflection
on eyes of sadness.
I missed the Spring.
I woke up in the slumbers of my regrets,
by tribal drumbeats for breakfast
and my grandmother’s tales,
in a reality stripped of hope and home warmth,
well worth the loneliness of a poem.
I missed the Spring.
-
Summons
- Ann McGough,
Wisteria woke me this morning,
And there was all June in the garden;
I felt them, early, warning
Lest I miss any part of the day.
Straight I walked to the trellis vine.
Wisteria touched a lifted nostril:
Feelings of beauty diffused, to entwine
My spirit with June's own aura.
-
In June
- Nora Perry
So sweet, so sweet the roses in their blowing,
So sweet the daffodils, so fair to see;
So blithe and gay the humming-bird a going
From flower to flower, a-hunting with the bee.
-
Here's my contribution...another place, another time...
"I'm glad I am alive, to see and feel
The full deliciousness of this bright day,
That's like a heart with nothing to conceal;
The young leaves scarcely trembling; the blue-grey
Rimming the cloudless ether far away;
Brairds, hedges, shadows; mountains that reveal
Soft sapphire; this great floor of polished steel
Spread out amidst the landmarks of the bay.
I stoop in sunshine to our circling net
From the black gunwale; tend these milky kine
Up their rough path; sit by yon cottage-door
Plying the diligent thread; take wings and soar--
O hark how with the season's laureate
Joy culminates in song! If such a song were mine!"
- William Allingham, On a Forenoon of Spring
-
All of the above? Sublime.
-
Remember this sing song from early grade school...?
Summer is coming
Summer is coming
How do you think I know?
I found some pussy willows
So I know it must be so.
And of course that was always followed by
I know a little pussy
her coat is silver gray
Who lives down in the meadow
Not very far away.
She'll always be a pussy,
She'll never be a cat
For she's a pussy willow
Now what do you think of that.
All part of the fantasy of what June was supposed to be as compared to the typical high 90s in Texas with the last of the garden growing before we nurse it along shading it and ourselves from the searing hot sun.
-
Summer's Coming
~ Sophie Shaw
In my head I hear a humming,
Summer, summer summer's coming,
Soon we're going on vacation,
But there is a complication,
Day by day the problem's growing,
We don't know yet where we're going,
Mother likes the country best,
That's so she can read and rest,
Dad thinks resting is a bore,
He's for fishing at the shore,
Sister says swimming's cool,
Swimming in the swimming pool,
I don't care,
I'd be happy anywhere,
In my head I hear a humming,
Summer, summer, summer's coming,
Soon we're going on vacation,
But we have a complication,
Day by day the problem's growing,
Where oh where will we be going?
-
Down by the Salley Gardens
~ W.B. Yeats
Down by the salley gardens my love and I did meet;
She passed the salley gardens with little snow-white feet.
She bid me take love easy, as the leaves grow on the tree;
But I, being young and foolish, with her did not agree.
In a field by the river my love and I did stand,
And on my leaning shoulder she laid her snow-white hand.
She bid me take life easy, as the grass grows on the weirs;
But I was young and foolish, and now am full of tears.
"Salley" is an anglicisation of the Irish saileach, meaning willow. Willows are known as "salleys", "sallies" or "salley trees" in parts of Ireland
-
He wishes for the Cloths of Heaven
~ W.B. Yeats
Had I the heavens' embroidered cloths,
Enwrought with golden and silver light,
The blue and the dim and the dark cloths
Of night and light and the half-light,
I would spread the cloths under your feet:
But I, being poor, have only my dreams;
I have spread my dreams under your feet;
Tread softly because you tread upon my dreams.
-
Summer in the South
by Paul Laurence Dunbar
The Oriole sings in the greening grove
As if he were half-way waiting,
The rosebuds peep from their hoods of green,
Timid, and hesitating.
The rain comes down in a torrent sweep
And the nights smell warm and pinety,
The garden thrives, but the tender shoots
Are yellow-green and tiny.
Then a flash of sun on a waiting hill,
Streams laugh that erst were quiet,
The sky smiles down with a dazzling blue
And the woods run mad with riot.
-
Only a week away from Summer and already we have rain in torrents - not the deaths, thank goodness, of Arkansas but several nearby communities are stripping out what is left after a couple of rivers and creeks raced over their banks because of 12" of rain in a couple of hours.
Haven't had raisin pie in years - not cooking and baking as I did at one time there are many dishes I forget about making -
Raisin Pie
~ Edgar Guest
THERE'S a heap of pent-up goodness in the yellow bantam corn,
And I sort o' like to linger round a berry patch at morn;
Oh, the Lord has set our table with a stock o' things to eat
An' there's just enough o' bitter in the blend to cut the sweet,
But I run the whole list over, an' it seems somehow that I
Find the keenest sort o' pleasure in a chunk o' raisin pie.
There are pies that start the water circulatin' in the mouth;
There are pies that wear the flavor of the warm an' sunny south;
Some with oriental spices spur the drowsy appetite
An' just fill a fellow's being with a thrill o' real delight;
But for downright solid goodness that comes drippin' from the sky
There is nothing quite the equal of a chunk o' raisin pie.
I'm admittin' tastes are diff'runt, I'm not settin' up myself
As the judge an' final critic of the good things on the shelf.
I'm sort o' payin' tribute to a simple joy on earth,
Sort o' feebly testifyin' to its lasting charm an' worth,
An' I'll hold to this conclusion till it comes my time to die,
That there's no dessert that's finer than a chunk o' raisin pie.
-
Love the Dunbar poem. For some reason the Yeats poem puts me in mind of the epitaphs of an old New England couple. I don't remember
exactly how his went, but it was on the order of "Here lies John __,
poet, philosopher, dreamer." Beside him his wife's read: "Here lies
Elizabeth ___, long-suffering wife of John ___".
Remember this one?
Who Ever Felt as I
Mother, I cannot mind my wheel;
My fingers ache, my lips are dry:
Oh! if you felt the pain I feel!
But oh, who ever felt as I?
No longer could I doubt him true;
All other men may use deceit:
He always said my eyes were blue,
And often swore my lips were sweet
- Walter Savage Landor
-
Having trouble with my Browser; I wanted to post Houseman's poem which starts:
When I was one-and-twenty . . .
The Landor suggested it though I'm not sure I understand Landor.
-
I spent Friday afternoon with a friend touring Emily Dickinson's garden in Amherst. A small crowd was doing the house tour and we had the garden to ourselves, with audio wands commenting on the grounds as they were: Richard Wilbur reciting appropriate poems; and a landscape architect identifying some of the plantings. Sad to say, the garden is overgrown, weedy, almost nothing in bloom. Her house connects, by way of a wooded path, to her brother's. who , with his wife, constituted Amherst's "high society" of the time, while Emily became more and more reclusive.
Within my Garden rides a Bird
Upon a single Wheel-
Whose spokes a dizzy Music make
As 'twere a traveling Mill.
He never stops, but slackens
Above the Ripest Rose-
\Partakes without alighting
\And praises as he goes.
Till every spice is tased
And then his Fairy Gig
Reels in remoter atmospheres
And I rejoin my Dog.
Ane he and I perplex us
If positive were we
Or bore the Garden in the Brain
This Curiosity.
But He, the best Logician
Refers my clumsy Eye
To just vibrating blossoms!
An Exquisite Reply.
Well, there's Emily . Obscure as usual. As far as I can figure out, she and the dog try to figure out where the humjmingbird went and the ony clue is the trembling blossoms. I guess you could spend a lifetime figuring out her metaphors. I so like her final words on her deathbed: "I must go in. The fog is rising."
After an hour listening to that rhythm, I was inspired to tell the rectitionist why my friend was late in returning her audio wand
She lingered on the Wodland Path-
She did not note thetime.
Her Stomach does not feel the Pangs
Of Hunger, as does mine.
-
Here it is:
When I was one-and-twenty
I heard a wise man say,
`Give crowns and pounds and guineas
But not your heart away;
Give pearls away and rubies
But keep your fancy free.'
But I was one-and-twenty
No use to talk to me.
When I was one-and-twenty
I heard him say again,
`The heart out of the bosom
Was never given in vain;
'Tis paid with sighs a plenty
And sold for endless rue.'
And I am two-and-twenty
And oh, 'tis true, 'tis true.
A E Houseman
-
Bellemere I saw In TV that the NY Botanical Gardens has re-created Emily's garden - sounds like they needed to dispatch some of their experts to liven up her garden in Massachusetts.
So glad you found the Houseman Jackie - The heart...was never given in vain. Lovely thought that brings hope and courage to say what is in our hearts.
Ouch Babi - sounds like she is grieving a betrayal and looking for comfort from mom.
-
Houseman seems to be aware of age - here is another speaking to age.
"Loveliest of Trees"
LOVELIEST of trees, the cherry now
Is hung with bloom along the bough,
And stands about the woodland ride
Wearing white for Eastertide.
Now, of my threescore years and ten,
Twenty will not come again,
And take from seventy springs a score,
It only leaves me fifty more.
And since to look at things in bloom
Fifty springs are little room,
About the woodlands I will go
To see the cherry hung with snow.
-
I thought I knew Robert Lewis Stevenson - lo and behold I found this...
Spring Carol
~ Robert Louis Stevenson (1918)
When loud by landside streamlets gush,
And clear in the greenwood quires the thrush,
With sun on the meadows
And songs in the shadows
Comes again to me
The gift of the tongues of the lea,
The gift of the tongues of meadows.
Straightway my olden heart returns
And dances with the dancing burns;
It sings with the sparrows;
To the rain and the (grimy) barrows
Sings my heart aloud—
To the silver-bellied cloud,
To the silver rainy arrows.
It bears the song of the skylark down,
And it hears the singing of the town;
And youth on the highways
And lovers in byways
Follows and sees:
And hearkens the song of the leas
And sings the songs of the highways.
So when the earth is alive with gods,
And the lusty ploughman breaks the sod,
And the grass sings in the meadows,
And the flowers smile in the shadows,
Sits my heart at ease,
Hearing the song of the leas,
Singing the songs of the meadows.
-
This is written by Rita Dove, the current United States Poet Laureate. Her work seems almost as obscure as the work of our prolific Emily.
The Fish in the Stone
The fish in the stone
would like to fall
back into the sea.
He is weary
of analysis, the small
predictable truths.
He is weary of waiting
in the open,
his profile stamped
by a white light.
In the ocean the silence
moves and moves
and so much is unnecessary!
Patient, he drifts
until the moment comes
to cast his
skeletal blossom.
The fish in the stone
knows to fail is
to do the living
a favor.
He knows why the ant
engineers a gangster's
funeral, garish
and perfectly amber.
He knows why the scientist
in secret delight
strokes the fern's
voluptuous braille.
-
I loved the Stevenson poem , so full of joy, no forebodings or regrets! and what is Rita Dove's fish in the stone? maybe a fossilized imprint of a fish?
I would love to get down to thebotanical Garden to see that garden exhibit. Just too far to drive for me. and Amtrak doesn't stop in the
Bronx.
-
JACKIE, to me the Landor is, in a nutshell, a girl seduced and finding,
like many before her, that seducer's are deceitful. The Houseman poems are both old favorites.
May I say I greatly enjoyed your post, BELLE. Especially the impromptu
verse at the end.
Would you believe I didn't even know we had a U.S. Poet Laureate now?
Oh, yeah. The fish, the ant and the fern...all fossilized.
-
Palestinian Spring in the Mist of Time
~ By Genevieve Cora Fraser
It is late the moon glows
Warmly among the stars
A Palestinian man sits quietly
Sipping tea pouring seeds
Through his fingers
Sifting through thoughts
Calculates planting
Hope for a season
Of peace
His wife hovers nearby
Concerned for his safety
As he slips out planting
In the dimly lit field
Dreams cast danger
From his task at hand
A settler watches
From a distance
Strike now
Or wait
Behind the hill
A caterpillar
Revved to life
Flashes bright
Lights
Blasts past
The grove
Bears down
The field
To the man
Sowing
Caught
In the headlight
A bullet flashes
Death against
The spring
Emerging
His wife
Clutches
Their child
As the walls
Collapse
-
The Dark Day
~ William Carlos Williams.
A three-day-long rain from the east--
an terminable talking, talking
of no consequence--patter, patter, patter.
Hand in hand little winds
blow the thin streams aslant.
Warm. Distance cut off. Seclusion.
A few passers-by, drawn in upon themselves,
hurry from one place to another.
Winds of the white poppy! there is no escape!--
An interminable talking, talking,
talking . . .it has happened before.
Backward, backward, backward.
-
Barb: Are you all right? Those poems are mournful cries of woe. I hope the woe is only in the newspaper headlines and not coming from your heart.
-
Jackie I've been in a funk that is added to by the general atmosphere and news on every front - the vitriolic nature of so many who cannot see past the tip of their own nose is beyond disturbing - I feel as if I am caught in the oil at the bottom of the gulf shore with no relief in sight.
I've also been experiencing a crisis in faith as I am in the middle of heavy research of the first 1000 years of the Christian church - had no idea it is all based in politics - never really understood state religion and how that mingles the power of church and state and how in the name of politics both have perminantly altered what we are taught is truth.
I have to make some decisions to change where and how I live. Without a clear picture of who I am anylonger I am scrapping the barrel. Plus my eyes are becoming more of a problem - actually i can be thankful that I am not plagued with many of the typical illnesses that is part of the daily challenge for many seniors.
And so yes, I see and find poets have spoken to the sadness and terminal pain, anger, oppression, reactive aggression, losses that here lately have reared up from just under the surface into broad daylight.
-
Oh, Barb, that Fraser poem is a real downer. I'm sitting here with my
face all screwed up in dismay. And then Williams writes of 'no escape'.
Oh, dear.
I understand your dismay about the history of the Church. I've been
aware of this for many years now, but also learned to make a distinction between the man-made institution and the faith that gave
rise to it.
-
Although I am not religious I take comfort the "church is a hospital for sinners and not a museum for saints." So I guess you could say my faith is in the spirit of religion and not in the letter since so few people seem to live literally y the words of Jesus. I agree with Babi that institutions are creations of men and subject to the same failings that men in general are prey to. I would also say that you may trust in yourself and your experiences of the past umpty-uump years. You are an intelligent woman and at your core you are strong and wise else you would not have survived your life until now. Do not deny the essential Barb, she is in there, waiting for you to see what is in front of your own eyes. And know that you have faithful companions who believe in you, namely Babi and I. Though we are separated by distance, you are in my heart. The grandeur and beauty of Nature is my greatest comfort, the inevitability of the sea and its tides. the beauty of the sun-rise and -set, the majesty of plants and flowers, the interconnectedness of all life, it is a beautiful world and though we are trying to destroy it, Nature will triumph. You are not alone.
-
I'm on the same journey Barb. As Julian Barnes says,
"I don't believe in God, but I miss him"
the role that Jackie assigns to Nature, I find in music as well.
Institutionalized religion has lost all appeal for me, and I have been doing a lot of studying and thinking. Barnes is one; The Consolations of Philosophy Another; Fifty Reasons People Give for Believing in a god, still another. Of course, I realize that reading and informing myself of the thoughts of others on this subject does not mean enlightenment. But as my devout friends say " Faith is a gift."
But isn't doubt a gift also?
-
When you feel that you have lost your support system, concentrate on what you know is true and that will help you reintegrate your beliefs with the real world.
-
I can gratefully say that I do believe in God and I don't think He is at
all bothered when we question what we are taught. If I question, then
I study and explore and come out with a better and firmer understanding.
The beginning of wisdom is found in doubting; by doubting we come to the question, and by seeking we may come upon the truth.
Pierre Abelard
-
Thanks for all your words of wisdom - poetry outside of the humanities does not seem to be our makeup and I am grateful.
I had come to terms with what brought me peace and acceptance of my earthly limits that included the realization I could not change others - I turned to St. John of the Cross' 'Dark Night of the Soul' and 'Ascent on Mount Carmel' along with writings from and about the Tao and I set aside regular time for contemplation. This was my bedrock through the times with life hit me a blow I was unprepared for and had to deal with.
I wish now I had left well enough alone - however, a knee jerk reaction that I did not see coming - only in hindsight have I realized, I did it again. I have a very good friend who is easily angered because the Pope, the Bishops or this belief and that belief - on and on her reaction is to angrily blame. Well when folks are blaming and I know just enough to be dangerous, rather than disagree I need all the facts and so I started to read, one book after the other. I even purchased from the Teaching Company sets of tapes on the history of the Popes and the History of the Bible, the History of the New and Old Testament - so far I have read almost 2 dozen books - the kind you cannot get through without a dictionary next to you and in some cases I had to fish out my old Latin Dictionary. Glory only knows what I did with my high school Greek dictionary but I could have used it.
While reading my mouth dropped over and over as I learned how politics is the basis for most of our Christian beliefs. The politics is unbelievable brutality during the first 700 years of Christian to Christian toward those who did not share the current views Especially explaining the Trinity and who Jesus was in relationship to God, the Word and the Blessed mother.
I was startled with some of the early cannons - I had no idea that many of the Deacons who were most often the personal in charge of maintaining the physical buildings, things, finances were eunuchs and how a Canon written during Chalcedon in 451 said only those eunuchs that it was done to them or it was a health care choice could be ordained as priests. Not sure what I think but certainly not what I expected.
Then the Bible and what books were included and how the names Mathew, Mark, Luke and John were simply added and how the Mathew was written only 2 years after the total sacking of Jerusalem in 69/70 AD. It would be like someone in Germany after WWII - not someone from the allied forces but the looser, Germany - writing about a revered leader during WWI when Germany was also a looser. Difference the years between WWII and WWI were less than 40, which is the time between the Roman Persecutions at the time of Jesus and the sacking of Jerusalem. I suspect the circumstances would bring a tone to the author's memory
I know, this is not a religious discussion but all of this and more has me by the tail - at least I know the things that many folks blame the Pope and church for were actually as a result of the king or emperor, other raids and the history of the Mediterranean. I realized the common stories of today have been exaggerated - However, to learn that not only the church but what we are taught as truth is man-made as a result of politics and the brutal treatment to death and the destruction of property for those with another viewpoint makes me question if the entire Church is a house of cards - I think the straw breaker is to learn of the closing and sacking of Plato's school in Rome so that the only reason we have his writings to day is because some Persians whisked the tablets and scrolls off and translated them which were hundreds of years later found and translated again.
I could go on and on with all I have learned and it sounds like Babi you indicated you found this out some years ago. No, I did not faithfully attend church services but there were certain books and authors that gave me a perspective on life as well as a connection to my inner self. I know, because of this search I can at least paste a smile on my face when others rile knowing half the time they are going off half-cocked.
Difficult in all this is scrapping off yet one more piece of myself - there has been much of me built on faith and trust in others and what I was taught or told - I navigated my life based on this trust and the teachings I incorporated into my basic DNA, to use a current allegory. I have little time or use of blame, hurt or anger and just want to get on with identifying who I am. It looks like Jackie I need to decide what is true and now I am doubting so much I have to pick through the rubble and gather the small bits.
Ah yes, Bellemere, Boethius - and the Fifty Reasons... we are all on in a different place in our journey - I have a comfortable justification of God which for me is a cosmic power without duality. What I want is a way to celebrate or offer adoration - which is really more about me than injecting an influence toward a cosmic power.
It is like celebrating 4th of July - each town has its own traditions and ceremony although, we are all united in our dependence and gratification for the work incorporated in the Declaration of Independence. If we learn shocking untold aspects of how that document came about and the character of those engaged at the time and how some of the traditions were to put-it-up someone's nose who disagreed with chosen wording it takes the tarnish off the day's celebration and the question becomes not only what does this nation stand for but, what is it I am pledging to when I pledge my Allegiance. And yet, where I would be amazed and disjointed learning about the politics of our nation's independence it is not as much of a blow. I believe it has something to do with how I did not expect our beliefs about God were political agreements.
-
I was raised loosely as a Methodist, Sunday School for my sister and me while parents stayed in bed. Typical teen-age rejection of organized religion followed by degree in sociology cemented my convictions. My sister married into the Catholic Church and was a dedicated convert until the sex scandals broke out. She has left the Church and found comfort in the Episcopal church, similarities to the rituals she is comfortable with but clean of scandal. As a feminist I find it positive that the priests are allowed to marry and that women may become priests show not blind obedience but careful consideration of peoples' needs and the changes that occur society.
-
Jackie I am beginning to think that is the obstacle - the times we live in as compared to what folks believed about themselves and the alignment of power during the first couple of centuries. I bet if I read all the material I 'consumed' a couple of hundred years ago I would not be so shocked and floored the way folks act toward each other and how the come to an understanding and accept the thinking of a majority or a powerful minority.
It is difficult to read without jaundiced eyes the behavior of folks over 1500 years ago as compared to today - in fact, accepted behavior of 150 years ago often shocks us never mind as your sister has made her statement about the out of control mouth dropping, outrageous behavior of today.
One interesting book I read explained how for the most part western society operates in four cultures. Some of us include aspects of all four and others of us mix or match from the four. The book includes when in history the culture was most prevalent and how the culture is expressed –
An example of Prophetic culture today is the Martin Luther King Jr. speech ‘I have a Dream” as if throwing across a divide what will be - excluding a plan or examined reason.
The culture of scholarship - The production and the transmission of knowledge – basic to Universities, Creativity, The Law, Science including physical, chemical and the natural universe disciplines.
The humanities – a culture of scholarship that is centered in the human experience that cover subjects such as literature, philosophy, foreign languages
The Arts – how we express ourselves – Poetry, music, theater, architecture, sculpture. Defining and creating beauty in a beautiful way.
The example offered - after spending several years studying in Rome the author was returning to the US and brought to the Vatican post office – used by most Italians because of its competence – He brought a box of books and other mementoes that he expected to have the proper outside packaging arranged at the post office. The service worker – in typical Roman style - shook his head and with an easy flourish, as if watching a ballet he lightening fast wrapped in paper tied with raffia using attractive knots each and every item – it was so beautiful that when the box arrived in the US everyone had stopped to admire the box and its contents - He did not want to dismantle the box of his belongings till he had his fill of taking in the beauty and the memory of the creation.
Of those four cultures, I realize I am not strong in a prophetic view of the world but the others are up my alley and I also see why I miss so the old Latin Mass that was like theater. We did not have TV and movies were not attended regularly – but the Mass with the glorious music, candles, incense, beautiful vestments in a ballet like performance overlaid with Latin echoing through the building – ah yes, my childhood theatre. . .
-
Barb: The book on the four cultures sounds like one I really want to read, much like sociology. Is it scholarly, with data and statistics, or like pop science, no footnotes, etc?
My sister left the Church because of the lying and cover-ups. As reprehensible as the abuse was, it was the coldly calculated assessment that the Church counted for more than the victims, the children, whose lives had been ruined. Her appetite for ritual and pageantry found a home in Episcopalia.
It seems to be universally true of the Western religions that the institution must be maintained and expanded at the cost of the individual. Eastern philosophies, though I know little about them, are much more appealing to me. I do know some Buddhists and they are gentle and non-judgmental about their fellows.
-
Some zen poems:
Enlightenment is like the moon reflected on the water.
The moon does not get wet, nor is the water broken.
Although its light is wide and great,
The moon is reflected even in a puddle an inch wide.
The whole moon and the entire sky
Are reflected in one dewdrop on the grass.
Dogen
If you want to be free,
Get to know your real self.
It has no form, no appearance,
No root, no basis, no abode,
But is lively and buoyant.
It responds with versatile facility,
But its function cannot be located.
Therefore when you look for it,
You become further from it;
When you seek it,
You turn away from it all the more.
- Linj
Do not go after the past,
Nor lose yourself in the future.
For the past no longer exists,
And the future is not yet here.
By looking deeply at things just as they are,
In this moment, here and now,
The seeker lives calmly and freely.
You should be attentive today,
For waiting until tomorrow is too late.
Death can come and take us by surprise--
How can we gainsay it?
The one who knows
How to live attentively
Night and day
Is the one who knows
The best way to be independent.
- Bhaddekaratta Sutra
In the Pocket Buddha Reader, edited by Anne Bancroft
There is more faith in an honest doubt,
Believe me,
than in half the creeds.
- Alfred Lord Tennyson
He who owns a garden,
However small it be,
Whose hands have planted in it
Flower or Bush or Tree;
He who watches patiently
The growth from nurtured,
Who thrills a newly opened bloom
Is very close to God
- Katherine Edelman, He Who Owns a Garden
And, finally:
Pippa's Song
The year's at the spring
And day's at the morn;
Morning's at seven;
The hill-side's dew-pearl'd;
The lark's on the wing;
The snail's on the thorn;
God's in His heaven--
All's right with the world!
Robert Browning
-
Celebrate Summer With Us!
The Poetry Page.
Our haven for words that open our hearts.
(http://seniorlearn.org/bookclubs/poetry/poetrysummer09.jpg) |
In The Summer
by Nizar Qabbani
In the summer
I stretch out on the shore
And think of you
Had I told the sea
What I felt for you,
It would have left its shores,
Its shells,
Its fish,
And followed me.
|
Summer Poetry Links:
- Famous Poets and Poems about Summer (http://famouspoetsandpoems.com/thematic_poems/summer_poems.html)
- Summer Poems (http://www.dltk-holidays.com/summer/poems.htm)
- Flower Poems for Gardeners (http://www.gardendigest.com/flowers.htm)
Discussion Leaders: BarbStAubrey (augere@ix.netcom.com) & Fairanna (fairanna@cox.net)
-
Oh YES, Robert Browning - I forgot his poem and it is just what we need to read sometimes - I do like the 'Dogan' on the moon and water - lovely and worthy of thought.
Jackie from my reading and the chit chat from several friends who grew up Buddhist, evidently there is as much politics pull and tug among Buddhists as there is among Christians - the only group, if you would that is not organized and even there some have the strangest practices but for the most part their focus is on our spiritual nature are the Taoists. I also find that most monastic orders and individuals who were or are writting today and who are monastic, regardless religion touch a chord and their focus is on our spiritual nature rather than temporal 'things' and rules...
Here is an Amazon link to Four Cultures of the West -
http://www.amazon.com/Four-Cultures-West-John-OMalley/dp/0674021037/ref=sr_1_1?ie=UTF8&s=books&qid=1276895713&sr=1-1
-
I could not choose so here are a few - all are from Basho
the moon:
I wandered around the pond
all night long
the setting moon
the thing that remains
four corners of his desk
In the moonlight a worm
silently
drills through a chestnut
All my friends
viewing the moon –
an ugly bunch
viewing the moon
no one at the party
has such a beautiful face
The moon is the guide,
Come this way to my house,
So says the host of a wayside inn.
occasional clouds
one gets a rest
from moon-viewing
-
ah and our old friend Mary Oliver
Heron Rises From The Dark, Summer Pond
So heavy
is the long-necked, long-bodied heron,
always it is a surprise
when her smoke-colored wings
open
and she turns
from the thick water,
from the black sticks
of the summer pond,
and slowly
rises into the air
and is gone.
Then, not for the first or the last time,
I take the deep breath
of happiness, and I think
how unlikely it is
that death is a hole in the ground,
how improbable
that ascension is not possible,
though everything seems so inert, so nailed
back into itself--
the muskrat and his lumpy lodge,
the turtle,
the fallen gate.
And especially it is wonderful
that the summers are long
and the ponds so dark and so many,
and therefore it isn't a miracle
but the common thing,
this decision,
this trailing of the long legs in the water,
this opening up of the heavy body
into a new life: see how the sudden
gray-blue sheets of her wings
strive toward the wind; see how the clasp of nothing
takes her in.
-
I do know some Buddhists and they are gentle and non-judgmental about their fellows.
Alas, JACKIE, Christianity is supposed to be gentle, too, with judgment
reserved to God. "Judge not, that ye be not judged." And on the whole, the
Christians I have known have been gentle people. Exceptions, of course, as
in everything.
My faith is in God; my hope is that the Church will serve Him and the needs of the congregation.
I like Dogen's idea. I may be 'a puddle an inch wide' and still reflect
the moonlight.
BARB, I have to suppose that most individuals entering monastic orders are
intent on a spiritual life. But I have also read, for instance, that the
numerous temples of Japan are run on a very business-like basis. Tourism
seems to play a large role there. Perhaps the temples are income sources for
monastic groups living elsewhere. One can only hope.
I don't think we can get away from the fact that whereever a group of human
souls interact, there is going to be 'politics and pull'.
I found this poem by someone who identifies himself only as "Night Firewolf".
JUDGMENT
I find it funny...
How you look at me
Judge me...
Criticize my life
And try to capture the essence of my soul
I find it ridiculous
How you analyze your surroundings
Wrap yourself in luxuries
Sell your soul for a glass of water
And ingest the black dust of reality
But in the end
I have only judged you
As you have done me
And in the beginning
We step back to see
How human it is to judge
upon what we don't fully understand
To create some false understanding
"Don't judge me, Don't judge me"
"I'm human. I can't help that."
Don't deny your humanity
For that is to deny a large part
Of everything you are."
-
This was part of an email I receive on a daily basis, from a Pastor I have never heard in person. He used to be my best friend's pastor.
He distributes the newsletter titled "God Issues", and each day has a topical comment, and verses that seem to apply. Reading your last few posts, I couldn't help but think of you when I read this one. And excuse me if you feel I'm barging in your conversations. Much love and best wishes for you.
Paul's admonition to the Romans:
I urge you, brothers, in view of God’s mercy, to offer your bodies as living sacrifices, holy and pleasing to God—this is your spiritual act of worship. Do not conform any longer to the pattern of this world, but be transformed by the renewing of your mind. Then you will be able to test and approve what God’s will is—his good, pleasing and perfect will (Romans 12:1-2).
-
Tome: As always, your contribution to a discussion is very welcome and cogent. Faith and questioning it are universals and may be like the black cloud without which there can be no silver lining.
Count me among those who believe that any creation of man's will be imperfect since we are all imperfect. What i've done is decide on what kind of person i want to be and tried to be that person. The Golden Rule is my credo. Do I achieve my goal? Don't make me laugh. I give myself merit for trying.
-
Thanks Tomereader for sharing with us your faith - with so many buzzwords it is difficult to choose words to describe true recognition of what we shared here in the last few days. By ‘faith’, I mean the loyalty/allegiance to a belief in truth, value, and trustworthiness that is our individual North Star.
That metaphor alone - the North Star- says much - with the millions of stars visible to choose one as our personal star - do we choose the brightest, the star that others agree is the North Star - ah yes, when the celestial space was thought only to be the space seen with our eyes one star among a consistent group of bright stars was easily identified for its location and therefore ability to direct the traveler isolated from landmarks.
Today not only can we choose the historical North Star but in addition, there are instruments that help us locate the magnetic North. These many centuries later, we know that seeing through a powerful telescope the enormity of celestial space. Choosing and declaring our personal North Star from a space crowded with wonders and precise instruments that offer us a direction is a quest worthy of Perceval, Galahad or Gawain. Seems basic is our need to find and be a guardian of our truth.
Tennyson wrote about the search. Here is an excerpt from his Idylls of the King .
And spake I not too truly, O my knights?
Was I too dark a prophet when I said
To those who went upon the Holy Quest,
That most of them would follow wandering fires,
Lost in the quagmire?--lost to me and gone,
And left me gazing at a barren board,
And a lean Order--scarce returned a tithe--
And out of those to whom the vision came
My greatest hardly will believe he saw;
Another hath beheld it afar off,
And leaving human wrongs to right themselves,
Cares but to pass into the silent life.
And one hath had the vision face to face,
And now his chair desires him here in vain,
However they may crown him otherwhere.
-
Babi and Jackie I like your practical realization that man is not perfect and is a political animal - I guess the quote something about when two or more are gathered in my name points us to the realization that two or more imperfect beings are going to jockey among each other using the variety of truths present in the group. The inclination for many seems to be to agree on one truth - thus we have all that judgemental behavior the Babi reminded us is part and parcel of life today.
This was a great exploration and only makes me smile now - for a bit it became so serious - it is observing the differences that can amuse us while enlisting a gentle smile of recognition - thanks folks this has been great!
-
By the way here is a nice link to Tennyson's poem - http://www.readbookonline.net/readOnLine/2318/
-
Some keep the Sabbath going to Church
~ Emily Dickinson
Some keep the Sabbath going to Church --
I keep it, staying at Home --
With a Bobolink for a Chorister --
And an Orchard, for a Dome --
Some keep the Sabbath in Surplice --
I just wear my Wings --
And instead of tolling the Bell, for Church,
Our little Sexton -- sings.
God preaches, a noted Clergyman --
And the sermon is never long,
So instead of getting to Heaven, at last --
I'm going, all along.
-
All is Truth.
~ by Walt Whitman
O ME, man of slack faith so long!
Standing aloof—denying portions so long;
Only aware to-day of compact, all-diffused truth;
Discovering to-day there is no lie, or form of lie, and can be none, but grows as
inevitably
upon
itself as the truth does upon itself,
Or as any law of the earth, or any natural production of the earth does.
(This is curious, and may not be realized immediately—But it must be realized;
I feel in myself that I represent falsehoods equally with the rest,
And that the universe does.)
Where has fail’d a perfect return, indifferent of lies or the truth?
Is it upon the ground, or in water or fire? or in the spirit of man? or in the meat and
blood?
Meditating among liars, and retreating sternly into myself, I see that there are really no
liars or
lies after all,
And that nothing fails its perfect return—And that what are called lies are perfect
returns,
And that each thing exactly represents itself, and what has preceded it,
And that the truth includes all, and is compact, just as much as space is compact,
And that there is no flaw or vacuum in the amount of the truth—but that all is truth
without
exception;
And henceforth I will go celebrate anything I see or am,
And sing and laugh, and deny nothing.
-
Seeker Of Truth
~ by E. E. Cummings
seeker of truth
follow no path
all paths lead where
truth is here
-
This little discussion of the past few days has been awesome. I've revealed more of my soul here than I've ever done in my life. Learned some painful truths, (the grass isn't greener in the other temple). This will be with me for always.
-
Trust Dickinson to have a good word for us. I don't know that I've ever
heard a bobolink, but I'm sure he makes a lovely chorister.
I'm afraid I don't understand Mr. Whitman's 'perfect returns'. But then,
I've never understood, or particularly enjoyed, Mr. Whitman anyway.
I have come to appreciate the difficulty - and the irony - in this apparently simple instruction from Jesus:
"Again, I tell you that if two of you on earth agree about anything you ask for, it will be done for you by my Father in heaven."
-
I agree Babi - I do not see the evidence of things done because two or three gathered in the name of Jesus or of the Father. However, I have seen groups go deeper and come up with unexpected understanding when they followed the next sentence in Matthew - "For where two or more are gathered together in My Name, I am there in the midst of them" - I have seen a mixed bag or religious and non-religious folks at ACOA meetings have this experience after together they sincerely recite the Serenity Prayer that calls on God.
Call it God or not but there is an energy unseen and unknown that comes alive when a group in common sets aside their individual egos to solve a dilemma. I won't even say problem because that is assuming the understanding because it is different than we expect or want to see it is therefore a problem where as accepting it is what it is regardless of opinion or judgment groups can get a better understanding and come up with behavior that side steps or protects or whatever is required while leaving the judgment or punishment up to a higher power.
My personal opinion of the part of Matthew that is as you say ironic is in what we ask for. The quote does say anything and that to me is the rub - most of what we ask for is within our imagination and we ask for something that excludes pain - I find I learn more from the happenings that are beyond my imagination or are painful and so for me this is where other writings are helpful and have served me well.
In particular I have so much underlined and bookmarked in my old copy of Ascent of Mount Carmel by St. John of the Cross which to me sounds as if written within the last 100 years rather than over 450 years ago. Anyhow, these quotes have become part of my North Star.
"Strive always to prefer, not that which is easiest, but that which is most difficult;"
Prefer is the optimal word here.
The quote continues with sentences that include the optimal word Desire
"In order to arrive at having pleasure in everything, Desire to have pleasure in nothing.
In order to arrive at possessing everything, Desire to possess nothing.
In order to arrive at being everything, Desire to be nothing.
In order to arrive at knowing everything, Desire to know nothing.
In order to arrive at that point where you take no pleasure, you must go by a way that gives no pleasure.
In order to arrive at that point where you know nothing, you must go by a way you do not know.
In order to arrive at that point where you are free of possessing, you must go by a way you do not possess.
In order to arrive at that point at which you are nothing, you must go through that which you are not."
For me these thoughts from St. John of the Cross offer a direction to the quote in Matthew’s Bible
-
As I understand Buddhism asking for gifts from God denies that the question is even worth asking. To begin with faith in God is a gift and everyday we wake up is a gift and when happiness comes, it is to be enjoyed as a gift. Therefore, the only gift we can pray for is to have faith to believe and follow him
Sounds less greedy than the open checkbook feeling I get with “…if two of you on earth agree about anything you ask for, it will be done for you…” However, both sound to me like praying with a begging cup held out to God. And yet, Robert Frost's poem, “Asking For Roses” is a good metaphor for asking suggesting there is an abundance that needs ‘plucking’.
Asking For Roses
~ Robert Frost
A house that lacks, seemingly, mistress and master,
With doors that none but the wind ever closes,
Its floor all littered with glass and with plaster;
It stands in a garden of old-fashioned roses.
I pass by that way in the gloaming with Mary;
'I wonder,' I say, 'who the owner of those is.'
'Oh, no one you know,' she answers me airy,
'But one we must ask if we want any roses.'
So we must join hands in the dew coming coldly
There in the hush of the wood that reposes,
And turn and go up to the open door boldly,
And knock to the echoes as beggars for roses.
'Pray, are you within there, Mistress Who-were-you?'
'Tis Mary that speaks and our errand discloses.
'Pray, are you within there? Bestir you, bestir you!
'Tis summer again; there's two come for roses.
'A word with you, that of the singer recalling--
Old Herrick: a saying that every maid knows is
A flower unplucked is but left to the falling,
And nothing is gained by not gathering roses.'
We do not loosen our hands' intertwining
(Not caring so very much what she supposes),
There when she comes on us mistily shining
And grants us by silence the boon of her roses.
-
Being where there are no towers to allow me to use my laptop ..with mobile I have missed you all and it is strange this am to come here and read what you have written In a town I was once in many years ago I attended a church and an adult Sunday School Class One thing I realized was that we should NEVER stop reading and trying to understand God's messages. How far I have come from the little girl of three who was baptised and attended a Methodist church, How many other churches have I attended in how many different places..and I now come to a new understanding..It is not that my old teaching was wrong but that i misunderstood...even now I am AWARE that what I believed was okay but was not the end of learning.. I am a better person BUT not the perfect person THERE IS ONLY ONE OF THEM and HIS words tell me that I can only keep learning , keep striving , keep trying to be the best person I can be...and in the end it will be HIS FORGIVENESS that allows me to be at last in a PERFECT PLACE....I have no poem to offer today but as usual enjoyed the ones posted , the thoughts expressed Tomorrow I fly home to VA and return to my life there but the almost 3 mos of living elsewhere , being with family, some I had never met, being inspired to change my plans to return home and instead end up here in Kansas City Mo only to find two days later that my brother in Ohio passed away.. Because I believe God inspired me to be here it allowed my brother ,whom I visited in Ca to call me and tell me our brother was no longer with us, allowed him to fly here to KC since his daughter from Utah was there to care for his seriously ill wife, her mother, to allow his one son in law, a school teacher free for the summer to come with him here , for them to rent a car and let me go with them to Springfield MO only 21/2 hours away , to be there for the funeral of our brother and to hold the remembrance card in my hand and realize if I had kept to my original plans I would have been on the train to Va ,never knowing of my brothers death or being able to attend his funeral..Then to attend this church here and once again in a SS school class and realize I still have a long walk ahead of me GOD DOES MOVE IN MYSTERIOUS WAYS ..when next I post hopefully I will be safe at home . GOD BE WITH YOU >>>always anna
-
Now that I think of it, I'm not surprised that reading and discussing poetry has led us into a discussion of things spiritual.
What I find ironic in that scripture, BARB, is that I'm sure Jesus knew
how difficult it is to find two on earth who agree...completely...about
anything. Even if you have two people praying for a very ill person, are
they all truly praying for the same thing? Or is one praying for recovery, one for a serene passing, and one praying for God's will since He knows best?
You're absolutely right about the spirit..the energy..that comes when
a group prays together. The quote from St. John of the Cross gives me
pause, in that it says to do these things "In order to arrive at....".
We cannot truly desire to possess nothing, if we are doing that "in order
to" possess everything. Still, I understand what he intends. There is
much of the philosophy of Buddhism in those instructions. 'Let go of
everything' is key to the Buddhist teachings.
Love the poem!
I am sorry to hear of your brother's death, ANNA, and I'm so glad you
were able to be there. I lost my only brother a few years ago and it was
a painful loss.
God does indeed move in unexpected ways. More than once my help has come in a way and from a direction I would never have expected, but it never fails to come. There have been instances when I only realized much later that a hard answer I received was truly the best and wisest one. Whatever flaws I may see in the doctrines of men, I completely trust the love and wisdom of God.
-
Anna I am pleased for you that you were able to attend your brother's funneral - and I will be thinking and praying for you as you go through this time when his loss is realized. All the memories flood back don't they - it sounds like you have strength in your family and I hope you can continue to call on that strength after you return home to Va.
The Wise Brothers by Edwin Arlington Robinson
FIRST VOICE
So long adrift, so fast aground,
What foam and ruin have we found—
We, the Wise Brothers?
Could heaven and earth be framed amiss,
That we should land in fine like this—
We, and no others?
SECOND VOICE
Convoyed by what accursèd thing
Made we this evil reckoning—
We, the Wise Brothers?
And if the failure be complete,
Why look we forward from defeat—
We, and what others?
THIRD VOICE
Blown far from harbors once in sight,
May we not, going far, go right,—
We, the Wise Brothers?
Companioned by the whirling spheres,
Have we no more than what appears—
We, and all others?
-
Babi the trick to reading the St. John of the Cross bits is to focus on the word Desire - not to eliminate all possessions or stop learning or - or - or - but rather not to expect a certain outcome.
In other words do not have a picture in your mind's eye of whatever you hope to possess - rather do the work or swim the waters or clear the table without a picture of what it will look like and feel like upon completion and in 'doing' life in that matter you will be open for whatever the outcome -
There can be outcomes you never expected - some that feel good and some that bring pain but the trick is to act with faith in what is considered hope - hope in the unknown - rather than the kind of hope that is hoping for a certain outcome which St. John of the Cross says, hoping for a certain outcome is memory - in other words we have to have the idea and concept in our heads. Real Hope is based on a trust in the unknown - faith in real hope is without desire and as a result of suspending desire we will possess everything.
Yes, it does sound almost eastern in its message and that is why I hear so much similarity among the monastics of this world - regardless a Buddhist sitting in his cave for 30 years or a cloistered Cappuchian Friar in his cell in France.
I am thinking our conversation of the past week or two is right down the avenue of what Fairanna hoped for when she started the poetry discussion back in the 1990s on the old SeniorNet. She had something in the heading about this being a place we can share and uncover what is deepest in our hearts. Have you noticed some of the poets whose work we share and admire write from a place within that leans on their spiritual self.
-
If you want to be free,
Get to know your real self.
It has no form, no appearance,
No root, no basis, no abode,
But is lively and buoyant.
It responds with versatile facility,
But its function cannot be located.
Therefore when you look for it,
You become further from it;
When you seek it,
You turn away from it all the more.
- by Linji
Where beauty is, then there is ugliness;
where right is, also there is wrong.
Knowledge and ignorance are interdependent;
delusion and enlightenment condition each other.
Since olden times it has been so.
How could it be otherwise now?
Wanting to get rid of one and grab the other
is merely realizing a scene of stupidity.
Even if you speak of the wonder of it all,
how do you deal with each thing changing?
- by Ryokan-
-
The self addressed question: Wherefore sing...since nobody hears?”, Dickinson affirms; “My business is to sing”.
One of her songs...
By intuition, Mighty Things
Assert themselves – and not by terms –
“I”m Midnight” – need the Midnight say –
“I”m Sunrise” – Need the Majesty?
Omnipotence – had not a Tongue –
His lisp – is lightning – and the sun –
His Conversation– with Sea –
“How shall you know”?
Consult your eye!
-
That is a very clear exposition, BARB. I can see the point in trusting
in the unknown, whatever it may be. I recall one of Hindu paths to God
is to work, leaving the outcome to Him.
Emily Dickinson always has something to say to us, doesn't she? Here's another:
Hope is the Thing with Feathers
By: Emily Dickinson
"Hope" is the thing with feathers
That perches in the soul
And sings the tune without the words
And never stops at all,
And sweetest in the gale is heard;
And sore must be the storm
That could abash the little bird
That kept so many warm.
I've heard it in the chillest land
And on the strangest sea,
Yet never, in extremity,
It asked a crumb of me.
-
My good friend has several water colors incorporating the first few lines of Hope is the Thing with Feathers - such a gentle concept.
Here is a poem for summer - I love Gerard Manley Hopkins use of words - reading his poems reminds me of throwing caution to the winds and talking with a mouth full of chocolate at risk of oozing down my chin...words like... 'branchy bunchy bushybowered'... 'downdolphinry'... 'Flinty kindcold'... 'froliclavish'
Epithalamion
~ by Gerard Manley Hopkins (1918)
Hark, hearer, hear what I do; lend a thought now, make believe
We are leafwhelmed somewhere with the hood
Of some branchy bunchy bushybowered wood,
Southern dene or Lancashire clough or Devon cleave,
That leans along the loins of hills, where a candycoloured, where a gluegold-brown
Marbled river, boisterously beautiful, between
Roots and rocks is danced and dandled, all in froth and waterblowballs, down.
We are there, when we hear a shout
That the hanging honeysuck, the dogeared hazels in the cover
Makes dither, makes hover
And the riot of a rout
Of, it must be, boys from the town
Bathing: it is summer’s sovereign good.
By there comes a listless stranger: beckoned by the noise
He drops towards the river: unseen
Sees the bevy of them, how the boys
With dare and with downdolphinry and bellbright bodies huddling out,
Are earthworld, airworld, waterworld thorough hurled, all by turn and turn about.
This garland of their gambols flashes in his breast
Into such a sudden zest
Of summertime joys
That he hies to a pool neighbouring; sees it is the best
There; sweetest, freshest, shadowiest;
Fairyland; silk-beech, scrolled ash, packed sycamore, wild wychelm, hornbeam fretty overstood
By. Rafts and rafts of flake-leaves light, dealt so, painted on the air,
Hang as still as hawk or hawkmoth, as the stars or as the angels there,
Like the thing that never knew the earth, never off roots
Rose. Here he feasts: lovely all is! No more: off with—down he dings
His bleachèd both and woolwoven wear:
Careless these in coloured wisp
All lie tumbled-to; then with loop-locks
Forward falling, forehead frowning, lips crisp
Over finger-teasing task, his twiny boots
Fast he opens, last he offwrings
Till walk the world he can with bare his feet
And come where lies a coffer, burly all of blocks
Built of chancequarrièd, selfquainèd rocks
And the water warbles over into, filleted with glassy grassy quicksilvery shivès and shoots
And with heavenfallen freshness down from moorland still brims,
Dark or daylight on and on. Here he will then, here he will the fleet
Flinty kindcold element let break across his limbs
Long. Where we leave him, froliclavish while he looks about him, laughs, swims.
Enough now; since the sacred matter that I mean
I should be wronging longer leaving it to float
Upon this only gambolling and echoing-of-earth note—
What is … the delightful dene?
Wedlock. What the water? Spousal love.
Father, mother, brothers, sisters, friends
Into fairy trees, wild flowers, wood ferns
Rankèd round the bower
-
I love it! It's better than Jabberwocky; I can understand it! What a
delightful way to start the day. :D
-
A Victorian Poet seldom heard from any longer...
The Spirit
~ by Marion Reed
An ethereal embrace
Surrounds before it's on its way.
Unbeknownst to Spirit,
All former knowledge locked.
Born into a novel mind,
Spirit looks for life.
Finding love, pain, friends, joy...
Spirit and Mind together
Know life.
Inevitably
Torn from the seamless partnership
They worked for decades to secure,
Spirit and Mind disband.
Mind passes, joining body, sending Spirit on its way.
No embrace now,
Not this time.
Spirit must learn again
To be just Spirit.
Spirit remembers heartache.
Pain, suffering, loss and lonliness.
An ethereal embrace
Surrounds before it's on its way.
Unbeknownst to Spirit,
All former knowledge locked.
-
A trinity, Spirit, Mind and Body. This one requires study, it's not intuitively resonating as some poems are.
-
It would help to know whether the poet considered knowledge as locked in, or locked out. And while the brain is necessarily
part of the body, 'mind' is not, necessarily. (Did that make sense?)
Speaking of mind, this seems to me a very timely poem.
It's from R. Tagore.
Where The Mind is Without Fear
Where the mind is without fear and the head is held high
Where knowledge is free
Where the world has not been broken up into fragments
By narrow domestic walls
Where words come out from the depth of truth
Where tireless striving stretches its arms towards perfection
Where the clear stream of reason has not lost its way
Into the dreary desert sand of dead habit
Where the mind is led forward by thee
Into ever-widening thought and action
Into that heaven of freedom, my Father, let my country awake
-
Oh, Babi, that is one awesome prayer. Thank you.
-
Wow - I agree Jackie - awesome - Thanks Babi for sharing it - I had to look to find out who is R. Tagore - was I shocked to learn he is not only a Nobel Prize winner but he is considered as important to India as Ghandi.
http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Rabindranath_Tagore -
-
Seeing that he has written novels, essays and anthems, as well as Nobel-worthy poetry, I am
hoping to find some translations of his work. There must be some, I'm just not sure my small
local library will carry them. Still, I ought to be able to find something on the Web.
-
Summer night
Kobayashi Issa
Summer night--
even the stars
are whispering to each other.
-
This one bears repeating
Summer in the South
Paul Laurence Dunbar
The Oriole sings in the greening grove
As if he were half-way waiting,
The rosebuds peep from their hoods of green,
Timid, and hesitating.
The rain comes down in a torrent sweep
And the nights smell warm and pinety,
The garden thrives, but the tender shoots
Are yellow-green and tiny.
Then a flash of sun on a waiting hill,
Streams laugh that erst were quiet,
The sky smiles down with a dazzling blue
And the woods run mad with riot.
-
Amy Lowell, according to family legend, is related as we are descended from one of her Lowell cousins. This one is long but worth it, IMO:
Summer
by Amy Lowell
Some men there are who find in nature all
Their inspiration, hers the sympathy
Which spurs them on to any great endeavor,
To them the fields and woods are closest friends,
And they hold dear communion with the hills;
The voice of waters soothes them with its fall,
And the great winds bring healing in their sound.
To them a city is a prison house
Where pent up human forces labour and strive,
Where beauty dwells not, driven forth by man;
But where in winter they must live until
Summer gives back the spaces of the hills.
To me it is not so. I love the earth
And all the gifts of her so lavish hand:
Sunshine and flowers, rivers and rushing winds,
Thick branches swaying in a winter storm,
And moonlight playing in a boat's wide wake;
But more than these, and much, ah, how much more,
I love the very human heart of man.
Above me spreads the hot, blue mid-day sky,
Far down the hillside lies the sleeping lake
Lazily reflecting back the sun,
And scarcely ruffled by the little breeze
Which wanders idly through the nodding ferns.
The blue crest of the distant mountain, tops
The green crest of the hill on which I sit;
And it is summer, glorious, deep-toned summer,
The very crown of nature's changing year
When all her surging life is at its full.
To me alone it is a time of pause,
A void and silent space between two worlds,
When inspiration lags, and feeling sleeps,
Gathering strength for efforts yet to come.
For life alone is creator of life,
And closest contact with the human world
Is like a lantern shining in the night
To light me to a knowledge of myself.
I love the vivid life of winter months
In constant intercourse with human minds,
When every new experience is gain
And on all sides we feel the great world's heart;
The pulse and throb of life which makes us men!
-
Hey, Jackie, I like your little representative. She looks like a white-
haired teenager. ;)
-
Oh I l---ooo---vvv---e the Issa - a delight and says so muich - i often think the summer stars look as if they are twinkling rather than what appears to be a frozen sky in winter. Twinkling stars or not the poem is too wonderful.
-
I have to find a few Haiku to add to our day...
Here is a new Japanese poet... Ichihara Masanao
Translation
while waiting -
shadows tread
on shadow
Unknown authors.
late to the office
my desk already piled high
with zucchini
Sweltering heat,sweat
No complains! Now days will be
Bright; Gay; Full of Shine.
-
Zucchini!!!!! It's coming, stand back! Garrison keillor says the good people of Lake Woebegone are careful to lock their cars when they go into church lest they find a bag of zucchini on the seat when they come out.
Jumping back in after a week on Cape Cod, an unheard of sixs straight days with no rain. Will find a contribution soon.
Loved the Gerard Manley Hopkins poem. Did James Joyce read these poems as a youngster? Must try to find out. He's got the same way with words.
-
A small but beautiful poem from a Greek poet - George Seferis
Denial
On the secret seashore
white like a pigeon
we thirsted at noon
but the water was brackish.
On the golden sand
we wrote her name;
but the sea breeze blew
and the writing vanished.
With what spirit, what heart,
what desire and passion
we lived our life: a mistake!
So we changed our life.
This was one of the first poems I had to translate from Greek into English. I also taught it to a classroom full of 14 year old girls: all Greek girls. I read it to them in Greek, and when I looked up they were crying.
-
Celebrate Summer With Us!
The Poetry Page.
Our haven for words that open our hearts.
(http://seniorlearn.org/bookclubs/poetry/poetrysummer09.jpg) |
In The Summer
by Nizar Qabbani
In the summer
I stretch out on the shore
And think of you
Had I told the sea
What I felt for you,
It would have left its shores,
Its shells,
Its fish,
And followed me.
|
Summer Poetry Links:
- Famous Poets and Poems about Summer (http://famouspoetsandpoems.com/thematic_poems/summer_poems.html)
- Summer Poems (http://www.dltk-holidays.com/summer/poems.htm)
- Flower Poems for Gardeners (http://www.gardendigest.com/flowers.htm)
Discussion Leaders: BarbStAubrey (augere@ix.netcom.com) & Fairanna (fairanna@cox.net)
Sorry roshanarose - this happens to the best of us - the heading must be inserted in the first post of the page - I tried to fix the photos you are trying to share and I cannot get it to come up - this site does not use HTTP and I believe the photo has to be changed into a link to this site - also the 500 by 368 is going to take too many bites for us so I tried to make it smaller so it will better fit the bits this site will take - however I still cannot get it to come up therefore, I removed the HTTP commands hoping that it will serve as a link
http://www.flickr.com/photos/roxanataj/1818513027/ title="Samos - Pythagorio Limani by karahaz, on Flickr" http://farm3.static.flickr.com/2168/1818513027_bf49effdf6.jpg" width="375" height="276" alt="Samos - Pythagorio Limani/
This beautiful harbour is at a place called Pythagorio, on the Greek island of Samos. You may have guessed that it is the birthplace of Pythagorus. Such beauty deserves a very special poem.
Blue, silken water. The pink place on the hill is where I want to stay next time I visit.
. . . about the cool water
the wind sounds through sprays
of apple, and from the quivering leaves
slumber pours down. . . .
Sappho: 600BC
-
Welcome roshanarose - the posts are switched because I had to insert the heading in the first post on the page -
Sounds like you had a heady experience teaching abroad in the home of our earliest poets - and to have influenced these Girls to Tears using your second language - what a thrill.
The poem your brought to us is wispy and sublime - a poem that takes being still after reading it to let it wash over us. Thanks.
-
Barb:
a poem that takes being still after reading it to let it wash over us
says it so well. Maybe that is part of the reason why not everyone loves poetry like we do, they can't 'be still'.
-
On a Lark I thought I would research and find some poems with the words 'be still' - yes, there is the psalm about being still and all the promises from God - however, so many religions incorperate a practice of stillness that it is beyond religion -
In today's world it is more difficult to wake up to stillness - I remember when I was little - we woke up hearing birds and every move my mother made in the kitchen - we went out to play and heard the wind - we didn't have a radio till the Christmas before my 6th Birthday - I received the radio from Santa and I realize now my mother seldom listened to it.
I remember the lady next door had a radio at least the summer before because with windows opened we could hear around the noon hour for at least an hour the soaps along with all the jingles about Duz, Rinso, Oxidol and Ivory Flakes and the theme songs for 'The Guiding Light' and Doc something or other oh yes, and The Romance of Helen Trent'
How easy to move away from stillness - even our instinctive thoughts travel to sounds - but here are a few poems about stillness. Let's start off with our dear South American friend Pablo Neruda
I Like For You To Be Still
~ by Pablo Neruda
I like for you to be still
It is as though you are absent
And you hear me from far away
And my voice does not touch you
It seems as though your eyes had flown away
And it seems that a kiss had sealed your mouth
As all things are filled with my soul
You emerge from the things
Filled with my soul
You are like my soul
A butterfly of dream
And you are like the word: Melancholy
I like for you to be still
And you seem far away
It sounds as though you are lamenting
A butterfly cooing like a dove
And you hear me from far away
And my voice does not reach you
Let me come to be still in your silence
And let me talk to you with your silence
That is bright as a lamp
Simple, as a ring
You are like the night
With its stillness and constellations
Your silence is that of a star
As remote and candid
I like for you to be still
It is as though you are absent
Distant and full of sorrow
So you would've died
One word then, One smile is enough
And I'm happy;
Happy that it's not true
-
Be Still My Heart!
~ by Robert Gardiner
Be Still My Heart!!!
I can feel its' rapid pace.
Excitement, it has come over me.
I'm flushed, all in the face.
Your rapture, it has taken hold of me;
And this Euphoria, I don't think it'll ever stop.
Be Still, Be Still, my fluttering heart,
For, we don't want to give the fact away
that we're head over heel, going, absolutely, crazy,
for that smile she might give, the kind words she might say,
for that moment, when time, just, stills, and we look at her face,
falling, into her, slowly, breathing her, into our soul,
taking in her essence, for, any piece of her we can hold,
capture, it is, most precious to us.
We cannot let her see the fervor, veracity, of our love;
So, be still, my heart, thus, that we may hide
the volume, of our love, the feelings inside.
Be still my heart; Close your eyes,
Be Still! Be Still! Be Still...
-
Be Still, My Soul, Be Still
~ Alfred Edward Housman
Be still, my soul, be still; the arms you bear are brittle,
Earth and high heaven are fixt of old and founded strong.
Think rather,-- call to thought, if now you grieve a little,
The days when we had rest, O soul, for they were long.
Men loved unkindness then, but lightless in the quarry
I slept and saw not; tears fell down, I did not mourn;
Sweat ran and blood sprang out and I was never sorry:
Then it was well with me, in days ere I was born.
Now, and I muse for why and never find the reason,
I pace the earth, and drink the air, and feel the sun.
Be still, be still, my soul; it is but for a season:
Let us endure an hour and see injustice done.
Ay, look: high heaven and earth ail from the prime foundation;
All thoughts to rive the heart are here, and all are vain:
Horror and scorn and hate and fear and indignation--
Oh why did I awake? when shall I sleep again?
-
Be Still. The Hanging Gardens were a Dream
~ by Trumbull Stickney
Be still. The Hanging Gardens were a dream
That over Persian roses flew to kiss
The curlèd lashes of Semiramis.
Troy never was, nor green Skamander stream.
Provence and Troubadour are merest lies
The glorious hair of Venice was a beam
Made within Titian’s eye. The sunsets seem,
The world is very old and nothing is.
Be still. Thou foolish thing, thou canst not wake,
Nor thy tears wedge thy soldered lids apart,
But patter in the darkness of thy heart.
Thy brain is plagued. Thou art a frighted owl
Blind with the light of life thou ’ldst not forsake,
And Error loves and nourishes thy soul.
-
ahhh from our newly found Indian poet that Babi introduced us to...
There is a point where in the mystery of existence contradictions meet; where movement is not all movement and stillness is not all stillness; where the idea and the form, the within and the without, are united; where infinite becomes finite, yet not.
~ Rabindranath Tagore ~
-
This may not be titled Stillness but it is as close to stillness as I have found so far.
Go Deeper
~ by Chris McCombs
Go deeper
Past thought
Into silence
Past silence
Into stillness
Deeper still
Past stillness
Into the Heart
Now
Let the Love
Consume
Whatever is left of you
-
Thanks for the words of advice and the beautiful "still" poetry, Barb.
-
Barb: Nothing satisfies like poetry, These are all special but I like the Houseman, he is one of my favorites. Can you imagine what it would be like to be loved by an articulate man like Neruda? My ex was typically taciturn; maybe as a result I find male voices especially sexy.
-
Phyllis McGinley wrote this during WWII
After listening to a BBC broadcast
Ballad of Fine Days
“temperatures have soared to almost summer levels,
Making conditions ideal for bombing offensives…
-BBC news
All in the summery weather,
To east and south and north,
The bombers fly together
And the fighters squire them forth.
While the lilac bursts in flower
And buttercups brim with gold
Hour by lethal hour
Now fiercer buds unfold.
For the storms of springtime lessen,
The meadow lures the bee,
And there blooms tonight in Essen
What bloomed in Coventry.
All in the summery weather,
Fleeter than swallows fare,
The bombers fly together
Through the innocent air.
-
Now that was a fruitful bit of research, BARB. I'm glad you found that
quote from Tagore, too. I really want to read more of that man's work.
Dear Trumbull was definitely a killjoy; who asked his opinion?!
Here is a pleasant antidote to sticky Stickney:
Barefoot Days
by Rachel Field
In the morning, very early,
That’s the time I love to go
Barefoot where the fern grows curly
And the grass is cool between each toe,
On a summer morning – O!
On a summer morning!
That is when the birds go by
Up the sunny slopes of air,
And each rose has a butterfly
Or a golden bee to wear;
And I am glad in every toe –
Such a summer morning – O!
Such a summer morning!
-
A by the way Youtube that says it all - a hug to all of you - it is like sharing a daily poem that brings a smile or a tear, a chuckle or wonderment to us.
http://www.youtube.com/watch_popup?v=hN8CKwdosjE
The Hug
No moving parts, no batteries,
No monthly payments and no fees.
Inflation-proof, non-taxable,
In fact, it's quite relaxable.
It can't be stolen, won't pollute,
One size fits all, do not dilute.
It uses little energy,
But yields results enormously.
Relieves your tension and your stress,
Invigorate your happiness.
Combats depression, makes you beam,
And elevates your self-esteem!
Your circulation it corrects
Without unpleasant side effects.
It is, I think, the perfect drug:
May I prescribe, my friend, the hug!
- Unknown
-
Thank you, Barb, and right back at'cha! Fresh Air today had a repeat of the 2008 interview with the new Poet Laureate
W S Merwin. Interview story and podcast here: http://www.npr.org/templates/story/story.php?storyId=128239404
-
What a delightful little poem, BARB. I'd like to place 'The Hug' on everybody's gift list!
-
Reporting in In April I went to CA to visit and participate in some family activities of my brother who lives there I WAS COLD and Ihad to buy some winter clothes left there in June and went to KS MO to visit a friend ,two days after my arrival my brother in CA called to tell me our one remaining brother in Ohio had passed away and would be buried In Springfield Mo 2 1/2 hrs away He flew to kc and we drove to Springfield to honor our brother I flew home to VA and felt like I had a cold but have a viral bronchiitis I still have 3 days of medicine to take but must be careful And in all the pain and trip to the ER I have lost "my ear" I THINK It is covered by insurance and hope so All I want to say is GOD BLESS AMERICA and all honor to those who answer the nations call...Wars dont seem to solve anything so I pray we will all try to get along and give peace a try GOD BLESS ALL WHO ARE WILLING to try Love always, anna
-
Anna: You've had more than your share of troubles lately and if I hadn't misplaces my magic wand I would use it to grant you surcease and solace. All I can do instead is assure you that my thoughts for your good health are coming your way.
Phyllis McGinley, there is a name from the past. I had to read more of her so her book, Times Three http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Phyllis_McGinley
It's not poetry but it is powerful prose. NPR is playing their recital of the Declaration of Independence and the voices, though not emoting but quietly authoritative, give me goose bumps hearing those magnificent words. Here is the podcast: http://www.npr.org/templates/story/story.php?storyId=128242656
-
Thanks for sharing Jackie - I could not figure out how to get the sound on my computer - do I use IPod? I hit the the square symbol rather than the one that looks like a cell phone and a list comes up but no sound. I do not have an IPod nor do I pay for anything more on my cell than the ability to receive and make phone calls. It appears you know more about how tech works and I have been left behind.
OH Anna - you have had a plate full - on your ear - it could be the antibiotics - I had that happen back 20 years ago and until 4 years ago never had an antibiotics prescribed - I learned tons and tons about herbs and I guess what they call alternative meds including the use of colloidal silver http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Medical_uses_of_silver
My undoing was again about 4 years ago when the dentist prescribed an antibiotic that did not work and then another followed a month later by a bad sinus infection that the new doctor prescribed an antibiotic and so within 6 weeks I had 3 kinds of antibiotics pumped into my system and a month later I ended up with Temporal Arteritus which for me lasted beyond the 2 years till nearly 3 years. Long stories have to come to a stop all to say - I am not a fan of antibiotics and have learned from all of this after some tests and research there are 2 older types that are the only 2 antibiotics I can tolerate. And so with that you may be OK after the antibiotic is out of your system which takes weeks after you have stopped taking it.
-
Declaration Of Independence
~ Mac McGovern
Alone in the night,
gazing at the beauty,
of a celestial masterpiece,
yet untouched,
by the cover of cloud,
an unrelenting silence,
is interrupted,
by the insistent ticking,
of an old grandfather clock in the parlor,
a candle with a dual wick,
rests on a table,
made of knotty pine,
roughly chiselled,
to add a rustic touch,
accentuating a floor of polished oak,
provides my only light
I sit watching shadows,
flickering across plaster walls,
mimic eerie phantoms,
slithering throughout the room,
refusing to take recognizable shape,
cause unwanted distraction
The work before me suffers,
in stark contrast,
pitifully begs,
text be laid,
to cover the nudity,
of the page before me
The accomplishments of my life,
pale in contrast,
what keeps me awake this night,
the plight of a nation,
will rest on the passion of my words,
my friends and patriots,
rely on a text,
that will take them from anarchy,
to democracy
Shadows appearing to take shape,
play tricks upon my vision,
reveal a sight,
resembling a picture,
of a united,
uniformly defined crowd,
cheering and waving as one voice,
one sound
Suddenly it becomes clear,
the page before me,
fills with pronouncement,
my chest swells with pride,
what's written this night,
becomes page after page,
until,
finally,
to carry a nation,
desiring riddance,
a Declaration Of Independence
-
I AM THE DECLARATION OF INDEPENDENCE
~ by Genie Keller
I was born in 1776 on the 4th of July
Amid strife and the burning question of, why?
My aim to succeed in every way
To Bless my people with hope everyday.
My every word took a solemn beginning
The anticipation of futures and also of winning.
I was written with skill from far above
With meaningful words, blended with love.
The pattern was struck into every mind
To explain what was there for all mankind.
The Truth of the Right belongs to all men
To protect it and Guard it, secured to the end.
Now with hope in our hearts and the will of the state
With life, liberty and pursuit of happiness,
OR, our fate
I pledged to each person, the promise of peace
For Loyalty and Independence never to cease.
I wrote to protect us in all of our Rights
And grant us much strength through out all of the nights.
-
Actually it is my ignorance, Barb. I didn't know that an MP3 player was necessary, I thought it would play over the computer. I have, by choice, no sound on my computer and use headphones when I want to hear a DVD or some other audio file. Sorry to send you on a wild goose chase. I'll have to get an MP3 player, seems like there is much there for me to listen to while I clean, or knit, etc.
-
Oh good - I feel better that it wasn't because I didn't understand - I should get headphones - the sound on my computer is horrible - it is in the back of the screen and I have it as high as it will go and at times I can barely hear it - problem I cannot find a port to plug in either headphones or another set of speakers and I hate spending the dollars for a computer guru to show me - my grandson will be here in early August so that is on my list of things for him to show me.
-
I made the mistake of looking at MP3 players on eBay. New Apple iTouch with 32GB is offered for auction starting at $.99 with 24 hours to go. Of course I'll watch it and I may bid in the last minute or two if the price is good enough. The iTouch is like a mini computer, like the iPhone, but without the phone function. It can pickup internet, there ar a gazillion apps for it, so tempting. The price has gone up since I last looked: http://tinyurl.com/33hh4mq
-
Hi from OZLand!
Just wanted to warm you up for Independence Day. It is the 4th of July here, 1.00pm to be exact. Have a truly excellent day with those you love.
roshanarose
-
I'm so sorry your trips ended in loss and illness, ANNA. I wish I could be of some comfort to
you. If knowing you have many friends helps, you know you have them here.
This is probably a good time to bring in this old classic. I didn't know it was by Sir Walter Scott,
though.
Innominatus
by Sir Walter Scott
BREATHES there the man with soul so dead,
Who never to himself hath said,
'This is my own, my native land!'
Whose heart hath ne'er within him burn'd
As home his footsteps he hath turn'd
From wandering on a foreign strand?
If such there breathe, go, mark him well;
For him no Minstrel raptures swell;
High though his titles, proud his name,
Boundless his wealth as wish can claim;
Despite those titles, power, and pelf,
The wretch, concentred all in self,
Living, shall forfeit fair renown,
And, doubly dying, shall go down
To the vile dust from whence he sprung,
Unwept, unhonour'd, and unsung.
-
Thanks for peeking in roshanarose and so you are from down under - are you from Australia or New Zealand?
PERFECT Babi - it has been awhile since we read that famous first line. I am vaguely remembering a black and white movie in which those lines set the scene - I can't quite catch it - does anyone remember?
A quiet 4Th around here - so many events were cancelled because of all the rain - today is more sun than rain however, very muggy plus we go in and out of short rain showers. I usually go to a nearby overpass where many neighbors casually meet and watch the fireworks in the sky from Town Lake but this year I think I will pass and watch the event at the nation's capitol aired on PBS.
Back when we were going in depth posting the poems of one poet a month we did two American poets whose work is quintessential American - here is a Walt Whitman followed by Emma Lazarus
I Hear America Singing
~ by Walt Whitman (from Leaves of Grass, 1900)
I hear America singing, the varied carols I hear;
Those of mechanics—each one singing his, as it should be, blithe and strong;
The carpenter singing his, as he measures his plank or beam,
The mason singing his, as he makes ready for work, or leaves off work;
The boatman singing what belongs to him in his boat—the deckhand singing on the steamboat deck;
The shoemaker singing as he sits on his bench—the hatter singing as he stands;
The wood-cutter’s song—the ploughboy’s, on his way in the morning, or at the noon intermission, or at sundown;
The delicious singing of the mother—or of the young wife at work—or of the girl sewing or washing—
Each singing what belongs to her, and to none else;
The day what belongs to the day—
At night, the party of young fellows, robust, friendly,
Singing, with open mouths, their strong melodious songs.
The New Colossus
~ by Emma Lazarus (1883)
Not like the brazen giant of Greek fame,
With conquering limbs astride from land to land;
Here at our sea-washed, sunset gates shall stand
A mighty woman with a torch, whose flame
Is the imprisoned lightning, and her name
Mother of Exiles. From her beacon-hand
Glows world-wide welcome; her mild eyes command
The air-bridged harbor that twin cities frame.
“Keep, ancient lands, your storied pomp!” cries she
With silent lips. “Give me your tired, your poor,
Your huddled masses yearning to breathe free,
The wretched refuse of your teeming shore.
Send these, the homeless, tempest-tost to me,
I lift my lamp beside the golden door!”
-
Someone said it nicely: We are all immigrants, we just arrived in different boats.
-
I don'tknow how long ago it was that I saw 1776 on Broadway, a great great show. I got out the CD and replayed it, it is terrific. I rmember the curtain going up, and the choris of delegates singing "Sit down, John! Sit down John! For God's sake, John, SIT DOWN!" directed at John Adams and his persistent driving force for a declaration of independence in a sweltering Philadelphia summer.
-
Barb - From Brisbane, sub-tropical Capital of Queensland.
The first time I read Walt Whitman I loved him. I actually recited one of his poems at my daughter's wedding. Can't remember the name, drat. Maybe something about a bonnie bride. Can anyone help jog my memory?
I have a close affinity with the States as I was married to an American for 20 years. He was born at a place called Fort Ord, near Monterey, I think. His father was in the army, but later became an academic and moved his family to Australia when my husband was 12.
I have fond memories of my mother-in-law's cooking. Spoonbread and marshmallow topped sweet potato, turkey with cranberry sauce and cornbread, yummy.
When I finally visited the US I felt very much at home. The people in Boston were intrigued by my accent. They couldn't place it at all. I would ask them to guess where I was from, and they all thought Ireland! My accent is not typical of Australians.
I enjoyed Philadelphia - I stayed in the old town in a little old inn. I remember ordering potato skins and tequila at the little restaurant there. I was astonished by the size of the serving of potato skins - it was huge! And the margarita came in a jug. All for little old me. I was fortunate there weren't too many stairs for me to negotiate that night.
-
Roshanarose - what in the world is so important or special about Tweed Heads that there is a major Highway from Brisbane?
From your Mother-in-law's Thanksgiving menu the spoonbread is typical of New England but the sweet potatoes and cornbread is Southern - and so I wonder how her family is mixed - I think Fort Ord is a military town - military towns are comfortable, looking like most other towns however, filled with folks from all over the nation each bringing their own taste in food, way of expressing themselves and how they celebrate traditions special to the area back home where generations of their relatives live. Sounds like your father-in-law was in the service therefore, your husband grew up in a military town where my guess is his mom brought with her recipies from her home.
Sounds like your visit to the states was centered where the founding fathers put it all together -
We are looking forward to you sharing with us some of the work of well known poets from Australia - seems to me there was one poet we studied for a month back when we did one poet a month - I would have to look in the archive and see if I can find who it was.
-
Found it!!! :D
Found It! :)
Hurray :-* I found it!
Here is a copy of a post from Annafair, our Anna who started this poetry discussion when SeniorNet was first on-line in the mid 1990s.
The Australian poet was Lawson, and amazing it appears - get this roshanarose - he was our July poet for 2006 and so July 4th 2006 we would have been reading Lawson.
annafair
July 2, 2006 - 01:31 pm
This is the fourth time I have checked in ..trying to decide which poem I should post and reading what you have shared and thinking how each poet reaches us, teaches us new things, Already I am finding so much about Australia and our poet of the month is writing about the history of Australia. As many poems that I have read, memorized and never forgotten some how I missed the fact that poetry is really history in rhyme.So many history books I have read were written not by the people who lived it but by someone who researched and here we are reading about history from the heart and soul of a man who lived it and recorded it with his words.
I am taken by the similarity of our country and how it was settled The Australians had aborigines and we did too only we called them Indians because Columbus thought at first that is where he was. We had indentured people, we had slaves, we had much of what Australia had ... English, Irish, etc and and so Lawson's poems mean to me. I am not only discovering Australia but re discovering America as well.
Alliemae said, Lawson's poems reminded her of the poems her father read to her as a child and they remind me of the first poems I read as a child. They tell a story, often based on history but always based on human thoughts, feelings and deeds. And they are almost like a song. They have a rhythm that sort of stays with you... and makes you feel I would like to read that again.
The poem I chose, I can't really say why, I just know it caught my eye and it tells a tale we all know even if we think we have forgotten. So without further explanation, I offer my second selection... Anna
Do You Think That I Do Not Know?
Henry Lawson-1910
They say that I never have written of love,
As a writer of songs should do;
They say that I never could touch the strings
With a touch that is firm and true;
They say I know nothing of women and men
In the fields where Love's roses grow,
And they say I must write with a halting pen
Do you think that I do not know?
When the love-burst came, like an English Spring,
In days when our hair was brown,
And the hem of her skirt was a sacred thing
And her hair was an angel's crown.
The shock when another man touched her arm,
Where the dancers sat round in a row;
The hope and despair, and the false alarm
Do you think that I do not know?
By the arbour lights on the western farms,
You remember the question put,
While you held her warm in your quivering arms
And you trembled from head to foot.
The electric shock from her finger tips,
And the murmuring answer low,
The soft, shy yielding of warm red lips
Do you think that I do not know?
She was buried at Brighton, where Gordon sleeps,
When I was a world away;
And the sad old garden its secret keeps,
For nobody knows to-day.
She left a message for me to read,
Where the wild wide oceans flow;
Do you know how the heart of a man can bleed
Do you think that I do not know?
I stood by the grave where the dead girl lies,
When the sunlit scenes were fair,
And the white clouds high in the autumn skies,
And I answered the message there.
But the haunting words of the dead to me
Shall go wherever I go.
She lives in the Marriage that Might Have Been
Do you think that I do not know?
They sneer or scoff, and they pray or groan,
And the false friend plays his part.
Do you think that the blackguard who drinks alone
Knows aught of a pure girl's heart?
Knows aught of the first pure love of a boy
With his warm young blood aglow,
Knows aught of the thrill of the world-old joy
Do you think that I do not know?
They say that I never have written of love,
They say that my heart is such
That finer feelings are far above;
But a writer may know too much.
There are darkest depths in the brightest nights,
When the clustering stars hang low;
There are things it would break his strong heart to write
Do you think that I do not know?
-
Hi Barbara! I'm still lurking about occasionally. I don't read much poetry these days because I find it too emotionally draining but I have grown to enjoy coming in to read a poem or two here. I think perhaps I am beginning to be able to read poetry once again. So thank you for that.
Of course I couldn't resist coming in after reading the Lawson one that Annafair had chosen - thanks for putting it up. I didn't know you had featured him or that he was in the archives.
One line in the poem caught my eye:
She was buried at Brighton where Gordon sleeps
which brought to mind Gordon referenced here by Lawson - Adam Lindsay Gordon - another poet - he committed suicide by shooting himself at Brighton Beach and is buried at Brighton Cemetery. He is the only Aussie poet to be honoured in Poets Corner of Westminster Abbey.
I don't wish to intrude but I'll look out one of his poems and post it here a little later.
BTW - we miss you over in Don's Classical Corner.
-
Wheeee and Hiiiii :-* :D :-* think of all that as a long lost friend being greeted by a running scream with arms Catawampus outstretched.
All to say great to see your post Gumtree - and please, yes, share with us an Adam Lindsay Gordon poem - I didn't know the story so thanks for sharing.
As to Don's Classical Corner I went through a blues and jazz phase and Don is a purest. I didn't want to disrupt the lovers of only Classical - I am thinking I would be better contributing in a Pops venue where classical mixes equally well with other music. Also, my eye is giving me problems - I had to reduce the amount of time I spend in front of a computer screen with the screen light that I try to dim - they are hoping this fall when I have the cataracts removed it will help the naughty eye.
-
Hey Barb! Catawumpus ?? New to me but I got the message - thanks for the warm welcome.
I'm sorry to hear about your eye problems - hope all will be well once you've had the cataracts done.
As for Gordon - I've spent the better part of the afternoon searching for my copy of his collected works - to no avail but found a few of his in an anthology. Gordon was a very erratic poet - some good stuff - some really bad. He was 'restless' as a youngster and his father decided it would for the best to send him to Australia so he could have a new start.
This poem is rather long but easy to read - I've known it since childhood and can still recite most of it from memory.
To My Sister
Across the trackless seas I go,
No matter where or when,
And few my future lot will know,
And fewer still will care.
My hopes are gone, my time is spent,
I little heed their loss,
And if I cannot feel content,
I cannot feel remorse.
My parents bid me cross the flood,
My kindred frown at me,
They say I have belied my blood,
And stained my pedigree.
But I must turn from those who chide,
And laugh at those who frown;
I cannot quench my stubborn pride,
Nor keep my spirits down.
I once had talents fit to win
Success in life's career
And if I chose a part of sin,
My choice has cost me dear,
But those who brand me with disgrace
Will scarcely dare to say,
They spoke the taunt before my face,
And went unscathed away.
My friends will miss a comrade's face
And pledge me on the seas,
Who shared the wine cup or the chase
Or follies worse than these.
A careless smile, a parting glass,
A hand that waves adieu,
And from my sight they soon will pass,
And from my memory too.
I loved a girl not long ago
And, till my suit was told,
I thought her breast as fair as snow,
'Twas very near as cold;
And yet I spoke, with feelings more
Of recklessness than pain,
Those words I never spoke before,
Nor never shall again.
Her cheek grew pale, in her dark eye
I saw a tear-drop shine;
Her red lips faltered in reply,
And then were pressed to mine.
A quick pulsation of the Heart!
A flutter of the breath!
A smothered sob - and thus we part,
To meet no more till death.
At yet I may at times recall
Her memory with a sigh;
At times for me the tears may fall
And dim her sparkling eye.
But absent friends are soon forgot,
And in a year or less
'Twill doubtless be another's lot
Those very lips to press.
With adverse fate we best can cope
When all we prize has fled;
And where there's little left to hope.
There's little left to dread!
Oh! time glides ever quickly by!
Destroying all that's dear,
On earth there's little worth a sigh,
And nothing worth a tear!
What fears have I? What hopes in life?
What joys can I command?
A few short years of toil and strife
In a strange and distant land!
When green grass sprouts above this clay
(and that might be ere long)
Some friends may read these lines and say
The world has judged him wrong.
There is a spot not far away
Where my young sister sleeps.
Who seems alive but yesterday
So fresh her memory keeps;
For we have played in childhood there
Beneath the hawthorn's bough,
And bent our knee in childish prayer
I cannot utter now!
Of late so reckless and so wild,
That spot recalls to me
That I was once a laughing child,
As innocent as she;
And there, while August's wildflowers wave,
I wandered all alone,
Strewed blossoms on her little grave
And knelt beside the stone.
I seem to have a load to bear
A heavy choking grief;
Could I have forced a single tear
I might have felt relief.
I think my hot and restless heart
Has scorched the channels dry,
From which those sighs of sorrow start
To moisten cheek and eye.
Sister, farewell! farewell once more
To every youthful tie!
Friends! parents! kinsmen! native shore!
To each and all goodbye!
And thoughts which for the moment seem
To bind me with a spell,
Ambitious hope! love's boyish dream!
To you a last farewell!
For me this poem evokes so much of pain and regret and still tells Gordon's story. Gordon wrote it in 1853 just a few days before he set sail for Australia. He was about 20 years of age.
-
Perfect, BARB, both of them. I'm not a Walt Whitman fan, but I've always appreciated "I Hear
America Singing". I had Emma Lazarus' concluding lines memorized and find I still remember them.
"Sit Down, JOHN!' was a favorite with me, too, BELLE. I sounds so true to human tempers in a
hot summer session.
ROSE, could this possibly be the Whitman poem you're trying to remember?
A KISS TO THE BRIDE.
Sacred, blithesome, undenied,
With benisons from East and West,
And salutations North and South,
Through me indeed to-day a million hearts and
hands,
Wafting a million loves, a million soul-felt prayers;
—Tender and true remain the arm that shields thee
Fair winds always fill the ship's sails that sail thee!
Clear sun by day, and bright stars at night, beam on
thee!
Dear girl—through me the ancient privilege too,
For the New World, through me, the old, old wed-
ding greeting:
O youth and health! O sweet Missouri rose! O
bonny bride!
Yield thy red cheeks, thy lips, to-day,
Unto a Nation's loving kiss.
-
Babi thanks for persuing the Whitman poem - if it is the one roshanarose used or not I am so glad to read the lines - just lovely.
Gumtree glad you found us a Gordon poem - woe is me it tells of one discouraged heartsick young man. Looks like he was an embarrassment to his family - lost his first love - and still morns the loss of his young sister.
Bellemere how wonderful to have seen 1776 on Broadway - I only saw the movie version and did not remember 'Sit down John' as being an important song - found the words and thought I would include them in this post.
Congress:
Sit down, John! Sit down, John!
For God's sake, John, sit down!
Sit down, John! Sit down, John!
For God's sake, John, sit down!
Someone oughta open up a window!
It's ninety degrees! Have mercy, John, please
It's hot as hell in Philadephia!
Someone oughta open up a window!
Adams:
I say vote yes! Vote yes! Vote for independency!
Congress:
Someone oughta open up a window!
Adams:
I say vote yes!
Congress:
Sit down, John!
Adams:
Vote for independency!
Congress:
Someone oughta open up a window!
No, no, no! Too many flies! Too many flies!
But it's hot as hell in Philadelphia!
Someone oughta open up a window!
Can't we compromise here?
Adams:
Vote yes!
Congress:
No, too many flies here!
Adams:
Vote yes!
Congress:
Oh for God's sake, John, sit down!
Adams:
Oh, good God! Consider yourself lucky that you have John Adams to abuse, for no sane man
would tolerate it!
Congress:
John, you're a bore; we've heard this before
Now for God's sake, John, sit down!
Adams:
I say vote yes!
Congress:
No!
Adams:
Vote yes!
Congress:
No!
Adams:
Vote for independency!
Congress:
Someone oughta open up a window!
Adams:
I say vote yes!
Congress:
Sit down, John!
Congress:
Vote for independency!
Congress:
Will someone shut that man up?
Adams:
Never!
-
Phyllis Mcginley's priase to our founding Fathers for their forethought
A FOURTH OF JULY HYMN
(Verse 2)
What is so rare in these sovereign states
As festive weather on festive dates?
Sneezes hamper the Yuletide kiss.
Autumn glooms on the Armistice.
Easter's certain to be contrary.
Washington picked February.
But east and west and south and north
There's strawberry shortcake on the Fourth.
(Verse 4)
You might have chosen August
When lawns begin to parch,
Defended Man in the middle of Jan
Or the horrible first of March.
But you thought of parades and picnics,
Of a blue American sky,
Of driving fast in a brand-new car,
Of rowing boats and of breaking par.
And you set it down on your calendar
That you's choose the Fourth of July.
The other three verses mention most of the Signer's names in verse but this is the part i like the best.
-
Well, if no one else is going to take it out and dust it off, I guess I will try - from memory, let's see if I still can:
Shall I compare thee to a summer’s day?
Thou art more lovely and more temperate.
Rough winds do shake the darling buds of May,
And summer’s lease hath all too short a date.
Sometime too hot the eye of heaven shines,
And often is his gold complexion dimm’d,
And every fair from fair sometime declines,
By chance, and nature’s changing course untrimmed.
But they eternal summer shall not fade,
Nor lose that rare perfection that thou owest.
Nor shall death brag thou wanderest in his shade,
When in eternal lines to time thou grow’st.
So long as men can breathe or eyes can see
So long lives this, and this gives life to thee.
-
the "eye of heaven is giving us hell today in Western Mass. 99 at 3 P.M.
-
Celebrate Summer With Us!
The Poetry Page.
Our haven for words that open our hearts.
(http://seniorlearn.org/bookclubs/poetry/poetrysummer09.jpg) |
In The Summer
by Nizar Qabbani
In the summer
I stretch out on the shore
And think of you
Had I told the sea
What I felt for you,
It would have left its shores,
Its shells,
Its fish,
And followed me.
|
Summer Poetry Links:
- Famous Poets and Poems about Summer (http://famouspoetsandpoems.com/thematic_poems/summer_poems.html)
- Summer Poems (http://www.dltk-holidays.com/summer/poems.htm)
- Flower Poems for Gardeners (http://www.gardendigest.com/flowers.htm)
Discussion Leaders: BarbStAubrey (augere@ix.netcom.com) & Fairanna (fairanna@cox.net)
-
Bellemere sounds like the kind of day when owning a kiddie pool set up on the patio is your saving grace.
Mine ended up being a drinking trough for the deer so now after dark I shower under the hose. It is amazing how afterward I can feel every tiny breeze and since the water is cold I can sit in the house where, in order not to have over a $400 rather than a $300 a month summer bill I have to keep the thermostat on 86 - cooled down from my outdoor shower sitting in my house I'm quite comfortable. I keep a small window AC in my bedroom that cools me at night so I can sleep and do not have to pay to cool down the entire house.
A Summer Haiku
~ By Micah Shapiro
Warm afternoons breathe
life into summer’s endless
mantra: “Go Cubs go.”
Summer Sun
~ Robert Louis Stevenson
GREAT is the sun, and wide he goes
Through empty heaven without repose;
And in the blue and glowing days
More thick than rain he showers his rays.
Though closer still the blinds we pull
To keep the shady parlour cool,
Yet he will find a chink or two
To slip his golden fingers through.
The dusty attic, spider-clad,
He, through the keyhole, maketh glad;
And through the broken edge of tiles
Into the laddered hay-loft smiles.
Meantime his golden face around
He bares to all the garden ground,
And sheds a warm and glittering look
Among the ivy's inmost nook.
Above the hills, along the blue,
Round the bright air with footing true,
To please the child, to paint the rose,
The gardener of the World, he goes.
-
One final recollection from 1776, a barbed exchange between the two old friends, Adams and Franklin -when Mrs. jefferson arrives in Philadelphia and she and her husband vanish immediately into their hotel.
Adams: "In the middle of the afternoon? Oh, good God!!!"
Franklin: "Not everyone is from Boston, John. "
Later when John Adams invites Mrs. Jefferson to dance a minuet with him:
Franklin: "John!" I didn't know you could dance!"
Adams: "Not eaveryone is from Philadelphia, Franklin.
-
BARB, I can't say "Sit Down, John" was an especially important song, but it was a lot of fun.
Micah Shapiro has a sense of humor, too, I see. And I like the Stevenson poem, but it is evident that the summer sun over England is a very different thing from the sun over Texas! :P
-
Anna via Barbara - Thanks so much for the Henry Lawson poem. It was so sensual and tender. When we children learned Lawson at school, we never read anything like that. I am drawing a long bow here, but I consider Lawson to be Australia's favourite poet.
Tweed Heads highway - the east coast of Australia is the most built up. Tweed Heads is the border town between Queensland and (going south) New South Wales Going north there is a tourist strip that runs all the way from Tweed Heads through the "Gold Coast", then through the "Sunshine Coast" all the way up to the Great Barrier Reef and the Whitsundays. The highway reflects the popularity of these areas and Queensland's grandiose ambition to impress the tourists. So - that is why the highway goes from six lanes to two when it crosses the border. Although it also peters out after the Sunshine Coast. The north-east coast of Australia is very long. But in deference to Gum, nowhere near as long as the western seaboard of West Australia. Now that is a coastline!
BarbMy mother-in-law grew up in Virginia and moved to New England in her teens. That may help explain the cookery style.
Many of the readers here have probably seen the film "The Man from Snowy River". Banjo Patterson is another Australian poet who is quite famous, in Australia at least. What follows is the first part of the poem. Enjoy!
The Man from Snowy River
by A. B. "Banjo" Paterson
There was movement at the station, for the word had passed around
That the colt from Old Regret had got away,
And had joined the wild bush horses -- he was worth a thousand pound,
So all the cracks had gathered to the fray.
All the tried and noted riders from the stations near and far
Had mustered at the homestead overnight,
For the bushmen love hard riding where the wild bush horses are,
And the stock-horse snuffs the battle with delight.
There was Harrison, who made his pile when Pardon won the cup,
The old man with his hair as white as snow;
But few could ride beside him when his blood was fairly up --
He would go wherever horse and man could go.
And Clancy of the Overflow came down to lend a hand,
No better horseman ever held the reins;
For never horse could throw him while the saddle-girths would stand,
He learnt to ride while droving on the plains.
And one was there, a stripling on a small and weedy beast,
He was something like a racehorse undersized,
With a touch of Timor pony -- three parts thoroughbred at least --
And such as are by mountain horsemen prized.
He was hard and tough and wiry -- just the sort that won't say die --
There was courage in his quick impatient tread;
And he bore the badge of gameness in his bright and fiery eye,
And the proud and lofty carriage of his head.
But still so slight and weedy, one would doubt his power to stay,
And the old man said, "That horse will never do
For a long and tiring gallop -- lad, you'd better stop away,
Those hills are far too rough for such as you."
So he waited sad and wistful -- only Clancy stood his friend --
"I think we ought to let him come," he said;
"I warrant he'll be with us when he's wanted at the end,
For both his horse and he are mountain bred."
"He hails from Snowy River, up by Kosciusko's side,
Where the hills are twice as steep and twice as rough,
Where a horse's hoofs strike firelight from the flint stones every stride,
The man that holds his own is good enough.
And the Snowy River riders on the mountains make their home,
Where the river runs those giant hills between;
I have seen full many horsemen since I first commenced to roam,
But nowhere yet such horsemen have I seen."
-
Roshanarose: What a thrilling tale; I'll have to look up and read the rest.
Today's Fresh Air was devoted to Emily Dickinson with Billy Collins reading some of his favorites and discussing her poetry as he does in the into to an edition of her poems. It was like a seminar! The second half consisted of an interview with the writer of a new biography of Emily wherein she speculates that Emily had epilepsy. She discusses the family feud over Emily's work after her death. Transcripts are here as well as podcasts; it is worth it to find an MP3 player, especially for the Collins portion, he is so witty and I love his voice. Now I'm going to read more of Emily plus Billy Collins' work. Will this endless parade of books I want to read never end? Three more just from today.
-
PS Here's the site: http://www.npr.org/templates/rundowns/rundown.php?prgId=13
-
ROSE, I call those poems that tell a story. I especially loved reading them when I was a teenager. I'm sitting here now trying to recall the titles of two of my favorites, but they are
eluding me. Maybe they'll pop up when I quite trying; that happens a lot. ;)
-
Babi Most of the Aussie bush poets wrote narrative poems - ballads - that tell a story - very often a tragic story.
The Man from Snowy River which Roshanarose posted part of yesterday is probably the best known and best loved of the bush ballads - there are many, many more.
Roshanarose Yes, Lawson's good but I think I prefer Paterson though Lawson wins hands down when it comes to the short story.
You're right about the WA coastline - it is very long - about 20,000 kms or more - it is also dramatic, wild, serene, dangerous and very beautiful especially in the largely untouched Pilbara and Kimberley coasts to the north and the rugged and dangerous south west. And then there are the long white sandy beaches. I love it in all seasons and in all moods. Queensland's Ok too!
-
Guntree have you any photos - how about you Roshanarose - do you have any photos of this area of Australia - I simply googled the mapquest site to see where Brisbane was located and noticed this extra special highway in addition to the other highways all leading to Tweed Heads - I never heard of the town so I became curious what could prompt such a major highway - sounds like a very special area of Australia and if you have any photos you could link for us that would be grand - They have to be linked on this site - Senior and Friends has a discussion board that allows photos to be uploaded but here there is a concern for the space I believe.
Well on-ward - it is still early summer with many summer poems to savor.
To honor the Northeast and lower Canada where an unforgiving heat wave has descended. They are experiencing the kind of over 100 degree temps Babi and I are used to here in Texas with a huge difference -We learned how to live in that kind of heat. Our homes are designed to cool them rather than warm them and we have 50 years of technology that we use to make ourselves comfortable. Folks in rural areas still work out-of-doors as do roofers, construction crews etc. however, they know to work the very early morning and evening hours. The Northeast is built for keeping warm not keeping cool.
Sticky Summer Heat
~ by Olivia Wainhouse
Sticky summer heat
Chasing perspiration down my flushed cheeks.
Wrestling hopelessly with comforters
Covers off–exposed and vulnerable,
Covers on–trapped bad thoughts,
Pervasive loneliness
of those endless summer nights,
Like a flipbook turned
by restless fingertips,
blending images together
to form motion
in a motionless night.
Summer day chases summer day
Like naïve fawns by a bustling highway
Daunting night
and dangling Chinese lanterns
faintly glistening in the distance
gently illuminating the unexpected.
Sticky summer heat
Forming pools of unrealized revelations
Dripping into the subconscious
and flirting with the restless.
Sticky summer heat
Chasing perspiration down my flushed cheeks,
Soft breathing interrupted by imminent sighs
of unquenchable frustration
Hushed by the mysterious summer of youth.
And sticky summer heat
Slumber hiding in the sheets
with the sun and the sensible,
Leaving questions unanswered
and a thick blanket of heat
Slowly suffocating its victim.
-
Found a Paterson Poem...
SUNRISE ON THE COAST
~ by A.B. "Banjo" Paterson - The Lone Hand, 1 August 1814
Grey dawn on the sandhills - the night wind has drifted
All night from the rollers a scent of the sea;
With the dawn the grey fog his battalions has lifted,
At the scent of the morning they scatter and flee.
Like mariners calling the roll of their number
The sea fowl put out to the infinite deep.
And far overhead - sinking softly to slumber -
Worn out by their watching, the stars fall asleep.
To eastward where resteth the dome of the skies on
The sea line stirs softly the curtain of night;
And far from behind the enshrouded horizon
Comes the voice of a God saying, "Let there be light."
An lo, there is light! Evanescent and tender,
It glows ruby-red where 'twas now ashen grey;
And purple and scarlet and gold in its splendour -
Behold, 'tis that marvel, the birth of a day!
-
Beautiful.
-
Oh, my. HOw oppressive. Miss Wainhouse makes me glad I'm sitting in this air-conditioning.
I do like Mr. paterson's Sunrise on the Coast.
I didn't know Thoreau was also a poet, but I found this. It's a bit long, but so good.
The Summer Rain
by Henry David Thoreau (1842)
My books I’d fain cast off, I cannot read,
’Twixt every page my thoughts go stray at large
Down in the meadow, where is richer feed,
And will not mind to hit their proper targe.
Plutarch was good, and so was Homer too,
Our Shakespeare’s life were rich to live again,
What Plutarch read, that was not good nor true,
Nor Shakespeare’s books, unless his books were men.
Here while I lie beneath this walnut bough,
What care I for the Greeks or for Troy town,
If juster battles are enacted now
Between the ants upon this hummock’s crown?
Bid Homer wait till I the issue learn,
If red or black the gods will favor most,
Or yonder Ajax will the phalanx turn,
Struggling to heave some rock against the host.
Tell Shakespeare to attend some leisure hour,
For now I’ve business with this drop of dew,
And see you not, the clouds prepare a shower—
I’ll meet him shortly when the sky is blue.
This bed of herd’s grass and wild oats was spread
Last year with nicer skill than monarchs use.
A clover tuft is pillow for my head,
And violets quite overtop my shoes.
And now the cordial clouds have shut all in,
And gently swells the wind to say all’s well;
The scattered drops are falling fast and thin,
Some in the pool, some in the flower-bell.
I am well drenched upon my bed of oats;
But see that globe come rolling down its stem,
Now like a lonely planet there it floats,
And now it sinks into my garment’s hem.
Drip drip the trees for all the country round,
And richness rare distills from every bough;
The wind alone it is makes every sound,
Shaking down crystals on the leaves below.
For shame the sun will never show himself,
Who could not with his beams e’er melt me so;
My dripping locks—they would become an elf,
Who in a beaded coat does gayly go.
-
I love reading Thoreau - he was a bit of a Know it all attempting superiority over his fellow New Englander's including Emerson but he wrote books that still capture the imagination. I had not read this poem and so it is a treat that you brought it to us Babi.
Here is another classic that is always on the list of poems we should memorize - found it on the list of 100 poems in the English Language we should commit to memory with instructions how best to memorize a poem.
The Passionate Shepherd to His Love
~ Christopher Marlowe (1598)
Come live with me and be my love,
And we will all the pleasures prove
That valleys, groves, hills, and fields,
Woods or steepy mountain yields.
And we will sit upon the rocks,
Seeing the shepherds feed their flocks,
By shallow rivers to whose falls
Melodious birds sing madrigals.
And I will make thee beds of roses
And a thousand fragrant posies,
A cap of flowers, and a kirtle
Embroidered all with leaves of myrtle;
A gown made of the finest wool
Which from our pretty lambs we pull;
Fair lined slippers for the cold,
With buckles of th purest gold;
A belt of straw and ivy buds,
With coral clasps and amber studs:
And if these pleasures may thee move,
Come live with me and be my love.
The shepherds’ swains shall dance and sing
For thy delight each May morning:
If these delights thy mind may move,
Then live with me and be my love.
-
Who could resist? Coral and amber, gold, wool from one's own lambs (?), he really knew how to court a maid.
The Summer Day
Mary Oliver
Who made the world?
Who made the swan, and the black bear?
Who made the grasshopper?
This grasshopper, I mean-
the one who has flung herself out of the grass,
the one who is eating sugar out of my hand,
who is moving her jaws back and forth instead of up and down-
who is gazing around with her enormous and complicated eyes.
Now she lifts her pale forearms and thoroughly washes her face.
Now she snaps her wings open, and floats away.
I don't know exactly what a prayer is.
I do know how to pay attention, how to fall down
into the grass, how to kneel down in the grass,
how to be idle and blessed, how to stroll through the fields,
which is what I have been doing all day.
Tell me, what else should I have done?
Doesn't everything die at last, and too soon?
Tell me, what is it you plan to do
with your one wild and precious life?
-
Fishing On The Susquehanna In July
I have never been fishing on the Susquehanna
or on any river for that matter
to be perfectly honest.
Not in July or any month
have I had the pleasure -- if it is a pleasure --
of fishing on the Susquehanna.
I am more likely to be found
in a quiet room like this one --
a painting of a woman on the wall,
a bowl of tangerines on the table --
trying to manufacture the sensation
of fishing on the Susquehanna.
There is little doubt
that others have been fishing
on the Susquehanna,
rowing upstream in a wooden boat,
sliding the oars under the water
then raising them to drip in the light.
But the nearest I have ever come to
fishing on the Susquehanna
was one afternoon in a museum in Philadelphia,
when I balanced a little egg of time
in front of a painting
in which that river curled around a bend
under a blue cloud-ruffled sky,
dense trees along the banks,
and a fellow with a red bandana
sitting in a small, green
flat-bottom boat
holding the thin whip of a pole.
That is something I am unlikely
ever to do, I remember
saying to myself and the person next to me.
Then I blinked and moved on
to other American scenes
of haystacks, water whitening over rocks,
even one of a brown hare
who seemed so wired with alertness
I imagined him springing right out of the frame.
Billy Collins
We're having 90+ days and the nights aren't much cooler'
A Summer Pastoral
It's hot to-day. The bees is buzzin'
Kinder don't-keer-like aroun'
An' fur off the warm air dances
O'er the parchin' roofs in town.
In the brook the cows is standin';
Childern hidin' in the hay;
Can't keep none of 'em a workin',
'Cause it's hot to-day.
It's hot to-day. The sun is blazin'
Like a great big ball o' fire;
Seems as ef instead o' settin'
It keeps mountin' higher an' higher.
I'm as triflin' as the children,
Though I blame them lots an' scold;
I keep slippin' to the spring-house,
Where the milk is rich an' cold.
The very air within its shadder
Smells o' cool an' restful things,
An' a roguish little robin
Sits above the place an' sings.
I don't mean to be a shirkin',
But I linger by the way
Longer, mebbe, than is needful,
'Cause it's hot to-day.
It's hot to-day. The horses stumble
Half asleep across the fiel's;
An' a host o' teasin' fancies
O'er my burnin' senses steals,--
Dreams o' cool rooms, curtains lowered,
An' a sofy's temptin' look;
Patter o' composin' raindrops
Or the ripple of a brook.
I strike a stump! That wakes me sudden;
Dreams all vanish into air.
Lordy! how I chew my whiskers;
'Twouldn't do fur me to swear.
But I have to be so keerful
'Bout my thoughts an' what I say;
Somethin' might slip out unheeded,
'Cause it's hot to-day.
Git up, there, Suke! you, Sal, git over!
Sakes alive! how I do sweat.
Every stitch that I've got on me,
Bet a cent, is wringin' wet.
If this keeps up, I'll lose my temper.
Gee there, Sal, you lazy brute!
Wonder who on airth this weather
Could 'a' be'n got up to suit?
You, Sam, go bring a tin o' water;
Dash it all, don't be so slow!
'Pears as ef you tuk an hour
'Tween each step to stop an' blow.
Think I want to stand a meltin'
Out here in this b'ilin' sun,
While you stop to think about it?
Lift them feet o' your'n an' run.
It ain't no use; I'm plumb fetaggled.
Come an' put this team away.
I won't plow another furrer;
It's too mortal hot to-day.
I ain't weak, nor I ain't lazy,
But I'll stand this half day's loss
'Fore I let the devil make me
Lose my patience an' git cross.
Paul Laurence Dunbar
-
"Tell me, what is it you plan to do
with your one wild and precious life? "
Mary Oliver always wakes you up.
-
Oh yes, the Mary Oliver is just too perfect - I must send it in an email to my kids - I think my grands are too young to even think one day they will die. Interesting when we finally come-to and realize our life is not limitless we have already made major choices about our life.
The Dunbar is so right on - problem in real life or I guess real life according to where you live - if you put off the plowing till the heat wave breaks around here the whole season could easily pass - this year we are having a break with temps only in the 90s where as other spots in the nation are experiencing what we did last year when we were 67 days over 100 degrees. We usually average about a dozen day of temps over 100.
Trees were cracking and breaking all over town splatting onto streets, roofs, cars and one person. The lakes hit a record low water mark. We were down to watering lawns one day a week and no driveway car washing. One day it hit 116 and I strung line between the trees and fence hanging sheets with clothspins connecting both ends to a line so that I had a backyard full of shade cloth over areas where there was no tree shade.
Not much help but some - a sheet looks so big in the house but looks a postage stamp against the sun in the yard. I did string 9 sheets and so glad I did not get rid of the sheets from when the kids were living here. And to help some of my plants I had two umbrellas that I opened and stuck the handle into the ground - I couldn't use them in front though where I really needed the help because the breeze blows up the street and quickly tumped over the umbrellas. I was not about to put holes in my umbrellas just to accommodate Mr. Wind.
Heatwave
~ by Adam Smith
Riding it out in the shade
Underneath the tree
Where the last bit still remains
110 degrees, and burning to bits
Heatwave
~ by Terza Rima
She pours the coldest waters over heat,
Her head of summer, heavy, languid thought,
A cooling of all desire, bittersweet.
The weight of summer’s long and hot onslaught
Is taken by water, bringing dreams of snow
And winter white, the mountains, afterthought
Of breezes, fresher air and falling snow
Through dreaming into night and peace at last.
A certain place there, only she can know.
She walks those streets of dreaming. Nights so vast
That distance falls across the night before
She feels the heat despite the shadows cast
Across her path, towards the house and door
Still locked to bar that life she lived before
HOT AND IRRITATED
~ by David Soriano
Personality changes in the past
Theories of boundary levels
I think we have already crossed
The threshold of global patience and limitation.
Fossil fuels and greenhouse glass
Heated up and temperature rising
The atmosphere a nice warm coat
Tales of Venus and trapped radiation.
Increase in farming
Feed the growing population
Ice caps melting in the summer sun
Short and unusually mild winters.
Turn off the lights in four of your cars
Insulate your mansion properly
Plant a new tree and hold your breath
Don't do anything requiring energy.
I truly feel with increasing trepidation
That the Earth we all call our home
Has changed her point of view
We are an annoying skin irritation.
-
I'm afraid I never remember more than the first two lines of the Marlowe poem, enticing though it is. And I'm smart enough not to believe for a moment that shepherds could afford gold slippers, amber and coral.
I have to agree with Mary Oliver. I would consider my time here wasted if I had never simply stopped to enjoy the world around me. Love the Dunbar poem, too, JACKIE.
I can see that central Texas is even hotter than the Gulf plans, BARB.
The sheets are an ingenious idea. I don't think I've used a clothesline
since I was hanging diapers. Then, by the time you hung the last of them the first were already dry!
-
Oregon, known for its coolth and dampness, is baking under cloudless skies with temps in the mid 90s. We are all melting into puddles, doing nothing but sleeping, reading and surfing (dry surf, Internet variety). My admiration for those of you who have to spend entire summers like this is enormous. Maybe it is the heat that accounts for some of the strange politics we coasters puzzle over in the middle of the US.
-
Heat - I feel for you folks who are suffering from the heat. Although it is winter here, and quite mild, I am dreading the summer. Brisbane's and Austin's temperatures and weather patterns in general sound very similar. The idea of the hose shower is a good one. My ex and I used to frolic on the back lawn with the sprinkler turned on - at night only. The cats used to enjoy the adventure as well. It has been many years since we have been allowed to use sprinklers. We have to pay extra on our rates if we use over a certain amount of water. About 18 months ago there was a rule that people could only have 4 minute showers. Naturally, this was unable to be enforced so they "fixed" everyone's water meters. That is what happens when you live on the driest continent on earth, in what seems to be a perpetual drought. Water is so precious. After I boil my kettle for tea or coffee I still pour what is left (when it has cooled) into a jug and water my plants with it. Habit!
Barb - you asked for some photos of the Gold and Sunshine Coast and the Tweed Heads area. I have friends who live just out of Tweed Heads and visit them quite often, especially in Summer. They have a lovely pool and their house is high on a hill. I will try to remember to take some pix then. Unfortunately, the inevitable flux of tourism and the infrastructure required to keep them happy is spoilng many small towns on our beautiful coastline. One of my favourite beaches is at Coolum, about 1 and a half hours from Brisbane. Last time I visited many trees had been knocked down to build high rises. C'est la Vie, I guess.
Barb, I haven't seen you in any other discussion groups. I wonder why? Is there some sort of ruling that I am not aware of that limits people to certain groups? Anyway, I am the next lucky? person to quiz people on "Author, Author". "Twould be good to see you there, and others, of course.
-
Two flickr photo links which may be of interest. I took these myself. Both of Australia, about half way up the Queensland Coast. One is of Agnes Water, the last surfing beach on the coast of Queensland. After this beach you are in stinger territory and goodness knows what else that is under the sea. Stay out of the water unless swimming in a netted area after this beach.
The other is of a tiny coastal town called 1770. Captain Cook made landfall there, in (surprise, surprise) 1770. The verandah is part of the beach shack I stayed in . Just gorgeous! Bear in mind that these places are a bit off the beaten track and are not at all like the Gold Coast/Tweed or the Sunshine Coast strips.
Please feel free to browse through my photostream if you have the time and the inclination :)
www.flickr.com/photos/roxanataj/555705115/
www.flickr.com/photos/roxanataj/554457712/
and my favourite (although nothing to do with beaches or Queensland) www.flickr.com/photos/roxanataj/2077495526/
-
Wow - Greece, Egypt, Crete and a few others including 1770 what a wonderful collection of memories. Thank you for sharing - I spent nearly an hour just looking and looking - marvelous.
Interesting how y'all are dealing with water - I remember a few times because of a storm the only water was what was left in the hot water tank and melted ice cubes in the frig. It was a challenge how much I could accomplish with each scrub bucket of water cautiously taken - I remember organizing its use based on the amount of soil I was tackling - First washed was everyone's face and hands followed by some clothing then the dirty dishes - a cup of water was scooped into each pot rather than washing them in the bucket and finally, the remaining pail water was used to wash up the kitchen floor before it finished up as a bathroom flush.
There was sponge baths for 3 little kids, water to drink and coffee made over a candle for three days before the electricity came back on allowing the well pump to start up. We were living in a little frame house outside of Lexington Ky. Your story brought back those memories - I bet you get weary with it and it soon looses its challenge till it becomes a habit. When you visit the ocean do you bring back a tank or barrel of water? You can use sea water with a bit of Clorox and lemon to wash windows and floors.
Well finally next week we should experience more typical temps with no rain - we have had a much cooler summer with Temps only in the 90s and lots of rain - from here on the cotton farmers will be hoping for less rain because as of now they have a great crop but soaked the cotton will not be worth sending in the equipment to harvest it.
Now The Taps Are Dry
~ by Injete Chesoni
She told us to plant trees
and we paid her no heed
And now the taps are dry.
They released
a water rationing schedule today,
a water conservation measure
they say,
Because the taps are dry.
We should have rationed our greed
and paid her heed,
when she told us not to cut down forest trees,
but we did not see the wisdom of her pleas,
And now the taps are dry.
We thought that the price of food was high
Until we had to choose what to buy,
Food or the liquid of life?
Yesterday, I had to explain to my daughter,
that the choice was between food and water,
Now that our taps are dry.
Who would have thought
That the day would come,
When we would stand under God’s glorious sun,
And buy water by the gallon.
We cannot say that we did not see it coming,
Because she gave us ample warning,
That soon the day would be dawning,
When we would wake up one morning,
And find that our taps were dry.
So now we are taking conservation measures,
A little too late
We are reclaiming our treasures,
That were squandered and plundered
To suit the whims of a few.
We lacked forethought,
And we should have fought,
Just as she taught,
To protect the liquid of life.
We should have been as far-sighted as she,
Who told us not to cut down trees,
Then perhaps today we would not be crying
Over the fact that our taps are drying.
-
I had to return to the ER with this bronchitis but thankfully my temp is down to normal and as soon as I have a return of energy I will be back Thanks to everyone for thier posts and somewhere I have a poem about a hot sun..a brazen bowl of brass burning everything down ,, that is what I have expierenced since my return we have had a few very minor showers BUT real rain is expected this week not enough to save my flowers they have dried on the stems and stalks not pretty but as if they were burned ...And the poem by Mary Oliver the last few lines have really resonated with me ever since I first read them and reminds me daily to ENJOY LIFE TO LIVE LIFE it is a gift and never waste a second there is always something to admire , to see , to inhale, to walk on and walk through and each leaf is special and all the birds there is so much beauty in the world and some NEVER notice it ..Have to check in this am with my regular doctor and make an appointment with a pulmonologist but I have showered , dressed in cool blouse and slacks and put makeup on WOW I love all but you who come here and share the poems you love and cherish I love especially thank you so much for keeping it going love to all...anna
-
1770 is gorgeous, ROSE, And I love the little owl!
I'd like to see that poem about the taps running dry get wide publication, BARB. It might make
a few people sit up and take notice.
ANNA, I always feel that as long as a woman wants to put on a bit of make-up before going
out, she's still interested in life and the world. :)
Since we're speaking of rain around here, I found this one by Rabindroth Tagore. You'll
remember the bit by him earlier, I think.
The Rainy Day by Rabindranath Tagore[/u]
Sullen clouds are gathering fast over the black fringe of the
forest.
O child, do not go out!
The palm trees in a row by the lake are smiting their heads
against the dismal sky; the crows with their dragged wings are
silent on the tamarind branches, and the eastern bank of the river
is haunted by a deepening gloom.
Our cow is lowing loud, ties at the fence.
O child, wait here till I bring her into the stall.
Men have crowded into the flooded field to catch the fishes
as they escape from the overflowing ponds; the rain-water is
running in rills through the narrow lanes like a laughing boy who
has run away from his mother to tease her.
Listen, someone is shouting for the boatman at the ford.
O child, the daylight is dim, and the crossing at the ferry
is closed.
The sky seems to ride fast upon the madly rushing rain; the
water in the river is loud and impatient; women have hastened home
early from the Ganges with their filled pitchers.
The evening lamps must be made ready.
O child, do not go out!
The road to the market is desolate, the lane to the river is
slippery. The wind is roaring and struggling among the bamboo
branches like a wild beast tangled in a net.
-
Whoops I see a whole post that I thought I uploaded to you Anna is not here - what ever in the world I did - but anyhow, yes, as Babi says - if you are still interested in your appearance you are in the right frame of mind and we can all breathe easier - seems like your lungs are giving you more of a challenge than usual - Anna, we think of you everytime we enter this Poetry discussion.
Oh my Babi - that rain sounds more like our rains doesn't it - we may not have cows tied to fence posts but it could easily be our vehicle parked outside and the low water crossings spilling over their banks - I love the lines...
running in rills through the narrow lanes like a laughing boy who
has run away from his mother to tease her.
And yes, the poem Now The Taps Are Dry, makes you want to immediately go out and plant a tree nursing it till the fall rains and winter wet can establish a strong root system. Seems to me I read at one time that certain trees and certain growing flowers actually help raise the water table in an area.
One of my most favorite stories is "The Man who Planted Trees" - I recently purchased a few of his other books - He is such an in-depth and gentle French writer. Here is the story on-line http://www.perso.ch/arboretum/man_tree.htm
-
Oh, Anna, please call me.
What beautiful beaches!
-
Hello Anna
Although we've not met, you help to make my day every time I am online with this Poetry Board. It is a precious legacy. Barbara helps all of us, through her blessed optimism and love of poetry.
Glad you liked the beaches and other pix. 1770 is a jewel, and when you visit next time, you can take surfing lessons at Agnes Water on that lovely beach.
-
A POEM AMORY SENT TO ELEANOR AND WHICH HE CALLED "SUMMER STORM"
~ by: F. Scott Fitzgerald (1896-1940)
AINT winds, and a song fading and leaves falling,
Faint winds, and far away a fading laughter . . .
And the rain and over the fields a voice calling . . .
One gray blown cloud scurries and lifts above,
Slides on the sun and flutters there to waft her
Sisters on. The shadow of a dove
Falls on the cote, the trees are filled with wings;
And down the valley through the crying trees
The body of the darker storm flies; brings
With its new air the breath of sunken seas
And slender tenuous thunder . . .
But I wait . . .
Wait for the mists and for the blacker rain--
Heavier winds that stir the veil of fate,
Happier winds that pile her hair;
Again
They tear me, teach me, strew the heavy air
Upon me, winds that I know, and storm.
There was a summer every rain was rare;
There was a season every wind was warm . . .
And now you pass me in the mist . . . your hair
Rain-blown about you, damp lips curved once more
In that wild irony, that gay despair
That made you old when we have met before;
Wraith-like you drift on out before the rain,
Across the fields, blown with the stemless flowers,
With your old hopes, dead leaves and loves again--
Dim as a dream and wan with all old hours
(Whispers will creep into the growing dark . . .
Tumult will die over the trees)
Now night
Tears from her wetted breast the splattered blouse
Of day, glides down the dreaming hills, tear-bright,
To cover with her hair the eerie green . . .
Love for the dusk . . . Love for the glistening after;
Quiet the trees to their last tops . . . serene . . .
Faint winds, and far away a fading laughter . . .
-
~ by Dave McCroskey
the morning paper
harbinger of good and ill
- - I step over it
-
I've never read much of Scott Fitzgerald; didn't care for him. But that was a sad poem and beautifully done.
With your old hopes, dead leaves and loves again--
Dim as a dream and wan with all old hours
That little McCroskey bit has more to it than one realizes at first glance. I find myself wanting to challenge him a bit about it.
-
Ode to the Watermelon
~ By Pablo Neruda
The tree of intense
summer,
hard,
is all blue sky,
yellow sun, fatigue in drops,
a sword
above the highways,
a scorched shoe
in the cities:
the brightness and the world
weigh us down,
hit us
in the eyes
with clouds of dust,
with sudden golden blows,
they torture
our feet
with tiny thorns,
with hot stones,
and the mouth
suffers
more than all the toes:
the throat
becomes thirsty,
the teeth,
the lips, the tongue:
we want to drink
waterfalls,
the dark blue night,
the South Pole,
and then
the coolest of all
the planets crosses
the sky,
the round, magnificent,
star-filled watermelon.
It's a fruit from the thirst-tree.
It's the green whale of the summer.
The dry universe
all at once
given dark stars
by this firmament of coolness
lets the swelling
fruit
come down:
its hemispheres open
showing a flag
green, white, red,
that dissolves into
wild rivers, sugar,
delight!
Jewel box of water, phlegmatic
queen
of the fruitshops,
warehouse
of profundity, moon
on earth!
You are pure,
rubies fall apart
in your abundance,
and we
want
to bite into you,
to bury our
face
in you, and
our hair, and
the soul!
When we're thirsty
we glimpse you
like
a mine or a mountain
of fantastic food,
but
among our longings and our teeth
you change
simply
into cool light
that slips in turn into
spring water
that touched us once
singing.
And that is why
you don't weigh us down
in the siesta hour
that's like an oven,
you don't weigh us down,
you just
go by
and your heart, some cold ember,
turned itself into a single
drop of water.
-
If You Forget Me
~ Pablo Neruda
I want you to know
one thing.
You know how this is:
if I look
at the crystal moon, at the red branch
of the slow autumn at my window,
if I touch
near the fire
the impalpable ash
or the wrinkled body of the log,
everything carries me to you,
as if everything that exists,
aromas, light, metals,
were little boats
that sail
toward those isles of yours that wait for me.
Well, now,
if little by little you stop loving me
I shall stop loving you little by little.
If suddenly
you forget me
do not look for me,
for I shall already have forgotten you.
If you think it long and mad,
the wind of banners
that passes through my life,
and you decide
to leave me at the shore
of the heart where I have roots,
remember
that on that day,
at that hour,
I shall lift my arms
and my roots will set off
to seek another land.
But
if each day,
each hour,
you feel that you are destined for me
with implacable sweetness,
if each day a flower
climbs up to your lips to seek me,
ah my love, ah my own,
in me all that fire is repeated,
in me nothing is extinguished or forgotten,
my love feeds on your love, beloved,
and as long as you live it will be in your arms
without leaving mine.
-
Neruda's summer sounds like the ones I know. Sun like a sword and
sidewalks that scorch the soles of your shoes. But that boy surely loved
his watermelon! The love poem is beautiful, but the attitude is so foreign to
me. Is that the 'macho' way?
This tune is running thru' my mind this morning, so I decided to find it and post it.
Gershwin's music, isn't it? I don't know who wrote the lyrics.
Summertime and the livin' is easy
Fish are jumpin' and the cotton is HIGH
Oh your Daddy's rich and your ma is good lookin'
So hush little baby, don't you cry
One of these mornings
You're goin' to rise up singing
YES, you'll spread your wings
And you'll take the sky
But till that morning
There's a nothin' can harm you
With daddy and mammy standin' by
-
Weren't those lyrics written by "George's lovely wife, Ira", aka his brother?
-
And here it is with Louis Armstrong and Ella Fitzgerald.
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=MIDOEsQL7lA&feature=related (http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=MIDOEsQL7lA&feature=related)
-
I forgot what a fabulous trumpet player was Louis Armstrong - Ella is pure magic although, I prefer her voice when she was older especially when she could scat through so many melodies.
It always amazes me how we each see some different element in a poem - all I can do is share what I read when I read his love poem. I can see how the poem sounds like a dialogue between a man and a woman where as I saw it as a man speaking in the wind so to speak, or at least to the moon -
The first stave I read the poets voice alluding to his body aging and the small boats carry him with all the enticements towards a sexual declaration of his love - so that the 'wind of banners' are the times in his life when his full manhood was realized and if this physical manifestation of love leaves him because of age he is saying he will dig deep, or as he says, 'his heart has roots' and find another expression for love because it is love and his ability to physically express love that is his destiny.
And Yes, the watermelon summer sky - I read that with such glee is the only word to describe how I felt
the round, magnificent,
star-filled watermelon.
And then best of all to me is the bit that makes it sound as if we are 'scarping' watermelon - the summer sky - as if like watermelon dribbling down our chin while we sit on the back porch step we could bury our face in the pure joy of the moment that is beholding the 'whale of the summer' in the universe.
that dissolves into
wild rivers, sugar,
delight!
Jewel box of water, phlegmatic
queen
of the fruitshops,
warehouse
of profundity, moon
on earth!
You are pure,
rubies fall apart
in your abundance,
and we
want
to bite into you,
to bury our
face
in you, and
our hair, and
the soul!
-
Emily Dickinson
A something in a summer’s Day
As slow her flambeaux burn away
Which solemnizes me.
A something in a summer’s noon —
A depth — an Azure — a perfume —
Transcending ecstasy.
And still within a summer’s night
A something so transporting bright
I clap my hands to see —
Then veil my too inspecting face
Lets such a subtle — shimmering grace
Flutter too far for me —
The wizard fingers never rest —
The purple brook within the breast
Still chafes it narrow bed —
Still rears the East her amber Flag —
Guides still the sun along the Crag
His Caravan of Red —
So looking on — the night — the morn
Conclude the wonder gay —
And I meet, coming thro’ the dews
Another summer’s Day!
-
Emily Dickinson
One need not be a Chamber — to be Haunted —
One need not be a House —
The Brain has Corridors — surpassing
Material Place —
Far safer, of a Midnight Meeting
External Ghost
Than its interior Confronting —
That Cooler Host.
Far safer, through an Abbey gallop,
The Stones a’chase —
Than Unarmed, one’s a’self encounter —
In lonesome Place —
Ourself behind ourself, concealed —
Should startle most —
Assassin hid in our Apartment
Be Horror’s least.
The Body — borrows a Revolver —
He bolts the Door —
O’erlooking a superior spectre —
Or More —
-
Emily Dickinson
Summer — we all have seen —
A few of us — believed —
A few — the more aspiring
Unquestionably loved —
But Summer does not care —
She goes her spacious way
As eligible as the moon
To our Temerity —
The Doom to be adored —
The Affluence conferred —
Unknown as to an Ecstasy
The Embryo endowed —
-
Celebrate Summer With Us!
The Poetry Page.
Our haven for words that open our hearts.
(http://seniorlearn.org/bookclubs/poetry/poetrysummer09.jpg) |
In The Summer
by Nizar Qabbani
In the summer
I stretch out on the shore
And think of you
Had I told the sea
What I felt for you,
It would have left its shores,
Its shells,
Its fish,
And followed me.
|
Summer Poetry Links:
- Famous Poets and Poems about Summer (http://famouspoetsandpoems.com/thematic_poems/summer_poems.html)
- Summer Poems (http://www.dltk-holidays.com/summer/poems.htm)
- Flower Poems for Gardeners (http://www.gardendigest.com/flowers.htm)
Discussion Leaders: BarbStAubrey (augere@ix.netcom.com) & Fairanna (fairanna@cox.net)
-
I went back and looked it up, JACKIE. The lyrics for 'Summertime' were
written by Dubose Heyward.
It has been my observation that poets who write beautiful poems about summer are those who live in the northern parts, where summer is a briefer
respite from cold weather. I can remember enjoying summer as a child, when
I could wear flimsy next-to-nothing and splash in the pool or the sprinkler. Now summer is something to be avoided as much as possible, and enjoyed as
a view from the window of an air-conditioned room.
I do love Emily Dickinson, but this simply has me going "Huh?"
Unknown as to an Ecstasy
The Embryo endowed —
What is that about???
-
My interpretation is that the embryo could have more than one known father. Rather like "The Bold and the Beautiful". :D
-
Thanks, Babi. Dickenson's family was surprisingly riddled with convoluted relationships. Apparently her brother's wife, Susan, Emily's fondest correspondent, had to battle his mistress for Emily's works after her death. The mistress won. And felt it her duty to edit the poems! Changes how I regard the poems somehow. Are these Emily's words and thoughts I'm reading or someone else's?
-
Fascinating Jackie - what were you reading to learn that interesting turn of events on Emily's prolific output?
I'm with you Babi - most poets talk about a summer further north - I wonder if there are some poets from northern Africa - probably so but the language would be our problem.
We are in this strange corridor of heat with low growing vegetation punctuated by stands of mostly Live Oak - the Mexican experience is different again although further south like our South Texas area it becomes Tropical with all sorts of green growth.
For us it is as if the Chihuahuan Desert extended itself through most of the state. We may be known here in Austin for the hills surrounding the city and the Colorado Running through the middle of town with our chain of lakes but we sure have our scrub land that is now filled with subdivision of homes after subdivision of homes.
When I added the garden plants to the front of the house, like every tree and bush that was ever planted I had to use a pickax to essentially carve out a flowerpot to fill with top soil. I guess over the years the roots find a way into the limestone because the plantings all do well and the Arizona Ash planted in the backyard 40 years ago is taller than any tree back there.
My son is over in Magnolia just a couple of streets adjacent to the Woodlands - his backyard is filled with tall stately pines - what a difference and he has dampness as a constent but then he does not talk about the night time breezes that means summer for us.
When the children were young I too could hang out sheets and jeans that were dry by the time I finished hanging the basket of wet laundry. I often hung the sheets out at night because I found true to the old saying the moon really does a great job of bleaching white things.
There is an eighteenth century poem I found years ago that is a bit long but too perfect about Wash Day - next post...
-
Washing-Day
~ by Anna Lætitia Barbauld, published in 1797
................. and their voice,
Turning again towards childish treble, pipes
And whistles in its sound.–
The Muses are turned gossips; they have lost
The buskin'd step, and clear high-sounding phrase,
Language of gods. Come, then, domestic Muse,
In slip-shod measure loosely prattling on
Of farm or orchard, pleasant curds and cream,
Or drowning flies, or shoe lost in the mire
By little whimpering boy, with rueful face;
Come, Muse, and sing the dreaded Washing-Day.
–Ye who beneath the yoke of wedlock bend,
With bowed soul, full well ye ken the day
Which week, smooth sliding after week, brings on
Too soon; for to that day nor peace belongs
Nor comfort; ere the first grey streak of dawn,
The red-arm'd washers come and chase repose.
Nor pleasant smile, nor quaint device of mirth,
E'er visited that day: the very cat,
From the wet kitchen scared, and reeking hearth,
Visits the parlour, an unwonted guest.
The silent breakfast-meal is soon dispatch'd
Uninterrupted, save by anxious looks
Cast at the lowering sky, if sky should lower.
From that last evil, oh preserve us, heavens!
For should the skies pour down, adieu to all
Remains of quiet; then expect to hear
Of sad disasters–dirt and gravel stains
Hard to efface, and loaded lines at once
Snapped short–and linen-horse by dog thrown down,
And all the petty miseries of life.
Saints have been calm while stretched upon the rack,
And Guatimozin smil'd on burning coals;
But never yet did housewife notable
Greet with a smile a rainy washing-day.
–But grant the welkin fair, require not thou
Who call'st thyself perchance the master there,
Or study swept, or nicely dusted coat,
Or usual 'tendance; ask not, indiscreet,
Thy stockings mended, tho' the yawning rents
Gape wide as Erebus, nor hope to find
Some snug recess impervious: should'st thou try
The 'customed garden walks, thine eye shall rue
The budding fragrance of thy tender shrubs,
Myrtle or rose, all crushed beneath the weight
Of coarse check'd apron, with impatient hand
Twitch'd off when showers impend: or crossing lines
Shall mar thy musings, as the wet cold sheet
Flaps in thy face abrupt. Woe to the friend
Whose evil stars have urged him forth to claim
On such a day the hospitable rites;
Looks, blank at best, and stinted courtesy,
Shall he receive. Vainly he feeds his hopes
With dinner of roast chicken, savoury pie,
Or tart or pudding:–pudding he nor tart
That day shall eat; nor, tho' the husband try,
Mending what can't be help'd, to kindle mirth
From cheer deficient, shall his consort's brow
Clear up propitious; the unlucky guest
In silence dines, and early slinks away.
- I well remember, when a child, the awe
This day struck into me; for then the maids,
I scarce knew why, looked cross, and drove me from them;
Nor soft caress could I obtain, nor hope
Usual indulgencies; jelly or creams,
Relique of costly suppers, and set by
For me their petted one; or butter'd toast,
When butter was forbid; or thrilling tale
Of ghost, or witch, or murder–so I went
And shelter'd me beside the parlour fire:
There my dear grandmother, eldest of forms,
Tended the little ones, and watched from harm,
Anxiously fond, tho' oft her spectacles
With elfin cunning hid, and oft the pins
Drawn from her ravell'd stocking, might have sour'd
One less indulgent.–
At intervals my mother's voice was heard,
Urging dispatch; briskly the work went on,
All hands employed to wash, to rinse, to wring,
To fold, and starch, and clap, and iron, and plait.
Then would I sit me down, and ponder much
Why washings were. Sometimes thro' hollow bowl
Of pipe amused we blew, and sent aloft
The floating bubbles, little dreaming then
To see, Mongolfier, thy silken ball
Ride buoyant through the clouds–so near approach
The sports of children and the toils of men.
Earth, air, and sky, and ocean, hath its bubbles,
And verse is one of them–this most of all.
I remember blowing bubbles on wash day when I was a kid - mom did not have a washing machine till after WWII so it was a scrub board and always there was a mason jar of left over soap bits that a small amount was poured in another jar with water and an old pipe that belonged to a grandfather long deceased kept me occupied. I remember the thrill when my grandmother brought us, my sister and I a pipe that made 3 bubbles to be sent aloft at the same time - sad to us we groaned since most often the three bubbles would connect to each other. And the few times they were separate we jumped and danced with excitment and glee
-
Buskin - noun
A foot and leg covering reaching halfway to the knee, resembling a laced half boot.
A thick-soled laced half boot worn by actors of Greek and Roman tragedies.
Guatimozin
(born c. 1495—died Feb. 26, 1522) Last Aztec emperor, nephew and son-in-law of Montezuma II. He became emperor on the death of Montezuma's successor in 1520, while Hernán Cortés was marching for the second time on Tenochtitlán, the Aztec capital. He defended the city during a four-month siege that left most buildings destroyed and few Indians surviving. Tortured by the Spaniards in an effort to make him reveal the location of hidden Aztec wealth, his stoicism became legendary. Later Cortés, hearing of a plot against the Spaniards, had Cuauhtémoc hanged.
Erebus
Erebus was known as the embodiment of primordial darkness, the son of Chaos (who was the void from which all things developed, known also as Darkness). According to Hesiod's Theogony, Erebus was born with Nyx (Night), and was the father of Aether (the bright upper atmosphere) and Hemera (Day). Charon, the ferry-man who took the dead over the rivers of the infernal region, is also said to be the son of Erebus and Nyx.
Later legend describes Erebus as the Infernal Region below the earth. In this version, Hades was split into two regions: Erebus, which the dead have to pass shortly after they have died, and Tartarus, the deepest region, where the Titans were imprisoned. Aristophanes' Birds says that Erebus and Nyx were also the parents of Eros, the god of love.
He is often used metaphorically for Hades itself.
Mongolfier
http://commons.wikimedia.org/wiki/File:Mongolfier_brothers'_hot_air_balloon_from_1783.jpg
-
Barbara - I always enjoy reading about your exploits in younger days. You take me there.
-
How on earth did a mistress win a legal battle over a member of the
family, esp. in Dickinson's day? Sounds like that would make an
interesting story.
Oh, I do like Anna Laetitia. Such a lovely, grand, tongue-in-cheek poem! ;)
-
I'm facinated with her poem and I am still finding words that on the surface I have no idea what they mean so I have to look them up. Here is another welkin as in welkin fair
We don’t use this much nowadays — dictionaries usually tag it as archaic or literary — except in the set phrase make the welkin ring, meaning to make a very loud sound. What supposedly rings in this situation is the vault of heaven, the bowl of the sky. In older cosmology this was thought to be one of a set of real crystal spheres that enclosed the Earth, to which the planets and stars were attached, so it would have been capable of ringing like a bell if you made enough noise.
The word comes from the Old English wolcen, a cloud, related to the Dutch wolk and German Wolke.
Very early on, for example in the epic poem Beowulf of about the eighth century AD, the phrase under wolcen meant under the sky or under heaven (the bard used the plural, wolcnum, but it’s the same word). Ever since, it has had a strong literary or poetic connection. It appears often in Shakespeare and also in Chaucer’s Canterbury Tales: “This day in mirth and revel to dispend, / Till on the welkin shone the starres bright”. In 1739, a book with the title Hymns and Sacred Poems introduced one for Christmas written by Charles Wesley that began: “Hark! how all the welkin rings, / Glory to the King of kings”. If that seems a little familiar, it is because 15 years later it reappeared as “Hark! the herald-angels sing / Glory to the new born king”.
I'm with you Babi on Dickinson - I would love to know the story - where in the world Jackie did you read about it.
roshanarose - it is fun isn't it to be reminded of old times stored away safe in our memory.
-
Barbara: Thanks for telling us about welkin. Somewhere in the back of my mind I knew its meaning from childhood as the vault of the sky - and the crystal spheres etc but would have been hard pressed to explain it to anyone these days. So good to have the memory refreshed - I think words are so important to our culture and it is sad to see them become disused (and misused) as time passes - even though we all do it all the time.
-
In a new biography of Emily Dickinson, Lives Like Loaded Guns: Emily Dickinson and Her Family's Feuds, Lyndall Gordon speculates that ED may have suffered from epilepsy. She also recounts the brother's adulterous affair and the internal struggles over control of ED's poetry. Here is the transcript of the interview: http://www.npr.org/templates/transcript/transcript.php?storyId=127906938
-
I liked Gordon's statement that we are 'sympathetic to what can't be said'. I think one has to be,..or blunder about hurtfully. I think that bit in the poem about a creasing her shawl and settling her hat so precisely is typical of some types of handicap. It's an attempt to impose as
much order as possible into a life with a physical disorder.
I thought this was nice...
On Leaning
Some think they leaned upon a stronger will
when all that happened was this will had shone
a light beam on some girder, deep and strong,
within their own divinely buttressed soul.
Mistakenly, they felt this other will
support their own, when really, all are leaning
safe upon the same Eternal Strength
which none of us can own, but all may share.
The light beam shows it's safe to turn within.
From Heartclips (1996)
by Alan Harris
-
Interesting it appears that Allen Harris is a prolific writer - reading some of his work there are nuggets of wisdom within most of his poetry. The one you shared Babi On Leaning is a truth that I have heard at many an Al-Anon meeting and also back when I attending the intense training for the Battered Women's Center.
In fact my knee jerk anger got the best of me when I was reading the Gordon interview - one more time - and here we go - infidelity in a man of course has to be blamed on the sexual desert he experiences at home with his wife - grrrrr - I guess sex addiction is still not commonly understood and so we have to read this dribble that justifies betrayal while blaming the betrayed - grrrr - and exactly who is leaning on whom.
OK one of the most beautiful love poems to me is Roberta Flack's song - here is a link that allows you to hear her sing this bit of sensual wonder - http://www.links2love.com/love_lyrics_32.htm
First Time Ever I Saw Your Face
The first time ever I saw your face
I thought the sun rose in your eyes
And the moon and stars were the gifts you gave
To the dark and the empty skies, my love,
To the dark and the empty skies.
The first time ever I kissed your mouth
And felt your heart beat close to mine
Like the trembling heart of a captive bird
That was there at my command, my love
That was there at my command.
And the first time ever I lay with you
I felt your heart so close to mine
And I knew our joy would fill the earth
And last till the end of time my love
It would last till the end of time my love
The first time ever I saw your face, your face,
your face, your face
-
Oh, Barb, did you ever nail that one! I don't think most of us consider the lyrics to songs as "poetry", it's only when you take the time to write them out, and see them on the page, does it really hit you..."this is a beautiful poem". I think I could listen to that song time after time and never tire of it. "I thought the sun rose in your eyes"...ohhh,to have someone feel that way about me. But I will take consolation in the fact that I have felt that way about someone.
-
Tome: Consider yourself one of the lucky ones to have felt that. Some of us may think we do but learn to our sorrow we were wrong.
-
. . .the poet fashions that fairer world of which the heart has dreamed;
and by the mediation of his art it becomes ours
~ Carleton Noyes
Oh, Jackie, that is wonderful too! Thanks for adding it to your signature.
-
Barbara - Ahhhh. Such sweet memories come back reading Roberta Flack's song. When I was teaching ESL, every Friday I used to play this song to my students. After a while they could sing it back to me. So special.
Tome - Like you, I have felt that tenderness; that sensitivity of touch and probably that loss. There is another artist who reminds me somewhat of Roberta. Her name is Lucinda Williams, she is American, born 1953, I think. Regarded more as a country singer than anything else. Here are the lyrix of my favourite song of hers. I wanted to do all these things to a man, but he lived too far away, much too far away...
If you haven't heard this song, you must. A search will suffice and it can be heard online. The song is called "I Envy the Wind" and Lucinda Williams wrote it. One of her admirers sums it up alliteratively. "Seldom has sensuality sounded so sad".
I envy the wind
That whispers in your ear
That howls through the winter
That freezes your fingers
That moves through your hair
And cracks your lips
And chills you to the bone
I envy the wind
I envy the rain
That falls on your face
That wets your eyelashes
And dampens your skin
And touches your tongue
And soaks through your shirt
And drips down your back
I envy the rain
I envy the sun
That brightens your summer
That warms your body
And holds you in her heat
And makes your days longer
And makes you hot
And makes you sweat
I envy the sun
I envy the wind, I envy the rain, I envy the sun, I envy the wind
-
Ah, you are all touching strings that resonate with me. I can't say more than that.
I don't know any of the newer songs, ROSE, now that I no longer hear. Thanks for publishing those lovely lyrics. You, too, BARB. I
remember the lovely melody of "The First Time Ever I Saw Your Face",
but I never learned the lyrics.
-
Jazz Fantasia
~ by Carl Sandburg
DRUM on your drums, batter on your banjoes, sob on the long cool winding saxophones. Go to it, O jazzmen.
Sling your knuckles on the bottoms of the happy tin pans, let your trombones ooze, and go hushahusha-hush with the slippery sand-paper.
Moan like an autumn wind high in the lonesome tree-tops, moan soft like you wanted somebody terrible, cry like a racing car slipping away from a motorcycle cop, bang-bang! you jazzmen, bang altogether drums, traps, banjoes, horns, tin cans—make two people fight on the top of a stairway and scratch each other’s eyes in a clinch tumbling down the stairs.
Can the rough stuff … now a Mississippi steamboat pushes up the night river with a hoo-hoo-hoo-oo … and the green lanterns calling to the high soft stars … a red moon rides on the humps of the low river hills … go to it, O jazzmen.
-
Love After Love
~ by Derek Walcott [1992 Noble Prize Poet]
The time will come
when, with elation
you will greet yourself arriving
at your own door, in your own mirror
and each will smile at the other's welcome,
and say, sit here. Eat.
You will love again the stranger who was your self.
Give wine. Give bread. Give back your heart
to itself, to the stranger who has loved you
all your life, whom you ignored
for another, who knows you by heart.
Take down the love letters from the bookshelf,
the photographs, the desperate notes,
peel your own image from the mirror.
Sit. Feast on your life.
-
Barbara - So beautiful, so poignant, so true.
-
STORM ON THE ISLAND
~ Seamus Heaney
We are prepared: we build our houses squat,
Sink walls in rock and roof them with good slate.
This wizened earth has never troubled us
With hay, so, as you see, there are no stacks
Or stooks that can be lost. Nor are there trees
Which might prove company when it blows full
Blast: you know what I mean - leaves and branches
Can raise a tragic chorus in a gale
So that you listen to the thing you fear
Forgetting that it pummels your house too.
But there are no trees, no natural shelter.
You might think that the sea is company,
Exploding comfortably down on the cliffs
But no: when it begins, the flung spray hits
The very windows, spits like a tame cat
Turned savage. We just sit tight while wind dives
And strafes invisibly. Space is a salvo,
We are bombarded with the empty air.
Strange, it is a huge nothing that we fear.
-
The rain falls gently on the town.
~ Arthur Rimbaud
Like city's rain, my heart
Rains teardrops too. What now,
This languorous ache, this smart
That pierces, wounds my heart?
Gentle, the sound of rain
Pattering roof and ground!
Ah, for the heart in pain,
Sweet is the sound of rain!
Tears rain-but who knows why?-
And fill my heartsick heart.
No faithless lover's lie? . . .
It mourns, and who knows why?
And nothing pains me so--
With neither love nor hate--
A simply not to know
Why my heart suffers so.
-
Can anyone think of a restful poem? I am so tired. I've been spending
a lot of time back and forth to the hospital where my daughter Valerie is
recovering from an acute MI. She is doing fine; the blockage was cleared
via catheter and placement of a stent. She was chattering away and joking with the nurses immediately after the whole thing.
I just need some 'restoration' time. I will be so glad when the doctor releases her to come home and I can check on her from the next room!
:P
-
Oh Babi - the stress you must be experiencing - and then there is really no place to put your feet up and rest while in a Hospital - glad to hear your daughter is coming through in what sounds like flying colors - I guess to be thankful for small favors that at least you are not making the drive during a storm with the only storm being the one in your heart as you must have been worried sick for awhile.
I do not know if you are a first, second or third daughter but this is a poem about daughters that regardless of birth order says so much more...
Nursing You
~ by Erica Jong
On the first night
of the full moon,
the primeval sack of ocean
broke,
& I gave birth to you
little woman,
little carrot top,
little turned-up nose,
pushing you out of myself
as my mother
pushed
me out of herself,
as her mother did,
& her mother's mother before her,
all of us born
of woman.
I am the second daughter
of a second daughter
of a second daughter,
but you shall be the first.
You shall see the phrase
"second sex"
only in puzzlement,
wondering how anyone,
except a madman,
could call you "second"
when you are so splendidly
first,
conferring even on your mother
firstness, vastness, fullness
as the moon at its fullest
lights up the sky.
Now the moon is full again
& you are four weeks old.
Little lion, lioness,
yowling for my breasts,
rowling at the moon,
how I love your lustiness,
your red face demanding,
your hungry mouth howling,
your screams, your cries
which all spell life
in large letters
the color of blood.
You are born a woman
for the sheer glory of it,
little redhead, beautiful screamer.
You are no second sex,
but the first of the first;
& when the moon's phases
fill out the cycle
of your life,
you will crow
for the joy
of being a woman,
telling the pallid moon
to go drown herself
in the blue ocean,
& glorying, glorying, glorying
in the rosy wonder
of your sunshining wondrous
self.
-
Oh, now that is definitely a joyous, triumphant poem. BARB. It
definitely started my day with a smile.
The doctor said yesterday that he would discharge Valerie today. Everyone at the hospital has been great, but she is so eager to be out
of there and back home again. As some poet has said, "There's no
place like home".
-
the old tired and true are worth re-reading from time to time so here it is...
Home Sweet Home
~ John Howard Payne
Mid pleasures and palaces though we may roam,
Be it ever so humble, there's no place like home;
A charm from the sky seems to hallow us there,
Which, seek through the world, is ne'er met with elsewhere.
Home, home, sweet, sweet home!
There's no place like home, oh, there's no place like home!
An exile from home, splendor dazzles in vain;
Oh, give me my lowly thatched cottage again!
The birds singing gayly, that come at my call --
Give me them -- and the peace of mind, dearer than all!
Home, home, sweet, sweet home!
There's no place like home, oh, there's no place like home!
I gaze on the moon as I tread the drear wild,
And feel that my mother now thinks of her child,
As she looks on that moon from our own cottage door
Thro' the woodbine, whose fragrance shall cheer me no more.
Home, home, sweet, sweet home!
There's no place like home, oh, there's no place like home!
How sweet 'tis to sit 'neath a fond father's smile,
And the caress of a mother to soothe and beguile!
Let others delight mid new pleasures to roam,
But give me, oh, give me, the pleasures of home.
Home, home, sweet, sweet home!
There's no place like home, oh, there's no place like home!
To thee I'll return, overburdened with care;
The heart's dearest solace will smile on me there;
No more from that cottage again will I roam;
Be it ever so humble, there's no place like home.
Home, home, sweet, sweet, home!
There's no place like home, oh, there's no place like home!
-
Yonder See the Morning
~ A.E. Housman
Yonder see the morning blink:
The sun is up, and up must I,
To wash and dress and eat and drink
And look at things and talk and think
And work, and God knows why.
Oh often have I washed and dressed
And what's to show for all my pain?
Let me lie abed and rest:
Ten thousand times I've done my best
And all's to do again.
-
Listening to the news today. Could only think of this song. So sad, so true.
Where have all the flowers gone? Long time passing
Where have all the flowers gone? Long time ago
Where have all the flowers gone? Girls have picked
them every one When will they ever learn? When
will they ever learn? Where have all the young
girls gone? Long time passing Where have all the
young girls gone? Long time ago Where have all the
young girls gone? Taken husbands every one When
will they ever learn? When will they ever learn?
Where have all the young men gone? Long time
passing Where have all the young men gone? Long
time ago Where have all the young men gone? Gone
for soldiers every one When will they ever learn?
When will they ever learn? Where have all the
soldiers gone? Long time passing Where have all
the soldiers gone? Long time ago Where have all
the soldiers gone? Gone to graveyards every one
When will they ever learn? When will they ever
learn? Where have all the graveyards gone? Long
time passing Where have all the graveyards gone?
Long time ago Where have all the graveyards gone?
Covered with flowers every one When will we ever
learn?
-
A mixed bag this morning, from 'sweet home' to moaning to mourning.
Does any one else know this oldie, by Ben King? It always made me
smile.
The Pessimist
Nothing to do but work,
Nothing to eat but food,
Nothing to wear but clothes
To keep one from going nude.
Nothing to breathe but air
Quick as a flash 'tis gone;
Nowhere to fall but off,
Nowhere to stand but on.
Nothing to comb but hair,
Nowhere to sleep but in bed,
Nothing to weep but tears,
Nothing to bury but dead.
Nothing to sing but songs,
Ah, well, alas! alack!
Nowhere to go but out,
Nowhere to come but back.
Nothing to see but sights,
Nothing to quench but thirst,
Nothing to have but what we've got;
Thus thro' life we are cursed.
Nothing to strike but a gait;
Everything moves that goes.
Nothing at all but common sense
Can ever withstand these woes.
-
OH MY WHAT A WONDERFUL COLLECTIONS OF THOUGHTS AND POEMS THANK YOU EVERY ONE THE POEM THERE IS NO PLACE LIKE HOME MUST BE SET TO MUSIC BECAUSE AT LEAST THE FIRST VERSE MADE ME SING IT FROM MEMORY....I WOULD BE HARD PRESSED TO SAY WHICH POEM I LOVED BEST BECAUSE THEY ALL TOUCHED ME IN SOME SPECIAL WAY SUMMER HERE SEEMS TO BE SUMMER EVERYWHERE TOO HOT HOT HOT AND TOO DRY DRY DRY THE HUMIDITY IS SO HIGH ONLY AN AIRCONDITIONED ROOM FEELS COMFORTABLE AND JUST GOING OUT TO GET THE PAPER YOU FEEL LIKE IT WAS A GREAT CHORE....
i was asked to write a small poem for our neighborhood newsletter and this is what I WROTE I KNOW IT IS NOT GREAt but it is the way I feel so I will share it with you.....
where is the hint of Autumn ?
breezes that whisper of cooler days?
gentle rains that fall?
a slanted Autumn sun
that promises bright leaves
and winter days to come?
anna alexander
7/25/2010
love you all reading poetry always makes me feel better ...anna
-
Well, ANNA, it's certainly hot but I can't complain of dry. Lots of rain, with the grass growing
like mad. Cut it, and two days later you can't tell the difference. I do hope the farmers are
happy and that the crops are thriving.
Here's a small poem that made me smile:
Souls And Rain-Drops by Sidney Lanier
Light rain-drops fall and wrinkle the sea,
Then vanish, and die utterly.
One would not know that rain-drops fell
If the round sea-wrinkles did not tell.
So souls come down and wrinkle life
And vanish in the flesh-sea strife.
One might not know that souls had place
Were't not for the wrinkles in life's face.
-
"There's No Place Like Home"
I live not far from a huge reservoir that was formed by damming up a river and flooding four small farming towns, back in the thirties. All residents had to evacuate; even the graves were moved. On the last night before all left, and the towns were closed off, there was a party in a Town Hall and the residents said farewell to their homes and their neighbors and sang "there's No Place Like Home" What a scene that must have been!
On song lyrics: I still like the poem that DuBose Hayward gave George Gershwin to work with:
Summertime!
And the livin' is easy.
Fish are jumpin'
And the cotton is high.
Oh, your Daddy's rich,
And your Ma is good lookin',
So hush, little baby,
Don't you cry.
ONe of these mornins
Youre gonna rise up singing'
then youll spread your wings
And you'll take to the sky
but till that mornin'
There's nothing can harm you
With Daddy and Mammmy standing by.
Summeritme!
S
-
The lover of EARTH cannot help herself
Mary Oliver
In summer
through the fields
of wild mustard
then golden rod,
I walk brushing
the wicks
of thier bodies
and the bright hair
of their heads
and in fact
I lie down
that the little weightless pieces of gold
may float over me,
shining in the air,
feeling in my hair,
touching my face-
ah,sweet-smelling
glossy an
colorful world,
I say,
even as I begin
to feel
my left eye, then the right eye
begin to burn
and twitch
and grow very dry
even as I begin
to weep,
to sneeze
in the repressive
seizure
of summertime.
I think Mary Oliver is the only person I would know that would suffer to enjoy part of summer.......anna
-
Anna, that made me laugh. And my nose is starting to itch!
-
I was supposing, when I read about the goldenrod, that the poetess was free of allergies. Personally, I think lying down in a field of allergens
is carrying the poetic spirit a bit too far.
A magazine article had me curious as to who our current Poet Laureate is. It turns out to be Kay Ryan. Here's a sample of her work.
Turtle
Kay Ryan
Who would be a turtle who could help it?
A barely mobile hard roll, a four-oared helmet,
She can ill afford the chances she must take
In rowing toward the grasses that she eats.
Her track is graceless, like dragging
A packing-case places, and almost any slope
Defeats her modest hopes. Even being practical,
She’s often stuck up to the axle on her way
To something edible. With everything optimal,
She skirts the ditch which would convert
Her shell into a serving dish. She lives
Below luck-level, never imagining some lottery
Will change her load of pottery to wings.
Her only levity is patience,
The sport of truly chastened things
-
Playing catch up - Yes, where have all the flowers gone - in some ways it is like the late 60s and early 70s all over again - but then there are a few flowers that I have to focus on finding or I would go mad -
The Lanier reminds me of a Shelly poem that for the life of me I cannot find - something about waves kissing - it was short and included in this wonderful tome, I have in my library published in 1904 of his life and all his poems including those unfinished. I love the use of language from this time which makes reading poets like Lanier, Gerard Manly Hopkins, Thomas Hardy, Emerson, Coleridge, the Bronte’s, Melville such a treat.
Here of late Summertime does not seem to be a time when living is easy - the heat is more of a problem where earning a dollar in neck breaking speed is the way of life - few of us live where we can laze away the day cat fishing. But it is a nice thought, like sitting on the front porch watching fireflies hearing only the murmur of a neighbor sitting in the dark on their front porch.
Autumn beezes seem a long way off - some further north may have a breeze blow in during early September but we usually have to wait till the very end of October although, this year we are cooler than usual but wet...I am telling you...wet, wet, wet.
Leave it to Mary Oliver to catch the obvious in a way that we all recognize - With all our wet this year there will be pollen blowing all over the place came October and November with fields and roadsides covered in yellow Coreopsis and Copper Canyon Daisies. I just ordered a ROLL of filter material for my AC return - I can see myself having to change out filters every week till Christmas.
The Turtle is a delight - I relate especially to the lines -
Her track is graceless, like dragging
A packing-case places, and almost any slope
Defeats her modest hopes
My todo list is my packing-case that too often defeats my modest hopes.
Here is a Thomas Hardy...
Summer Schemes
~ Thomas Hardy
When friendly summer calls again,
Calls again
Her little fifers to these hills,
We'll go--we two--to that arched fane
Of leafage where they prime their bills
Before they start to flood the plain
With quavers, minims, shakes, and trills.
"--We'll go," I sing; but who shall say
What may not chance before that day!
And we shall see the waters spring,
Waters spring
From chinks the scrubby copses crown;
And we shall trace their oncreeping
To where the cascade tumbles down
And sends the bobbing growths aswing,
And ferns not quite but almost drown.
"--We shall," I say; but who may sing
Of what another moon will bring!
-
Wheee found another Kay Ryan poem
Hide and Seek
It’s hard not
to jump out
instead of
waiting to be
found. It’s
hard to be
alone so long
and then hear
someone come
around. It’s
like some form
of skin’s developed
in the air
that, rather
than have torn,
you tear.
-
Glad someone other than me is appreciating Kay Ryan. Have you read
"It shouldn't be so hard" ? I may have misquoted the title, but I know that's close. It's wonderful.
-
Celebrate Summer With Us!
The Poetry Page.
Our haven for words that open our hearts.
(http://seniorlearn.org/bookclubs/poetry/poetrysummer09.jpg) |
In The Summer
by Nizar Qabbani
In the summer
I stretch out on the shore
And think of you
Had I told the sea
What I felt for you,
It would have left its shores,
Its shells,
Its fish,
And followed me.
|
Summer Poetry Links:
- Famous Poets and Poems about Summer (http://famouspoetsandpoems.com/thematic_poems/summer_poems.html)
- Summer Poems (http://www.dltk-holidays.com/summer/poems.htm)
- Flower Poems for Gardeners (http://www.gardendigest.com/flowers.htm)
Discussion Leaders: BarbStAubrey (augere@ix.netcom.com) & Fairanna (fairanna@cox.net)
Here ya go - thanks for the suggestion...
THINGS SHOULDN'T BE SO HARD
~ Kay Ryan
A life should leave
deep tracks:
ruts where she
went out and back
to get the mail
or move the hose
around the yard;
where she used to
stand before the sink,
a worn-out place;
beneath her hand
the china knobs
rubbed down to
white pastilles;
the switch she
used to feel for
in the dark
almost erased.
Her things should
keep her marks.
The passage
of a life should show;
it should abrade.
And when life stops,
a certain space—
however small —
should be left scarred
by the grand and
damaging parade.
Things shouldn't
be so hard.
-
I had to go see what a Copper Canyon Daisy looked like, BARB. I
wouldn't have recognized it as a daisy, and I was intrigued to read that
it had an aroma that kept deer away. The perfect solution for people
trying to keep deer out of their gardens.
I loved the Thomas Hardy. I wish I could take that walk he describes.
And, of course, hear the 'little fifers'.
Oh, I like that Kay Ryan poem about the traces of a life. Thanks for
finding it for us, BARB. And thanks to TOME for steering us to it.
-
WHen I first read that Ryan poem, I just sat and cried. The thoughts of course of my own mother.
I do have it printed out, and I refer to it often. Even took it to our f2f library group's "poetry night" which we had in February,and I believe I posted here about it.
-
To be so moved by words - it appears Ryan's words opened your memories Tomereader - some tears are thankful reminders of the ache in our hearts.
Here is a link to a nice photo of a Copper Canyon Daisy in bloom - they do have a strong and pleasent in an odd way scent - just brushing up against the feathery leaves and your hands or leg or whatever touched the plant carries the scent for hours till you wash. The hotter and dryer the summer the more this plant multiplies till it bursts forth in late October right through till after the holidays and the first real frost.
http://www.maggiesgarden.com/Plant_Profiles/Plant_This/Tagetes_lemonii/tagetes_lemonii.html
I didn't know that Mark Twain wrote poetry - it stands to reason but just never read any of his poetic attempts till I came across this bit...
Warm Summer Sun
~ by Mark Twain
Warm summer sun,
Shine kindly here,
Warm southern wind,
Blow softly here.
Green sod above,
Lie light, lie light.
Good night, dear heart,
Good night, good night.
-
A soft and gentle good-bye. I wouldn't have thought the acerbic Mark
Twain had that in him.
This poem is long, but I'm going to post it anyway. I think it is worth reading.
A Litany in Time of Plague
by Thomas Nashe
Adieu, farewell, earth's bliss;
This world uncertain is;
Fond are life's lustful joys;
Death proves them all but toys;
None from his darts can fly;
I am sick, I must die.
Lord, have mercy on us!
Rich men, trust not in wealth,
Gold cannot buy you health;
Physic himself must fade.
All things to end are made,
The plague full swift goes by;
I am sick, I must die.
Lord, have mercy on us!
Beauty is but a flower
Which wrinkles will devour;
Brightness falls from the air;
Queens have died young and fair;
Dust hath closed Helen's eye.
I am sick, I must die.
Lord, have mercy on us!
Strength stoops unto the grave,
Worms feed on Hector brave;
Swords may not fight with fate,
Earth still holds open her gate.
"Come, come!" the bells do cry.
I am sick, I must die.
Lord, have mercy on us!
Wit with his wantonness
Tasteth death's bitterness;
Hell's executioner
Hath no ears for to hear
What vain art can reply.
I am sick, I must die.
Lord, have mercy on us!
Haste, therefore, each degree,
To welcome destiny;
Heaven is our heritage,
Earth but a player's stage;
Mount we unto the sky.
I am sick, I must die.
Lord, have mercy on us!
-
babi: A reminder that we are going to die. We are "sick" with life, whose prognosis is always death.In spite of which Life is the only game. (Have I missed any appropriate cliches? Please advise.) The power of this poem, over and above the impact of the words, is the cadence of the refrain, seeming to accumulate more voices with each repetition until, the last verse it seems as if the chorus is almost shouting.
-
Oh my - I did not get the crescendo of sound that you heard reading the poem Jackie but the line that got me was, Worms feed on Hector brave; - that line sank me - it reminded me it matters not what we accomplish on this earth we all end up back in the earth except if you believe in a heaven or hell here after -
Given the view we now can take of the universe through these powerful telescopes I have to question where is this heaven we were taught to believe in - certainly its not in the sky -
Have you ever looked through one of these Telescopes? You can buy through Amazon or Edmund Scientific that sells science toys for children, a card for less than $8 that allows you to dial-up one of these powerful telescopes and maneuver it yourself viewing the cosmos on your computer screen for up to 42 minutes. An amazing experience! But now the question - how to put what was taught in good faith with the knowledge available 2000 years ago into the reality uncovered in the last century or so.
Which for me does open questions - what is it all about. Yes, earth a player's stage but I see no mounting unto the sky. So far, I am only able to see the benefit of living in the now in a way that as the cliche goes 'does no harm'.
As to goodness - that is a discussion in itself - What is goodness? - We like to think we know but how much of goodness is really socially acceptable behavior - or better, is goodness behavior admired by society - Is what is good in one culture and not necessarily good in another still considered goodness?
As to evil - the big bad horrific and painful treatment of anything that will either directly or indirectly hurt others is easy to label evil but it is all the little things - and then when you observe and ponder a cosmic God with no dualities in first flush it is easy to accept evil is entwined with goodness as all of one therefore, within us we have good and evil therefore, imperfections and failures are an equal part of all that we label good - But then I sink trying to come to terms with some of the horrific events we are all capable of committing and even more, how innocently living within the structure of our society today we all have a hand in committing atrocities to the earth and each others health and the future environment.
Ah yes, the big issues - but I really dwell on these things - It is like I want an orderly understanding of what my life is all about and recently I have questioned as if a teenager all over again. Poems often open the floodgates of chaos that are my questions tumbling forth in a rush plowing everything in its wake after a dam burst.
What I want is what Robert Frost attains in 'Going for water' but what I get is his 'A Dream Pang' - Maybe it is all a kanundrum and I should sit against a tree as Frost does in his poem, The Demiurge's Laugh
A Dream Pang
~ by Robert Frost
I HAD withdrawn in forest, and my song
Was swallowed up in leaves that blew alway;
And to the forest edge you came one day
(This was my dream) and looked and pondered long,
But did not enter, though the wish was strong:
You shook your pensive head as who should say,
'I dare not--too far in his footsteps stray--
He must seek me would he undo the wrong.
Not far, but near, I stood and saw it all
Behind low boughs the trees let down outside;
And the sweet pang it cost me not to call
And tell you that I saw does still abide.
But 'tis not true that thus I dwelt aloof,
For the wood wakes, and you are here for proof.
Going for Water
~ by Robert Frost
THE well was dry beside the door,
And so we went with pail and can
Across the fields behind the house
To seek the brook if still it ran;
Not loth to have excuse to go,
Because the autumn eve was fair
(Though chill), because the fields were ours,
And by the brook our woods were there.
We ran as if to meet the moon
That slowly dawned behind the trees,
The barren boughs without the leaves,
Without the birds, without the breeze.
But once within the wood, we paused
Like gnomes that hid us from the moon,
Ready to run to hiding new
With laughter when she found us soon.
Each laid on other a staying hand
To listen ere we dared to look,
And in the hush we joined to make
We heard, we knew we heard the brook.
A note as from a single place,
A slender tinkling fall that made
Now drops that floated on the pool
Like pearls, and now a silver blade.
The Demiurge's Laugh
~by Robert Frost
IT was far in the sameness of the wood;
I was running with joy on the Demon's trail,
Though I knew what I hunted was no true god.
It was just as the light was beginning to fail
That I suddenly heard--all I needed to hear:
It has lasted me many and many a year.
The sound was behind me instead of before,
A sleepy sound, but mocking half,
As of one who utterly couldn't care.
The Demon arose from his wallow to laugh,
Brushing the dirt from his eye as he went;
And well I knew what the Demon meant.
I shall not forget how his laugh rang out.
I felt as a fool to have been so caught,
And checked my steps to make pretence
It was something among the leaves I sought
(Though doubtful whether he stayed to see).
Thereafter I sat me against a tree.
-
JACKIE, I felt the same way about the cadence of the poem, and there
was no denying the impact of the words. Your sense of an accumulation of voices is intriguing; I can see where it might do that.
BARB, I believe it mtters very much what we accomplish on earth, as
that impacts on the people we touched. I believe the future is always
affected by the choices and decisions people make. We leave a mark,
however difficult it may be to discern.
I do believe there is more to our existence than what we see here.
However, I also am convinced that our images of 'heaven' and 'hell' were are an attempt to turn something beyond our grasp into an image we could relate to. In every culture, 'heaven' is perceived as a place that has all it's people long for here.
Good and evil I won't even touch here. We would need to sit down for a long talk about that one. I've found answers that make sense to me
but still hurt in human terms.
-
Babi: Today I needed your affirmation of my sense of the poem more than you can know. Chronic depression, mostly controlled, has overwhelmed me lately and your kind words are a ray of light in my dark, dark hidey hole. Thank you lacks the weight of my feeling, but it will have to do since i have no better words.
-
Ouch not fun Jackie - there seems to be an epidemic of depression just now - I know this sounds like Voodoo and maybe it is given my friends - but I have a couple of psychic friends who all speak of a shift in 2012 - not necessarily good or bad just a shift and the more sensitive among us are already grieving the loss of this time that is 2000 years old.
As I say Voodoo or not for me the information is making me listen to the earth, the night, the wind in the grass while becoming more of an observer of the madness I note all around us.
Babi would I love to sit at a cafe for an afternoon and listen to your take on good and evil. If you feel comfortable sharing some of your insight here that would be grand. Of course we get into issues of philosophy and probably a bit of theology which is a step away from just poetry but it would be so neat to hear other thoughts on these subjects that are seldom talked about without someone taking offense because what we say does not match their views... ah so...
Out, out, brief candle!
Life's but a walking shadow, a poor player
That struts and frets his hour upon the stage
And then is heard no more. It is a tale
Told by an idiot, full of sound and fury,
Signifying nothing.
~ William Shakespeare
Hope Abides
- Sri Chinmoy
Hope abides; therefore I abide.
Countless frustrations have not cowed me.
I am still alive, vibrant with life.
The black cloud will disappear,
The morning sun will appear once again
In all its supernal glory.
-
The Sri Chimnoy poem is certainly timely, BARB, and comforting.
I've only had one real experience of depression, JACKIE, and didn't even
realize at the time what it was. It was only later, when people spoke of
their bouts of depression , that I looked back and realized what had
been happening. I was fortunate in that mine was a situational depression, that cleared up when the 'situation' left.
BARB, the key that got me thinking as I do about good and evil was a
a scripture: "Woe to the world because of the things that cause people to sin! Such things must come,...." (Mt.18:7) Naturally
my thought was, "Why?". But then I thought of the often recurring
message that we must choose what is right. Virtue has
no meaning if there is no other option. All that we are grows from our
choices; all that makes us worthwhile.
That, of course, is a summation...a nugget...but it gives you an idea of
my thinking.
-
OK I am hearing you say choice - choice between what can be a good affect and what can be a bad or evil affect - Unfortunatly I get lost in the details.
I have seen many who acted in what they think is good faith only because there really is no other choice - How often do we choose to stay within our budget [a good thing] and purchase fresh foods that is grown with fertilizers and insecticides - by making that purchase we are keeping those farm practices alive and well by keeping those farmers in business - for the innocent reason that we stay within our financial budget -
I know it is a simple example but we now know the evil we are doing to the environment - we are promoting these contaminants to invade our bodies - we are seeing the rise in Cancer and allergies - we know that we would not ingest fertilizer or insecticide and yet, we consume both in our foods and worse we give it to our children who have no voice in their health.
Then the whole issue of how women are considered second-class citizens all over the world - we are taught to honor and respect the culture and religion of other nations. How do we do that in face of some of the atrocities inflicted on women in these cultures in the name of religion?
When we were little kids, there was not the communications that allowed us to realize the differences that exist around the world in what is considered good and bad or right and wrong. We may have had a passing understanding of other religions however, the various beliefs in a God and what these religions called evil was beyond our knowledge. We assumed the whole world shared our values of what is good and what is evil - it was easy during WWII to identify what was evil however, by the time Viet Nam rolled over us, it was no longer clear.
We have been learning of a non-dualistic Christ. That the Bible shows Jesus answering always in a non-dualistic manner and it was only the early church that explained good and bad with adhering to Christianity as defined by some as good or else you were labeled a Heretic.
Then to wrap my mind around the realization that within all of us there is the capability with our free will to chose evil and the best folks that bring many advantages and blessings to others often did this by subjecting some to evil treatment - I wonder what is the purpose of evil? - How is it possible to see a non-dualistic existence with the horrific things that some who choose evil have perpetrated on others which makes me question back to the beginning of my rant – How often have my innocent choices brought evil consequences to others?
Is evil really about shame if shown how we injure and to hang on to our belief in wanting to be good we avoid examining how we have injured with the acceptance that there really is no way we can perfectly live our lives without causing harm - then it becomes a matter of measuring harm - oh dear it goes on and on...
-
Surely, if your choices are innocent, there is no blame to you. We can
only try to do what is right, to the best of our ability. We are not far-
seeing, much less omnipotent. We have a responsibility to do what we
can to learn, so that we do not act out of ignorance, but we cannot
know everything. We can only do our best to choose what is right, what is kind, what is good. The world of man is not perfect....(how's that for a news bulletin? :-[ ). I must accept my limitations; the outcome I must leave to God.
-
Aha - there is a song something about 'I can see clearly now' - your post uncovered for me the basis of how I have been in circles for years - it does not change what happened or the outcome but now I can see clearly what I have been about.
I too grew up with the belief "Surely, if your choices are innocent, there is no blame to you." I have been double maybe triple rocked by not just what happened but how the very folks who I spent large sums of money to help me through the pain along with the many in various groups whose focus is on helping members to move forward were all quick to tell me and some to blame me proving how I was complicit.
I can still feel how my half opened jaw all of sudden was as if made of rock with no sound and only confusion like a head full of criss crossed wires - My head was filled with questions - how was I supposed to have known, guessed? How could I not see I was not to trust the closest relationship with the wellfair of the child we both made? How do you work on loving someone while not trusting them? Since, I have spent all these years trying to put a microscope on evil and my role as well as society's role in allowing and cooperating with evil.
Well I may not be any closer to how and who and what and when to trust - and I sure hope I am not taking the easy path out of the laboratory and away from the microscope I have hogged for the last 24 years but if there is anything left of my life I need to accept my own truth which means there is no protection from evil or societies view of your role when you are touched by evil.
After great pain, a formal feeling comes
~ by Emily Dickinson
After great pain, a formal feeling comes –
The Nerves sit ceremonious, like Tombs –
The stiff Heart questions ‘was it He, that bore,’
And ‘Yesterday, or Centuries before’?
The Feet, mechanical, go round –
A Wooden way
Of Ground, or Air, or Ought –
Regardless grown,
A Quartz contentment, like a stone –
This is the Hour of Lead –
Remembered, if outlived,
As Freezing persons, recollect the Snow –
First – Chill – then Stupor – then the letting go –
-
I am delighted if I have been of help in breaking up a painful and useless cycle. Sometimes a
help group can get caught up in their own way of doing things. Other times they can be helpful
in showing us what we have been unable to see ourselves.
This old Johnny Nash song comes to mind.
I Can See Clearly Now, the Rain is Gone Lyrics:
I can see clearly now, the rain is gone,
I can see all obstacles in my way
Gone are the dark clouds that had me blind
It’s gonna be a bright (bright), bright (bright)
Sun-Shiny day.
I think I can make it now, the pain is gone
All of the bad feelings have disappeared
[ Find more Lyrics on http://mp3lyrics.org/fnH ]
Here is the rainbow I’ve been prayin?for
It’s gonna be a bright (bright), bright (bright)
Sun-Shiny day.
Look all around, there’s nothin' but blue skies
Look straight ahead, nothin' but blue skies
I can see clearly now, the rain is gone,
I can see all obstacles in my way
Gone are the dark clouds that had me blind
It’s gonna be a bright (bright), bright (bright)
Sun-Shiny day
-
I can see clearly now what had me tied up in mental knots. I forgot that there is usually one or more solutions to my problems but sometimes the emotions overwhelm my sensibilities so that there seems to be no way out except more pain and suffering. I used to keep a journal, very special blank book with a special pen reserved for my journal notes. I could express my quandary and list the pros and cons of each potential solution. This helped me get in touch with where my deeply held preferences were so that I had logical reasons for my decisions. Don't know why I've strayed from this tool
-
Ouch but here it is...
THE BLADE OF GRASS
by: Dora Greenwell (1821-1882)
H! little blade of grass,
A little sword thou art,
That in thy haste to pass
Hast pierced thy mother’s heart!
Oh! little blade of grass,
A little tongue thou art
Of cleaving flame,--alas!
Thou hast cleft thy mother’s heart.
Oh! little blade, upcurled
Leaf, sword, or fiery dart,
To win thy Father’s world
Thou must break thy mother’s heart!
After that a bit of our Emily to balance our day...
~ Emily Dickinson
A something in a summer’s Day
As slow her flambeaux burn away
Which solemnizes me.
A something in a summer’s noon —
A depth — an Azure — a perfume —
Transcending ecstasy.
And still within a summer’s night
A something so transporting bright
I clap my hands to see —
Then veil my too inspecting face
Lets such a subtle — shimmering grace
Flutter too far for me —
The wizard fingers never rest —
The purple brook within the breast
Still chafes it narrow bed —
Still rears the East her amber Flag —
Guides still the sun along the Crag
His Caravan of Red —
So looking on — the night — the morn
Conclude the wonder gay —
And I meet, coming thro’ the dews
Another summer’s Day!
-
Ah, Emily. She can always sooth and comfort,...or amuse and gladden.
I wonder if Dora Greenwell was writing of a son going off to war. The time could fit, and
the poem certainly has that 'feel'.
-
YES! That's it - it makes sense now - of course it must be about her son who in order to win in his Father's world would have to use his sword like any good officer at war during the nineteenth century.
-
I'm sure glad Babi solved that for me. I couldn't figure out any of it, (Greenwell) now it all makes sense.
-
Huzzah, Babi! I was as mystified as the rest.
-
Friendship After Love
~ by Ella Wheeler Wilcox
After the fierce midsummer all ablaze
Has burned itself to ashes, and expires
In the intensity of its own fires,
There come the mellow, mild, St. Martin days
Crowned with the calm of peace, but sad with haze.
So after Love has led us, till he tires
Of his own throes, and torments, and desires,
Comes large-eyed Friendship: with a restful gaze.
He beckons us to follow, and across
Cool verdant vales we wander free from care.
Is it a touch of frost lies in the air?
Why are we haunted with a sense of loss?
We do not wish the pain back, or the heat;
And yet, and yet, these days are incomplete.
St Martin Day is celebrated all over Europe where as this site from Estonia has one of the best explanations http://www.greenpt.com/StMartinDay.htm
-
Thank you, thank you. No roses, please. 8)
A small and timely quote from one of our favorite authors:
"What dreadful hot weather we have!
It keeps me in a continual state of inelegance."
- Jane Austen
-
Barb: Sublime.
-
A bit of fun for hot sleepless nights...
As Soon as Fred Gets Out of Bed
~ by Jack Prelutsky
As soon as Fred gets out of bed,
his underwear goes on his head.
His mother laughs, "Don't put it there,
a head's no place for underwear!"
But near his ears, above his brains,
is where Fred's underwear remains.
At night when Fred goes back to bed,
he deftly plucks it off his head.
His mother switches off the light
and softly croons, "Good night! Good night!"
And then, for reasons no one knows,
Fred's underwear goes on his toes.
-
;)
-
I can identify with Jane Austen's state of "inelegance". Imagine eating a hamburger on a hot day? Now that is inelegant!
-
Not to mention the muggy, fuggy, sweaty part of summers. (My heartfelt thanks to whomever invented air conditioning.)
A short ditty from an unknown (to me) poet
Whether the weather be mild or whether the weather be not,
Whether the weather be cold or whether the weather be hot,
We'll weather the weather whatever the weather,
Whether we like it or not.
Aleksandra Lachut
-
Since the days are impossible lets consider the nights...
Go And Catch A Falling Star
~ John Donne
Go and catch a falling star,
Get with child a mandrake root,
Tell me where all past years are,
Or who cleft the devil's foot,
Teach me to hear mermaids singing,
Or to keep off envy's stinging,
And find
What wind
Serves to advance an honest mind.
If thou be'st born to strange sights,
Things invisible to see,
Ride ten thousand days and nights,
Till age snow white hairs on thee,
Thou, when thou return'st, wilt tell me,
All strange wonders that befell thee,
And swear,
No where
Lives a woman true, and fair.
If thou find'st one, let me know,
Such a pilgrimage were sweet;
Yet do not, I would not go,
Though at next door we might meet;
Though she were true, when you met her,
And last, till you write your letter,
Yet she
Will be
False, ere I come, to two, or three.
-
Alas, sour John, such a cynic!
Summer nights sounds like a good idea. Here's one I found by
Paul Laurence Dunbar.
A Summer's Night.
THE night is dewy as a maiden's mouth,
The skies are bright as are a maiden's
eyes,
Soft as a maiden's breath the wind that flies
Up from the perfumed bosom of the South.
Like sentinels, the pines stand in the park;
And hither hastening, like rakes that roam,
With lamps to light their wayward footsteps
home,
The fireflies come stagg'ring down the dark.
-
Which reminds me of the Allen Toussaint song
Southern nights have you ever felt a Southern night
Free as a breeze not to mention the trees
Whistling tunes that you know and love so.
Southern nights just as good even when closed your eyes
I apologize to any one who can truly say he has found a better way,
Hey hey.
Southern skies - have you ever noticed Southern skies?
It's precious beauty lies just beyond the eye
It goes running thru your soul like the stories of old.
Old man he and his dog they walk the old land
Ev'ry flower touches his cold hand
As he slowly walked by, weeping willows cry for joy, joy.
Feel so good - feel so good it's fright'ning
Wish I could stop this world from fighting
La dah dah dahhh dahhhh dot dah dah dah dahhh dahhh
Dot dah dah dot dahhh dah dot dahhhh
Mysteries like this and many other in the trees
Blow in the night in the Southern skies
Here is the man himself - my favorite rendition...http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=oGAFOz5GA8I
-
I have always enjoyed the Metaphysical poets, especially Donne. Then I read his bio - what a letdown! He married his wife when she was 15 and she died having their twelfthchild.
-
I don't think I've ever heard that song, BARB. I found myself trying to
fit a melody to it.
I had pretty much the same reaction, ROSE. From some of his poetry I imagined a rather noble and high-souled man. Not! :-\
-
Oh dear - how easy it is to use the values of today to measure the values of those who lived 400 years ago - I am remembering even as a child it was the norm to have large families - one of my classmates was from a family of 21 children with many being from families of 11 and 12 children so that it was considered that small families of less than 4 there was something wrong with either the wife's attitude or the marriage itself.
When you read some of the Women's poetry of subjugation then you realize even in poetry there was an effort to silence the voice of women whose work shed a light on their situation - In recent history Sylvia Path is still considered by many to be more psychotic than having a breakdown because she could not live the life of expectation for a women. The Bronte sisters as late as the 19Th century used male pseudonyms in order to get their first few novels published.
How recent is it that women have full access to education and in spite of the pill, that is only available in the last 50 years, there are still institutions that foster the concept of a marriage as being for the 'comfort' of men. And so, in the name of the rights and "comforts" of men if they stray out of marriage it is the wife's fault and without medical science to control her menstrual cycle many families would still be large.
How many of us even heard of Anne Finch considered to be one of the best poets of her era during the turn of the eighteenth century. http://digital.library.upenn.edu/women/finch/finch-anne.html
In poetry early women poets are still ignored - many had large families - A look at most on-line list of women poets starts with Isabella Whitney 1560 - another woman poet we never hear about - here is an excerpt of one of her very long poems.
The time is come I must depart
from thee, ah famous city.
I never yet, to rue my smart,
did find that thou hadst pity.
Wherefore small cause there is that I
should grieve from thee to go.
But many women foolishly,
like me, and other mo'e,
Do such affixed fancy set
on those which least deserve,
That long it is ere wit we get,
away from them to swerve
However, more to the point - there is no mention of La Compiuta Donzella or Vernica Cambana or Chiara Matraini nor Lura Terracina - on and on from the thirteenth and Fourteenth Century.
Here are excerpts from the poetry of Medesta Dal Pozzo 1553-1592 who did write a few years after Isabella
Women in every age were by nature
endowed with great judgment and spirit,
nor are they born less apt than men to demonstrate
(with study and care) their wisdom and valor.
And why, if their bodily form is the same,
if their substances are not varied,
if they have the same food and speech, must they
have them different courage and wisdom?
Always one has seen and sees (provide that a
woman wanted to devote thought to it)
more than one woman succeed in the military,
and take away the esteem and acclaim from many men.
Just so in letters and in every
endeavor that men undertake and pursue;
women have achieved and achieve such good results
that they have no cause at all to envy men....
If when a daughter is born the father
set her with his son to equivalent tasks
she would not be in lofty and fair deeds
inferior or unequal to her brother,
whether he placed her among the armed squads
with himself, or set her to learn some liberal art.
But because she is raised in other pursuits
for her education she is held in low regard.
If the magician had not proposed the military
to Risamante, not disposed her heart toward it,
she would not in the end have carried out with her own hands
so many glorious feats of valor.
"I enjoy it more when it's held for an impossible thing."
Said the lady, "When I find a way
to expose myself to some dangerous undertaking,
I don't draw back; rather I enjoy it more
when it's held for an impossible thing."
The woman warrior, who had a soft and humane heart,
seeing she has the better of that quarrel,
runs to him, and with a pitiful hand
she hurriedly frees his head from the bloody helm;
and she demonstrates to everyone her victory
in his deadly pale face, from which she gains triumph and glory.
"What happened next elsewhere I'll sing."
One of the books of poems I found years ago "The Defiant Muse" is filled with the poetry of these early women. Their poetry is filled with how they felt chained and were impregnated willy nilly by father's, how they are subjected to arranged alliances that sometimes included marriage by their fathers - how they are loved by both thoughtful, usually young lovers and husbands in addition to being essentially raped by husbands or friends of the family -
As Gregory Clark says, in "Human Capital, Fertility And the Industrial Revolution"..."Before the Industrial Revolution four features characterized all societies: high fertility rates, little education, the dominance of physical over human capital, and low rates of productivity growth."
All to say Donne's wife's death was not unusual nor, was the size of his family that in that time in history spoke to the success of a wife to keep her husband's interest. Wasn't it the movie the French Lieutenant's Woman that Meryl Streep, reading bed shares the astonishing number of prostitutes active in London during the 19Th century therefore men were never more than a block away from someone who would provide 'comfort'.
Like y'all, I really get wound up on this issue of woman's basic rights and liberty but I also know that like it or not, history is a stepping stone path to very different attitudes and expectations for women. It is difficult to learn through the news that there are parts of the world were still women are at some distant point in emancipation as European women were prior to the last 50 years when we had available a safe means to control the number of conseptions.
-
Barb: The cover of Time magazine is very telling of the status of women inmany parts of this world. It is a struggle to the death of one system or the other.
-
Very well put, Barb. Strange that in the past as Artists women are in the absolute minority. Australia is in the throes of an election. One of the candidates for PM is a woman. Shock! Horror! Interesting. I have been watching the media closely for sexist remarks but haven't seen anything to that effect thus far. Does anyone know any books on female leadership at a political level? If you would like to do a search for the candidate, her name is Julia Gillard.
As Jackie says horrific acts towards women are "in many pars of this world". Recently I was commenting on a Forum page about a young Afghan girl who was married off at age 10 to some kind of a monster. The final act was when he cut her ears and nose off. The Forum page degenerated into racial slurs and why Australia should not accept any more "ragheads" from boats. I can't express how angry such attitudes make me. How lucky, lucky, lucky we are. As an Iraqi friend of mine always reminds me, "It is an accident of nature" that I live where I live.
I am still not happy with John Donne. :(
-
Strange that in the past as Artists women are in the absolute minority
I bought into the 'male' college professor theory that we have fewer women poets or artists of any kind because they were too busy having and caring for families to use their time to create art. ---
Well, of late I am getting a very different picture of why Artistic women are in the absolute minority - in the male dominated world a women's work was not published - we have several authors during the 19Th century who in order to get published presented their work using a male pseudonym - and the more I read I am learning that the work of early women writers is only now being found in the attics trucks and hidyholes since it was never seen in public -
So, I am thinking this may be the story of women in all phases of the art world - we know girls, [unless wealthy and tutored at home or because they read their father's library] were not educated much less allowed to perform in public. And so I think the 'minority' is an imposed representation of what oozed out under the lid closed by a male dominated society going back before the Greeks and Romans.
At least the Greeks and Romans had female goddesses with female priests attending those who worshiped these goddesses where as the Judo-Christian world did their one god bit that was a male. For awhile Catholic Cristians had a devotion to Mary but that has been squashed in recent years. We had a church in New Mexico with the famous statue of Mary stepping on the snake with a sword in her hand - this strong personification of women was considered profane after Vatican II and the church had to remove the statue and rename the church - marvelous - [ that is irony folks ] a perfect example of how we can go backwards while the secular world of justice is finally opening the lid to opportunity for women.
-
You are quite right, BARB. My reaction to John Donne's 'treatment' of his wife was biased and
unfair. In all likelihood she considered herself well enough off. I took a quick look at his bio.,
and he was certainly a very versatile and talented man.
-
What a delight is Ann Finch and her poetry. How lucky she and her husband found one another. My grandmother, born in 1894. was the youngest of 13. Her family was well-to-do and there would have been many helping hands, unmarried women being dependent on family for support exchanged their labor for hearth and home. My mother-in-law was also born in 1894 in the eastern Columbia Gorge community of The Dalles, Oregon, and she had 6 or 7 sibs. She told me of cooking for the harvest crews when she was 9.
-
I failed to comment in my last post on the rest of your post, BARB.
I like that image of "oozed out under the lid". I think that expressed it very well.
I was unaware that the devotion to Mary has been 'squashed' in recent years. My impression of the RC hierarchy of worship has always been God-Mary-Christ. Perhaps that is because Mary would seem more understanding to women. I can see, tho', where a Mary
holding a sword and stepping on the snake would be a bit too militant for the usual view of her role.
Here is a Marian poem by Thomas Merton that I like:
The Evening of the Visitation - Written in 1947
Go, roads, to the four quarters of our quiet distance,
While you, full moon, wise queen,
Begin your evening journey to the hills of heaven,
And travel no less stately in the summer sky
Than Mary, going to the house of Zachary.
The woods are silent with the sleep of doves,
The valleys with the sleep of streams,
And all our barns are happy with peace of cattle gone to rest.
Still wakeful, in the fields, the shocks of wheat
Preach and say prayers:
You sheaves, make all your evensongs as sweet as ours,
Whose summer world, all ready for the granary and barn,
Seems to have seen, this day,
Into the secret of the Lord's Nativity.
Now at the fall of night, you shocks,
Still bend your heads like kind and humble kings
The way you did this golden morning when you saw God's
Mother passing,
While all our windows fill and sweeten
With the mild vespers of the hay and barley.
-
Celebrate Summer With Us!
The Poetry Page.
Our haven for words that open our hearts.
(http://seniorlearn.org/bookclubs/poetry/poetrysummer09.jpg) |
In The Summer
by Nizar Qabbani
In the summer
I stretch out on the shore
And think of you
Had I told the sea
What I felt for you,
It would have left its shores,
Its shells,
Its fish,
And followed me.
|
Summer Poetry Links:
- Famous Poets and Poems about Summer (http://famouspoetsandpoems.com/thematic_poems/summer_poems.html)
- Summer Poems (http://www.dltk-holidays.com/summer/poems.htm)
- Flower Poems for Gardeners (http://www.gardendigest.com/flowers.htm)
Discussion Leaders: BarbStAubrey (augere@ix.netcom.com) & Fairanna (fairanna@cox.net)
Babi: Reading those words I could picture the lush green English countryside, not the bare brown hills that are my vision of the holy land. Too many images of poor Palestinian refugees huddled in their tents. I started but did not finish The Red Tent which portrayed the lives of women through recounting the story of Dinah from Ch 34 of Genesis. Dinah was raped by Jacob's sons so there was altogether too much sex to suit me. (The red tent is where women spent their time when menstruating.) Not the time of Mary and Joseph. We have so many sources of data these days that the visuals tend to overlap. Poetry takes us to strange places in our minds, places we don't know exist until the combination of words and rhythm awaken us to them.
-
Jackie, I too read the Red Tent with Seniornet - I learned more about the Genisis from that read and discussion than I wanted to know and it completely turned me off - not because of the sex so much as what Jacob and his sons did to Dinah's husband and his entire tribe - they try to live in Harmony and accepted Jacob's God which involved all the male population being circumcised - that night when all the men were recovering Jacob had his sons, the brothers of Dinah kill every male in the tribe including her husband. Here she is pregnant and her husband and his tribe are wiped out with all the women sold in slavery - then I looked it up and it is right there in the Bible - I was shocked - and this is what we are supposed to believe and have faith in that it is the word of God - With a God like that who needs enemies.
As to Mary with a sword Babi - my take - it is OK for men to have swords and the RC hierarchy still approves a "just" War but not OK for women to weld a sword - I am liking Ann Rice's triad
For those who care, and I understand if you don't: Today I quit being a Christian. I'm out. I remain committed to Christ as always but not to being “Christian” or to being part of Christianity. It’s simply impossible for me to “belong” to this quarrelsome, hostile, disputatious, and deservedly infamous group. For ten years, I've tried. I've failed. I'm an outsider. My conscience will allow nothing else.
As I said below, I quit being a Christian. I'm out. In the name of Christ, I refuse to be anti-gay. I refuse to be anti-feminist. I refuse to be anti-artificial birth control. I refuse to be anti-Democrat. I refuse to be anti-secular humanism. I refuse to be anti-science. I refuse to be anti-life. In the name of Christ, I quit Christianity and being Christian. Amen.
The problem with all of this is that to have a personal history being part of a church and finding solice and direction from aspects of that association it is not something that you can just stop - My answer - I am picking and choosing along with reading the history of the church, the Bible etc. so I can make my choices - cafeteria Christian I do not care - not when I read some of the stuff done to and by the church and Biblical characters that they try to justify - If we supported a family member who held those attitudes and someone was damaged we would be hauled before the courts as an accessory - it is not the 2ND or 14Th century or even the 19Th century - we know better how to treat each other - it is time the churches stepped up to acknowledging behavior appropriate to at least the 20Th century if not the 21.
-
Here is an 11Th century Irish Christian Poem that gives us hints that there is a mixed bag to the whole issue of Christianity.
The Soul's Desire
Anonymous verse from the 11th century (translated by Eleanor Hull)
It were my soul's desire
To see the face of God;
It were my soul's desire
To rest in His abode.
It were my soul's desire
To study zealously;
This, too, my soul's desire,
A clear rule set for me.
It were my soul's desire
A spirit free from gloom;
It were my soul's desire
New life beyond the Doom.
It were my soul's desire
To shun the chills of Hell;
Yet more my soul's desire
Within His house to dwell.
It were my soul's desire
To imitate my King,
It were my soul's desire
His ceaseless praise to sing.
It were my soul's desire
When heaven's gate is won
To find my soul's desire
Clear shining like the sun.
Grant, Lord, my soul's desire,
Deep waves of cleansing sighs;
Grant, Lord, my soul's desire
From earthly cares to rise.
This still my soul's desire
Whatever life afford --
To gain my soul's desire
And see Thy face, O Lord.
-
Irony in a Good Poem: Christina Rossetti’s
Dirge
Why were you born when the snow was falling?
You should have come to the cuckoo’s calling.
Or when grapes are green in the cluster,
Or, at least, when lithe swallows muster
For their far off flying
From summer dying.
_
Why did you die when the lambs were cropping?
You should have died at the apple’s dropping,
When the grasshopper comes to trouble,
And the wheat-fields are sodden stubble,
And all winds go sighing
For sweet things dying
.
-
This woman has been kind, gentle,
and has much love,
All of this has been given with
the blessing of the Great Spirit above,
But Great Spirit gave her something
else and she didn't know it...
The Great Spirit gave her
the blessing of being a warrior woman
as now her light is lit!
This warrior woman has come
fully alive today,
She is no longer anyone's slave or prey,
She is taking back her life today,
And those who know who she truly is,
can stay.
No longer will she live the lives of others,
She will give back the blames and responsibilities of others
where it belongs,
For she also has the bear and wolf inside her,
which is now so very powerful
and uniquely strong.
By Lady J-Ann
-
The Hebrews were a nomadic tribe, warlike and patriarchal. I take it as
an indication of the truthfulness of the Bible that the 'whole truth' was
reported. God had a lot of work to do there.
I read Ann Rice's triad, and as far as I'm concerned she was still a
Christian. She just wasn't "religious". Her error, IMO, was in confusing
being a Christian with some Church doctrines instead of being a follower
of Christ...which she was. " I remain committed to Christ as always."
Some of my fellow Christians would be quite shocked at my own opinions of some of the church 'doctrines'.
Lady J-Ann's poem sounds native American, doesn't it? Though her name doesn't.
-
YES! I like this - wisdom for all of us - thanks my dear...
Her error, IMO, was in confusing
being a Christian with some Church doctrines instead of being a follower
of Christ...which she was.
-
How vastly wonderful is this image:
For she also has the bear and wolf inside her,
which is now so very powerful
and uniquely strong.
Contrast Sarah Palin's Mama Grizzly
-
A strong woman works out every day to keep her body in shape ...
but a woman of strength kneels in prayer to keep her soul in shape...
A strong woman isn't afraid of anything ...
but a woman of strength shows courage in the midst of her fear...
A strong woman won't let anyone get the best of her ...
but a woman of strength gives the best of her to everyone...
A strong woman makes mistakes and avoids the same in the future...
a woman of strength realizes life's mistakes can also be God's blessings and capitalizes on them...
A strong woman walks sure footedly ...
but a woman of strength knows God will catch her when she falls...
A strong woman wears the look of confidence on her face ...
but a woman of strength wears grace...
A strong woman has faith that she is strong enough for the journey ...
but a woman of strength has faith that it is in the journey that she will become strong...
By Luke Easter
-
Laughing Song
~ by William Blake
When the green woods laugh with the voice of joy,
And the dimpling stream runs laughing by;
When the air does laugh with our merry wit,
And the green hill laughs with the noise of it;
when the meadows laugh with lively green,
And the grasshopper laughs in the merry scene,
When Mary and Susan and Emily
With their sweet round mouths sing "Ha, ha he!"
When the painted birds laugh in the shade,
Where our table with cherries and nuts is spread:
Come live, and be merry, and join with me,
To sing the sweet chorus of "Ha, ha, he!"
-
You'll have to excuse me, JACKIE. I know nothing about "Mama Grizzly", and really don't want to know Sarah Palin. She is one of those very rare people who raised my hackles the first time I saw/listened to her.
I like that, BARB, the comparison of the strong woman and the woman of strength. I knew one of those "A strong woman won't let anyone get the best of her" females. She was very ready to take offense at any perceived slight and determined to avenge herself at all cost. I'm sure she saw herself as a strong woman.
And thanks for Blake's "Laughing Song". It gave me a lift and a smile.
-
Climbing Mont-Royal
Summer Sunday Morning
by Mira Saraf
Overwhelm your senses
With the aroma of sweet damp earth,
Mingling slowly, softly, gently
With the thick smoldering air,
And sweat-drenched bodies
Of bikers, joggers, and walkers,
All waging their own battle
With the forces of gravity,
Amidst the sound
Of distant beating drums
And gathering crowds
Clambering upwards
Feeling your feet
Slide on the loose stones below
Your inch step by step, closer, and closer yet
To the peak,
Of this sweaty, muddy, itchy
Yet purifying
Paradise.
-
Summer: Sunday Morning
~ By John Bowring 1792-1872
Thou art my glory—Thou my song, whose throne
Is built upon the highest heavens—and thence
Rollest the spheres by Thine omnipotence—
Thou art my song, O Lord! and Thou alone!
Thy kingdom is of subject-worlds. The arch
Above us, deck'd with stars as dust, Thou treadest
Beneath Thy feet in Thy resplendent march;
And, in the twinkling of an eye, Thou readest
The eternity that's past, and that to come.
All time concentred in one ray to Thee;
All being is Thy will—all space Thy home;
And all Thine attributes—infinity.
Thou art my song! which from such thoughts as these,
Where our poor reason wanders in the abyss
Of undiscoverable mysteries,
Turns from sublimer, higher worlds, to this;
And in its lowly flowers—and silent meads
And gentle waters—and sweet solitude—
Its valleys and its plains and mountains—reads
That Thou art good—immeasurably good.
Thou art my song! and when Thy name I breathe
Light seems descending from Thy seat—to bear
On wings of hope the trembling worshipper,
To realms beyond the frozen clime of death.
Then do the doubts and fears that overcast
Man's perilous way depart, and rays divine,
Tho' faint and feeble, o'er his path-way shine,
Which point him to a resting-place at last,
Whose very dreams are blessedness—for he
Who has been tost upon a turbulent sea,
Can by the distant shores encouraged be.
Thou art my song! tho' in life's dreary maze,
Sorrow and darkness seem to be my lot,
And 'midst their heavy clouds I trace Thee not,
Yet Thou art there—and gratitude shall raise
Its early voice in reverence. Shifting days
And opening weeks shall, as they flow along,
Leave some bright record of harmonious praise
To Thee who art my glory and my song!
Thy sun awakes and sets—the world grows old
And is renewed again. The seasons flow
Unchanging in their changes—joy and woe
Preside in turns—and then we are enroll'd
Among the slumberers of the grave—but Thou,
To whom past, present, future, are as now,
Art still the same—still watching—still intent
On Thy high purpose—from the labyrinth vast,
Where good and evil, joy and grief are blent
In common fate, to perfect—and present
A future, gather'd from the chequer'd past,
Where bliss shall be predominant—and spread
Wider and wider—till it shall embrace
All the great family of the human race,
And give a crown of light to every head.
O may I join that never-number'd throng,
And sing Thy praise eternal—Thou my song!
-
Summer: Sunday Evening
~ By John Bowring 1792 - 1872
"Let not your hearts be troubled, but confide
"In me as ye confide in God; I go
"A mansion for my followers to provide;
"My Father's heavenly dwelling is supplied
"With many mansions;—I had told ye so,
"Were there not room;—I hasten to prepare
"Your seats,—and soon will come again, and say,
"Be welcome:—where your Lord inhabits, there,
"There should his followers be: ye know the way;
"I am the way, the truth, the life."—'Twas thus
The Saviour spoke—and in that blessed road
What flow'rets grow, what sunbeams shine on us,
All glowing with the brightness of our God!
Heaven seems to open round, the earth is still,
As if to sanctify us for the skies;
All tending to the realms where blessing lies,
And joy and gladness, up the eternal hill.
As the heaven-guided prophet, when his eyes
Stretch'd wearied o'er the peaceful promised land,
Even as he stood on Canaan's shores, we stand.
O night! how beautiful thy golden dress,
On which so many stars like gems are strew'd;
So mild and modest in thy loveliness,
So bright, so glorious in thy solitude!
The soul soars upwards on its holy wings,
Thro' the vast ocean-paths of light sublime,
Visits a thousand yet unravell'd things;
And, if its memories look to earthly time
And earthly interests, 'tis as in a dream—
For earth and earthly things but shadows seem;
While heaven is substance, and eternity.
This is Thy temple, Lord! 'tis worthy Thee,
And in it Thou hast many a lamp suspended,
That dazzles not, but lights resplendently;
And there Thy court is—there Thy court, attended
By myriad, myriad messengers—the song
Of countless and melodious harps is heard,
Sweeter than rill, or stream, or vernal bird,
The dark and melancholy woods among.
And golden worlds in that wide temple glow,
And roll in brightness, in their orbits vast;
And there the future mingles with the past,
An unbeginning, an unending now.
Death! they may call thee what they will, but thou
Art lovely in my eyes—thy thoughts to me
No terror bring; but silence and repose,
And pleasing dreams, and soft serenity.
Thou wear'st a wreath where many a wild flower blows;
And breezes of the south play round thy throne;
And thou art visited by the calm bright moon;
And the gay spring her emerald mantle throws
Over thy bosom; every year renews
Thy grassy turf, while man beneath it sleeps;
Evening still bathes it with its gentle dews,
Which every morn day's glorious monarch sweeps
With his gay smile away: and so we lie,
Gather'd in the storehouse of mortality.
That storehouse overflows with heavenly seed;
And, planted by th' Eternal Husbandman,
Water'd and watch'd, it shall hereafter breed
A progeny of strength, no numbers can
Or reach or reckon. It shall people heaven;
Fill up the thrones of angels;—it shall found
A kingdom, knowing nor decay nor bound,
Built on the base by Gospel promise given.
-
Oh, BARB, Ginny should see that poem about "Climbing Mount-Royal. It
sounds like her vacation in Italy.
I love the Bowring poems; I've never heard of him before. I especially
appreciate the lines:
Thou art my song! tho' in life's dreary maze,
Sorrow and darkness seem to be my lot,
And midst their heavy clouds I trace Thee not,
Yet Thou art there...
-
Summer: Monday Morning
~ John Bowring
O sweet it is to know, to feel,
In all our gloom, our wand'rings here—
No night of sorrow can conceal
Man from Thy notice, from Thy care.
When disciplined by long distress,
And led through paths of fear and woe;
Say, dost Thou love Thy children less?
No, ever-gracious Father! No.
No distance can outreach Thine eye,
No night obscure Thine endless day:
Be this my comfort when I sigh,
Be this my safeguard when I stray.
Unseen, yet every where Thou art;
Felt every where, yet all unknown!
In the frail temple of my heart,
As on Thine everlasting throne.
Where'er I turn, where'er I go,
Spirit sublime! Thy light, Thy love,
Are there: in ocean-caves below,
On yonder farthest orb above.
Thy presence in the shade is seen,
As in the sunshine; in a worm,
As in a world; in eve serene,
As in the thunder of the storm.
Weak are our thoughts: our sight is dim,
Or our uncurtain'd eye might see
A sweeter, purer, holier beam
In sorrow, than in revelry.
The fairest flow'rets of the mead,
The sparkling gem, the insect gay,
From the dark womb of earth proceed,
And borrow from the dust their ray.
The glow-worm sparkling thro' the night,
The star that twinkles in the sky,
Take from surrounding gloom their light—
Their splendour from obscurity.
And not the vilest, not the worst,
His discipline of mercy proves:
His chastening hand descends the first
On those who love Him—those He loves.
Pride, power, would seem to pass their hours
Basking in an unclouded day;
On them the dew of comfort showers,
And crown'd with flowery wreaths are they!
'Tis false, 'tis vain! those dews are cold—
They fall—but they refresh not them;
And those fair-seeming flow'rets hold
A canker in their budding stem.
In His just scales, the meanest thing
That bears the name of man, when weigh'd,
Is dear as is the proudest king
In all his glittering robes array'd.
The wretch who in the common street
The victim of oppression falls,
Is noble as the titled great
Who dies in luxury's painted halls.
Men are deceived by idle names—
'Tis easier to be rich than wise:
And wisdom less distinction claims
Than fortune's idle vanities.
But God the naked soul surveys—
Its dress deserves not His regard:
'Tis worth alone obtains His praise,
And holiness His bright reward.
-
Summer: Monday Evening
~ John Bowring
The evening twilight gently dies;
The air is cool; the silent night
Serenely reigns; the curtain'd skies
To contemplation's shrine invite;
The labours of the day are done:
That man how exquisitely blest,
Who, with the calm declining sun,
Is shrouded in untroubled rest!
Thrice blest, who steals 'neath twilight's smile,
Tranquil as yon fair arch above,
To sleep, securely sleep awhile,
In the kind arms of heavenly love;
With no reproaching voice within,
To break upon the calm of bliss;
As evening's earliest dew serene,
And gentle as the twilight is.
The sun of virtue, while it glows
Resplendent in its mid-day power,
An ever-during radiance throws
On every distant future hour:
'Tis like the rose, whose beauties fade,
But whose sweet odours, saved by art,
A sphere of wider space pervade,
A fragrance more condens'd impart.
O wretched he whose vanish'd past
No sunshine for the future leaves;
Whose present is a joyless waste,
Where gloomy disappointment grieves
O'er pleasures pall'd—o'er hopes destroy'd—
Time wasted—talents buried—life
Trifled—neglected—unenjoyed—
'Midst folly's whims and passion's strife.
And life is such a flitting thing,
And joy is such a glancing star,
And such vain sprites, on shadowy wing,
The train of earth's delusions are,
That he who builds his towering schemes
On surge-like bases such as these,
Rears but a pyramid of dreams
Upon the ever-shifting seas.
Alas! the brightest and the best
Of earthly pleasures soon decay;
The sweetest and the loveliest
Glide, like a passing breeze, away.
Yes! e'en like nature's fairest birth,
The flow'rets blushing thro' the dew,
The rude wind sweeps them from the earth—
But not, like flowers, to smile anew.
E'en like the fell'd, the fallen tree,
That, east or west, in ruin lies—
Crush'd by the stroke of destiny,
Man, with the dull dust blended, dies.
But he shall from that bed arise,
Renew'd by heaven's eternal spring,
And in the garden of the skies
Bloom in eternal blossoming.
-
Bruce has posted some poems in "Talking Heads" by the poet Menache. Here's a short one:
White hair does not weigh
more than the black
which it displaces--
Upon any fine day
I jump these traces
-
Another Samuel Menashe poem
Inklings
Inklings sans ink
Cling to the Dry
Point of the Pen
Whose stem I mouth
Not knowing when
The truth will out.
-
Summer: Tuesday Morning
`~ John Bowring
How wisely is the stream of life controll'd
In its mild course—exhausted, and renew'd;
When toiling day its hurried tide has roll'd,
Comes night's sweet season;—a vicissitude
Of labour and of rest;—the day-rays shine
Upon the mountains,—and I live again:
Yet blest it is our spirits to resign
To the calm influence of midnight's reign.
Land of pure freedom—kingdom of repose!
I lay and slept—the day had hid his beam,
And my tired spirit at the evening's close
Slept with the sun—while many a lovely dream
Play'd with my wandering intellect, and spread
Its soften'd colouring round me,—and I breath'd
In new existence, by bright fancy led
To realms in which eternal garlands wreath'd
The enfranchised spirit. What a blessedness,
Tho' for a moment only, to take wing
To the fair regions of eternal peace,
The paradise of everlasting spring,
Whose life-source is immortal! E'en this world
Were a most privileged, most bright abode,
If hence—imagination's wings unfurl'd
Could sometimes waft th' aspiring soul to God.
Man's hopes and fears may seem confined, to him
Whose vision stretches not o'er mortal things;
But the most distant star's invisible beam,
Or comet in his farthest journeyings,
Or all the extent which philosophic ken
Has given to infinite space, th' elastic soul
Springs over; these, and more than these, in vain
Her free and untired wand'rings would control.
At will, she travels on from sun to sun—
System to system—peoples as she flies
Unnumber'd stars—an all-creating one!
Dives into nature's deepest mysteries;
Unlocks the gates of death, and holds communion
With spirits of the tomb; and yet this spark,
So bright and beautiful, is held in union
With mortal clay,—unintellectual, dark,
And seems to perish. It can perish never.
Born of the heavens, again to heaven it speeds
To dwell in its own home—to shine for ever,
Divested of its dull and mortal weeds.
Great Being! who hast placed Thy pilgrim here,
In the dull twilight of this shadow-land,
O lead me to that brighter, better sphere,
'Neath the mild influence of Thy guiding hand.
Let me partake Thy gifts, Thy gifts improve;
Enjoy Thy sunshine here, and pluck the flowers
Strew'd on my path by Thy benignant love;
Inhale the freshness of the morning hours,
The fragrance of the evening breeze; and see
In all things Thy directing spirit, Lord!
Thou, in all nature visible—all in Thee:
And hear Thy voice, Thine all-impressive word,
In every sound of air, or earth, or sea;
For all, O God! are pregnant with Thy praise;
And I thus join the general harmony,
And my low song of grateful worship raise.
-
Oh, I need more time to read the Bowring poems. I can't absorb them
all in a quick read here. You seem to have them all, BARB. Do you have a book of his poems? If so, what is the title?
-
here you go Babi - he has two poems a day for a week of days and I believe he repeats that pattern for the four seasons...http://oldpoetry.com/opoem/42389-John-Bowring-Summer--Sunday-Morning
-
Summer Storm
~ James Russell Lowell
Untremulous in the river clear,
Toward the sky's image, hangs the imaged bridge;
So still the air that I can hear
The slender clarion of the unseen midge;
Out of the stillness, with a gathering creep,
Like rising wind in leaves, which now decreases,
Now lulls, now swells, and all the while increases,
The huddling trample of a drove of sheep
Tilts the loose planks, and then as gradually ceases
In dust on the other side; life's emblem deep,
A confused noise between two silences,
Finding at last in dust precarious peace.
On the wide marsh the purple-blossomed grasses
Soak up the sunshine; sleeps the brimming tide,
Save when the wedge-shaped wake in silence passes
Of some slow water-rat, whose sinuous glide
Wavers the sedge's emerald shade from side to side;
But up the west, like a rock-shivered surge,
Climbs a great cloud edged with sun-whitened spray;
Huge whirls of foam boil toppling o'er its verge,
And falling still it seems, and yet it climbs alway.
Suddenly all the sky is hid
As with the shutting of a lid,
One by one great drops are falling
Doubtful and slow,
Down the pane they are crookedly crawling,
And the wind breathes low;
Slowly the circles widen on the river,
Widen and mingle, one and all;
Here and there the slenderer flowers shiver,
Struck by an icy rain-drop's fall.
Now on the hills I hear the thunder mutter,
The wind is gathering in the west;
The upturned leaves first whiten and flutter,
Then droop to a fitful rest;
Up from the stream with sluggish flap
Struggles the gull and floats away;
Nearer and nearer rolls the thunder-clap,--
We shall not see the sun go down to-day:
Now leaps the wind on the sleepy marsh,
And tramples the grass with terrified feet,
The startled river turns leaden and harsh,
You can hear the quick heart of the tempest beat.
Look! look! that livid flash!
And instantly follows the rattling thunder,
As if some cloud-crag, split asunder,
Fell, splintering with a ruinous crash,
On the Earth, which crouches in silence under;
And now a solid gray wall of rain
Shuts off the landscape, mile by mile;
For a breath's space I see the blue wood again,
And ere the next heart-beat, the wind-hurled pile,
That seemed but now a league aloof,
Bursts crackling o'er the sun-parched roof;
Against the windows the storm comes dashing,
Through tattered foliage the hail tears crashing,
The blue lightning flashes,
The rapid hail clashes,
The white waves are tumbling,
And, in one baffled roar,
Like the toothless sea mumbling
A rock-bristled shore,
The thunder is rumbling
And crashing and crumbling,--
Will silence return nevermore?
Hush! Still as death,
The tempest holds his breath
As from a sudden will;
The rain stops short, but from the eaves
You see it drop, and hear it from the leaves,
All is so bodingly still;
Again, now, now, again
Plashes the rain in heavy gouts,
The crinkled lightning
Seems ever brightening,
And loud and long
Again the thunder shouts
His battle-song,--
One quivering flash,
One wildering crash,
Followed by silence dead and dull,
As if the cloud, let go,
Leapt bodily below
To whelm the earth in one mad overthrow.
And then a total lull.
Gone, gone, so soon!
No more my half-dazed fancy there,
Can shape a giant In the air,
No more I see his streaming hair,
The writhing portent of his form;--
The pale and quiet moon
Makes her calm forehead bare,
And the last fragments of the storm,
Like shattered rigging from a fight at sea,
Silent and few, are drifting over me.
-
Thanks, BARB. I've added that link to my Favorites.
"..life's emblem deep,
A confused noise between two silences,"
Oh, my. With all respect to Mr. Lowell, I do hope there's more to life
than that!
I find the changes in the rhythm of the poem add greatly to the drama of it. Very skillfully done.
-
Too stressed to be contemplative today. I'll come back for the Lowell and the Bowrings. Mesham is just my speed right now.
-
Just for you, JACKIE, a favorite Emily Dickinson.
Hope is the Thing with Feathers
by Emily Dickinson (1830 – 1886)
"Hope" is the thing with feathers—
That perches in the soul—
And sings the tune without the words—
And never stops—at all—
And sweetest—in the Gale—is heard—
And sore must be the storm—
That could abash the little Bird
That kept so many warm—
I've heard it in the chillest land—
And on the strangest Sea—
Yet, never, in Extremity,
It asked a thing....of me.
-
Serendipity - my friend and I were just referring to this Dickinson poem, Hope is like a Feather, during our dinner conversation last night.
One of the Bronte sisters, Emily, wrote a Poem about hope.
Hope
~ by Emily Jane Bronte
Hope Was but a timid friend;
She sat without the grated den,
Watching how my fate would tend,
Even as selfish-hearted men.
She was cruel in her fear;
Through the bars one dreary day,
I looked out to see her there,
And she turned her face away!
Like a false guard, false watch keeping,
Still, in strife, she whispered peace;
She would sing while I was weeping;
If I listened, she would cease.
False she was, and unrelenting;
When my last joys strewed the ground,
Even Sorrow saw, repenting,
Those sad relics scattered round;
Hope, whose whisper would have given
Balm to all my frenzied pain,
Stretched her wings, and soared to heaven,
Went, and ne'er returned again!
-
Ah, poets. Sure to see all aspects of a quality and find beautiful words for their expressions. :)
-
Sometimes I cant believe I have so many poetry books and still cant find a summer poem I have enjoyed reading the poems posted and also the comments about the Bible and the people of the Bible ,,my dearest friend is an ordained Methodist minister ..and when we were discussing the Bible once she said it was often hard to separate God's word from what men had to say ...they often brought thier beliefs and said that is the Lord's word and I think GOD sent Jesus to open our eyes to forgiveness and understanding ..Having known couples of the same sex I could understand that the majority of the time there was no other person for them..one couple who were accepted by our church METHODIST one was very ill and the other was there for her always, THEY served the Lord in better ways than those who would criticize them
Also I have a new email address fairanna@cox.net please make a note of that...
We have had a HOT AND RAINLESS summer but one thing I am grateful are the multitude of butterflies and dragonflies I NEVER KNEW THERE WERE SO MANY SIZES AND COLORS WHILE MY FLOWERS DIED THE BUTTERFLIES AND DRAGONFLIES AND HUMMING BIRDS WERE SO MANY AND SUCH A RANGE I HAVE NEVER SEEN THEY WERE NOT AFRAID OF ME AND FED NEAR WHERE I STOOD AND I COULD SEE THEM AS CLEAR AS IF I WERE HOLDING THEM IN MY HAND THE SHAPES OF THE HEADS, THE EYES , THE MOUTH IT HAS GIVEN ME A BEAUTY MY FLOWERS NEVER GAVE ...AND I LOVE FLOWERS BUT THESE LIVING, MOVING BEAUTIES GAVE ME MORE THAN I EVER EXPECTED...
I know God wishes for us to LOVE one another and that means caring and forgiving and I am happy with that .. May you all be blessed and Pray with me that autumn will bring nicer weather and good feelings about alll ..... always anna
-
Anna: Wonderful wishes for us all. Why is it so easy to fear and hate rather than to love and trust? The plans for the Ground Zero Mosque were greeted with positive comments by NY's Jewish community as well as it's city government and there was hardly a ripple otherwise until one woman blogger began to spew hate online and now look at the mess. Because Obama insists that
our commitment to religious freedom must be unshakeable.
, the number of people who believe he is secretly a muslim has exploded and the hate-mongers keep fanning the flames. http://www.npr.org/templates/story/story.php?storyId=129291805
-
A depressing poem about hope! That's the Bronte's for you.
I think one of the major dangers of internet is how stories, true or not,
can spread like wildfire all over the world. There may not be a word of
truth and the story may be malicious, or even vicious. but millions of
gullible people will believe it.
As to the mosque, of course they have a right to build it, but the choice of site does seem a tactless. Perhaps they want to fill the site with prayers for peace and healing.
I wonder if our libel and slander laws include blogs? They should.
Thanks for the address update, ANNA. I've got it on my notepad. Now
if I could just get into my mail!
-
Anna your post reminded me of the many poems about Butterflies - I planted for butterflies but last summer's 71 days in a row over 100 followed by this winter lower than usual temps decimated the garden. Didn't have the gumption to start all over and so I have been clearing out and planting more herbs that the deer will not eat rather than all the work to keep them out of a butterfly garden.
Here a a couple of Butterfly poems:
My Butterfly
~ by Robert Frost
Thine emulous fond flowers are dead, too,
And the daft sun-assaulter, he
That frightened thee so oft, is fled or dead:
Saave only me
(Nor is it sad to thee!)
Save only me
There is none left to mourn thee in the fields.
The gray grass is scarce dappled with the snow;
Its two banks have not shut upon the river;
But it is long ago--
It seems forever--
Since first I saw thee glance,
WIth all thy dazzling other ones,
In airy dalliance,
Precipitate in love,
Tossed, tangled, whirled and whirled above,
Like a linp rose-wreath in a fairy dance.
When that was, the soft mist
Of my regret hung not on all the land,
And I was glad for thee,
And glad for me, I wist.
Thou didst not know, who tottered, wandering on high,
That fate had made thee for the pleasure of the wind,
With those great careless wings,
Nor yet did I.
And there were othe rthings:
It seemed God let thee flutter from his gentle clasp:
Then fearful he had let thee win
Too far beyond him to be gathered in,
Santched thee, o'ereager, with ungentle gasp.
Ah! I remember me
How once conspiracy was rife
Against my life--
The languor of it and the dreaming fond;
Surging, the grasses dizzied me of thought,
The breeze three odors brought,
And a gem-flower waved in a wand!
Then when I was distraught
And could not speak,
Sidelong, full on my cheek,
What should that reckless zephyr fling
But the wild touch of thy dye-dusty wing!
I found that wing broken today!
For thou art dead, I said,
And the strang birds say.
I found it with the withered leaves
Under the eaves.
-
Butterfly
~ by David Herbert Lawrence
Butterfly, the wind blows sea-ward,
strong beyond the garden-wall!
Butterfly, why do you settle on my
shoe, and sip the dirt on my shoe,
Lifting your veined wings, lifting them?
big white butterfly!
Already it is October, and the wind
blows strong to the sea
from the hills where snow must have
fallen, the wind is polished with
snow.
Here in the garden, with red
geraniums, it is warm, it is warm
but the wind blows strong to sea-ward,
white butterfly, content on my shoe!
Will you go, will you go from my warm
house?
Will you climb on your big soft wings,
black-dotted,
as up an invisible rainbow, an arch
till the wind slides you sheer from the
arch-crest
and in a strange level fluttering you go
out to sea-ward, white speck!
-
ah the Mosque - actually a rec. center - my feelings are confused - I see the story play out in the South among those who see the stars and bars representing the horrors and the indignity of slavery and those who fought a war for states rights and who mostly live in the mountains where their association with a national government was irreparably severed with the whisky tax so their pride is in that flag. Oh there are those who have different motives, some are abusive but I see these two values on the most opposite ends of the conflict about where or if the flag should be flown.
And so, as to the Mosque it is confusing - I too believe in religious freedom however, to do so much damage in the name of a religion - and yes, the Muslims are not alone propagating extremists. During our lifetime that group of Muslims sucked something out of us as we watched the horror unfold on TV. Not living in Europe and not seeing the elimination factories we as a nation did not have the same association with horror after WWII and Andersonville is too far back in our history with many folks not even having family yet living in the US and so, 9/11 stands for something that where we do not want to blame the innocent we do not want symbolic reminders that represent the misguided interpretation of the religion that was the call of this evil.
Out of this bubbling ferment of horror, anger, mind and heart stopping disbelief arising is a lot of hate - misplaced hate however, I do not see Muslims opening up and helping the nation understand their religious practices, worship and beliefs - it is too easy for all of us to imagine what is kept secret and to unfairly place our angst on what we do not understand. It is too easy for us to learn from books like Kite Runner or to hear on the news of the latest atrocity to women for us to have an appreciation of Islam.
Which reminds me of several poems about Hate:
hate blows a bubble of despair into
~ by E. E. Cummings
hate blows a bubble of despair into
hugeness world system universe and bang
-fear buries a tomorrow under woe
and up comes yesterday most green and young
pleasure and pain are merely surfaces
(one itself showing,itself hiding one)
life's only and true value neither is
love makes the little thickness of the coin
comes here a man would have from madame death
nevertheless now and without winter spring?
she'll spin that spirit her own fingers with
and give him nothing (if he should not sing)
how much more than enough for both of us
darling. And if i sing you are my voice,
-
Hate isn’t Christian
~ by Raymond A. Foss
Division, dissension
derision, revulsion
judging our neighbors
while we yet sin
Hate isn’t Christian
no part of his life
nothing Christ did
should lead us to this
He taught us love
all of his days
from descending from heaven
to going to the grave
Dying for my sin
hanging on the tree
offering forgiveness
for we know not what we do
Eternity sacrificed
there on the cross
that we may live forever
because he paid the cost
-
I wonder if Shel Silverstein said it - is Democracy just a messy Room?
Messy Room
~ by Shel Silverstein
Whosever room this is should be ashamed!
His underwear is hanging on the lamp.
His raincoat is there in the overstuffed chair,
And the chair is becoming quite mucky and damp.
His workbook is wedged in the window,
His sweater's been thrown on the floor.
His scarf and one ski are beneath the TV,
And his pants have been carelessly hung on the door.
His books are all jammed in the closet,
His vest has been left in the hall.
A lizard named Ed is asleep in his bed,
And his smelly old sock has been stuck to the wall.
Whosever room this is should be ashamed!
Donald or Robert or Willie or--
Huh? You say it's mine? Oh, dear,
I knew it looked familiar!
-
Frost does it again
It seems forever--
Since first I saw thee glance,
WIth all thy dazzling other ones,
In airy dalliance,
Precipitate in love,
How clearly he states the butterfly's purpose yet gives that purpose an anthropomorphic twist so that I can see myself "glance in . . . dalliance, precipitate in love". But that was long ago and I knew not what love really is, confused it with lust.
-
How strange. That doesn't sound at all like Robert Frost. He doesn't
usually use the old 'thou' and 'wist' language.
Actually, BARB, I think there have been efforts on the part of the
Muslim community to explain their beliefs...and particularly to insist that
the fanaticism of the extremists is NOT the teaching of Islam. They don't
get a very wide hearing, however. Angry people are not inclined to listen.
I'm afraid e.e. cummings sounds to me as though he was drunk when he wrote that poem. It doesn't make sense.
"- is Democracy just a messy Room? "
Oh, don't confine it to Democray, BARB. Life messy! :P
-
AHHH Waiting for cooler days and cooler nights when I can leave a window open and allow fresh air come in...I agree that poem doesnt sound like Frost ....often my own poems dont sound like me...sometimes I read them over and over and try to find what inspired me Here is is August and the other day I saw my first sulpher butterfly they always come at the end of summer ..and when I had a REAL GARDEN ( not a drab and withered one ) each AUgust their yellow wings seemed to be bits of sunshine I is the only one I have seen ...hope there are more.....as far as Islam is concerned I cant really accept their harsh code dealing with women ......nor can I beiieve a GOD would tell men who do cruel things that they will have 18 virgins in Heaven At least as a Christian I am taught to believe in forgiveness and redemption and caring ... we accept all religions some I stopped going to when I heard preachers say hateful things about others but I think it is thoughtless to place a mosque near where so many were slaughtered by people of that faith...I could forgive even that but it doesnt seem they are asking for forgiveness I AM GOING TO SEARCH MY BOOKS OF POETRY AND SEE IF I CAN FIND A POEM THAT TAKES ME BACK TO THE SUMMERS OF MY CHILDHOOD]WHEN THE MOONVINES MOTHER GREW COVERED OUR FRONT PORCH AND MADE US A GREEN ROOM . WHERE NIEGHBORS OUT FOR A STROLL WOULD STOP AND SAY HELLO WHERE ON THE 4TH OF JULY WE STAYED HOME AND EVERYONE BOUGHT FIREWORKS AND EACH WOULD TAKE TURNS TO SHOWING WHAT THEY HAD BOUGHT , THE, FLOWERPOTS THE SHARED OUR LIVES ,, WERE WE READ BOOKS INSTEAD OF WATCHING INCEASINGLY SHOWS ON TV THAT HAVE PROMOTED ALL SORTS OF IMMORAL AND DANGEROUS LIVES AND WHILE IN 100 DEGREE HEAT I APPRECIATE A/C I MISS THE SUMMERS OF MY YOUTH.....MAY PEACE AND LOVE BE YOURS ALWAYS ...anna
-
The Front Porch
~ April Self
A wide white painted porch swing
a place for memories to take wing.
It's worn weathered paint chipping in spots,
to sit and swing back and forth adrift in my thoughts.
On the front porch it's back drop an old wooden house,
thats' wooden frame is best friends and hiding place of the 'mouse.'
Supported by wooden beams to hold out the rain,
the roof of the front porch is thatched and endearingly plain.
Clutters of old pottery and a scattering of garden gloves,
is a sight this young heart enjoys and loves.
Flowers in elegant disarray,
regard their home quaint in their thrones of scarred wood or clay.
As they decorate the front porch with appreciation for new and old,
the blossoms and pots they live in with their own stories told.
An old woodpecker knocker nestled next to the door frame is carved by hand,
drawing its' presence to the eye's keen demand.
Swinging precariously not screwed down,
when a random wind breeze blows,
Its' rather unorthodox unsettledness, turns right side up my frown.
As the woodpecker knocker sways to the wind flows.
Old cans that proved to be too much to handle,
maybe a random old holder of a candle.
They cast a memory in my minds' eye,
and you wonder how that position they came by.
The front porch is a treasure trove full,
where memories glimmer and nostalgia does rule.
Brimming in cluttered hectic unruliness,
that promises its own kind of love rending bliss.
Getting caught up in each gift I find,
that graces the porch and tickles the mind.
Careless or careful these presents are wrapped,
I wonder if the layout was strategically plotted, or mayhap mad hatter mapped.
To tease my wonder, the front porch holds,
the tapestry of life and how time unfolds.
Almost like a person there it stays,
a victim of change that shows time's weight and how it weighs.
Like faces worn away with age,
in the novel of time, its' weathered exterior is just another well read page
-
Celebrate Summer With Us!
The Poetry Page.
Our haven for words that open our hearts.
(http://seniorlearn.org/bookclubs/poetry/poetrysummer09.jpg) |
In The Summer
by Nizar Qabbani
In the summer
I stretch out on the shore
And think of you
Had I told the sea
What I felt for you,
It would have left its shores,
Its shells,
Its fish,
And followed me.
|
Summer Poetry Links:
- Famous Poets and Poems about Summer (http://famouspoetsandpoems.com/thematic_poems/summer_poems.html)
- Summer Poems (http://www.dltk-holidays.com/summer/poems.htm)
- Flower Poems for Gardeners (http://www.gardendigest.com/flowers.htm)
Discussion Leaders: BarbStAubrey (augere@ix.netcom.com) & Fairanna (fairanna@cox.net)
-
Barb: Sounds like my dream house, the one I dream of at night as I fall asleep in my little apartment with the four-yr-old's running footsteps upstairs shaking the foundation. ;)
-
Barbara - thanks for the Front Porch poem - love it. The concept transfers easily to old time rural verandahs in Australia and some of it to my own childhood suburban verandah - though in that case it was the 'back' verandah. The 'front' was kept immaculately - but the 'back' was where we lived.
-
ANNA, you will be comforted to hear that the Muslim God doesn't really promise men 18
vigins in heaven. And the Middle Eastern treatment of women is more cultural than anything
else. In other areas of the world Muslim women are not treated like that.
I have always been distressed to hear a preacher teaching misleading things about other
religions. I don't hear hateful things spoken as much now, thank goodness and the anti-hate
laws.
Ah, there's your poem, ANNA. Count on BARB to find just what you need. Here's another, perhaps a bit sadder than Barb's.
Homesick.
I'm homesick to-night, just homesick,
O! how I long once more
Just to sit as of old in the twilight
On the step of the old kitchen door
And watch the meek cows in the farmyard,
And the colts in their frolicksome play
Or standing contentedly nibbling
At the stacks of the sweet clover hay.
I'm homesick to-night, oh so homesick,
Just to be there once more,
And stand where the golden sunshine
Falleth across the floor;
Or to sit by the open window
Where the breeze blows happy and free__
There isn't one spot in the old home
But brings some tender mem'ry to me.
I'm homesick to-night, O how homesick,
Never my tongue may tell,
Tho' my heart may break with longing
For the scenes that I love so well;
But the dear old home in the valley
Will be mine, O never again:
No more will its sunshine cheer me,
And wishes and tears are in vain.
__Mrs. Ella Goodwin, Ludell.
-
A different look at being homesick:
"Green Green Grass Of Home"
The old home town looks the same as I step down from the train,
and there to meet me is my Mama and Papa.
Down the road I look and there runs Mary hair of gold and lips like cherries.
It's good to touch the green, green grass of home.
Yes, they'll all come to meet me, arms reaching, smiling sweetly.
It's good to touch the green, green grass of home.
The old house is still standing tho' the paint is cracked and dry,
and there's that old oak tree I used to play on.
Down the lane I walk with my sweet Mary, hair of gold and lips like cherries.
It's good to touch the green, green grass of home.
Yes, they'll all come to meet me, arms reaching, smiling sweetly.
It's good to touch the green, green grass of home.
Then I awake and look around me, at four grey wall surround me
and I realize that I was only dreaming.
For there's a guard and there's a sad old padre -
arm in arm we'll walk at daybreak.
Again I touch the green, green grass of home.
Yes, they'll all come to see me in the shade of that old oak tree
as they lay me neath the green, green grass of home.
Claude "Curly" Putman Jr.
-
Seems like as we age we have moved to another country even if our address is the same - with so many changes to our cities, villages and county lanes, many of us think of our home as the one in our memory. It is more than simply how things look that has changed but how we interact with one another - it is not just technology and new products it is a change in what is valued - many values are the same but just as many have changed enough that we think of the life in our memory as simpler when it was probably just familiar and so we knew how to negotiate with each other - where as now it is less familiar and so we are negotiating two worlds - the current and the one in our memory - therefore, it is as if we have moved to another country.
Well to the country in our memory here is a poem by Carl Sandburg...
BACK YARD
SHINE on, O moon of summer.
Shine to the leaves of grass, catalpa and oak,
All silver under your rain to-night.
An Italian boy is sending songs to you to-night from an accordion.
A Polish boy is out with his best girl; they marry next
month; to-night they are throwing you kisses.
An old man next door is dreaming over a sheen that sits in a cherry tree in his back yard.
The clocks say I must go--I stay here sitting on the
back porch drinking white thoughts you rain down.
Shine on, O moon,
Shake out more and more silver changes.
-
Here is another front porch poem...
Front Porch
~ by Theresa Morrow
My grandma's front porch
I remember it well
the hot days of summer
and gardenia bloom's smell
The place that aunts gathered
shelled peas and shucked corn,
told stories and laughed,
and the kittens were born
An escape from the sun
to drink cool lemonade
a break from the noise
and the games that we played
Enjoying the relief
of a rare summer breeze
It's the place that we patched
scraped elbows and knees
The sound of windchimes
and the squeaky screen door
The rocking chair's creak
on the chipped-painted floor
The place we could hide
From sudden rain showers
Make necklaces of clover
and hats from wildflowers
Or nap in the hammock
the best place to dream
waking from slumber
to homemade ice cream
Saying "good-bye" to cousins
as darkness rolled in
"I'll see you next weekend"
on the front porch again.
-
Today is the First Day of School here in Austin.
In School-days
~ by John Greenleaf Whittier
John Greenleaf Whittier
Still sits the school-house by the road,
A ragged beggar sleeping;
Around it still the sumachs grow,
And blackberry-vines are creeping.
Within, the master’s desk is seen,
Deep scarred by raps official;
The warping floor, the battered seats,
The jack-knife’s carved initial;
The charcoal frescos on its wall;
Its door’s worn sill, betraying
The feet that, creeping slow to school,
Went storming out to playing!
Long years ago a winter sun
Shone over it at setting;
Lit up its western window-panes,
And low eaves’ icy fretting.
It touched the tangled golden curls,
And brown eyes full of grieving,
Of one who still her steps delayed
When all the school were leaving.
For near her stood the little boy
Her childish favor singled:
His cap pulled low upon a face
Where pride and shame were mingled.
Pushing with restless feet the snow
To right and left, he lingered;—
As restlessly her tiny hands
The blue-checked apron fingered.
He saw her lift her eyes; he felt
The soft hand’s light caressing,
And heard the tremble of her voice,
As if a fault confessing.
“I’m sorry that I spelt the word:
I hate to go above you,
Because,”—the brown eyes lower fell,—
“Because, you see, I love you!”
Still memory to a gray-haired man
That sweet child-face is showing.
Dear girl! the grasses on her grave
Have forty years been growing!
He lives to learn, in life’s hard school,
How few who pass above him
Lament their triumph and his loss,
Like her,—because they love him.
-
I have always liked an look forward to the end of summer and early fall but I wonder if there is something sinister in the air. This year in 2010 we have clashes on the street over the building of a Mosque which only reminds me of the horror and sadness too easily set aside because it is so painful of other late summer and early fall mornings.
Ballad of Birmingham
~ By Dudley Randell (On the bombing of a church in Birmingham, Alabama, 1963)
"Mother dear, may I go downtown
Instead of out to play,
And march the streets of Birmingham
In a Freedom March today?"
"No, baby, no, you may not go,
For the dogs are fierce and wild,
And clubs and hoses, guns and jails
Aren't good for a little child."
"But, mother, I won't be alone.
Other children will go with me,
And march the streets of Birmingham
To make our country free."
"No, baby, no, you may not go,
For I fear those guns will fire.
But you may go to church instead
And sing in the children's choir."
She has combed and brushed her night-dark hair,
And bathed rose petal sweet,
And drawn white gloves on her small brown hands,
And white shoes on her feet.
The mother smiled to know that her child
Was in the sacred place,
But that smile was the last smile
To come upon her face.
For when she heard the explosion,
Her eyes grew wet and wild.
She raced through the streets of Birmingham
Calling for her child.
She clawed through bits of glass and brick,
Then lifted out a shoe.
"O, here's the shoe my baby wore,
But, baby, where are you?"
-
Eliot is not one of my favorite poets but he does have something to say and he says it very well...
Morning at the Window
~ T S Eliot
They are rattling breakfast plates in basement kitchens,
And along the trampled edges of the street
I am aware of the damp souls of housemaids
Sprouting despondently at area gates.
The brown waves of fog toss up to me
Twisted faces from the bottom of the street,
And tear from a passer-by with muddy skirts
An aimless smile that hovers in the air
And vanishes along the level of the roofs.
-
And in honor of Australia one of the latest nations to experience a hung election - the whole world and every nation appears to be philosophically split into equal and differing viewpoints.
The Australian Sunrise
The Morning Star paled slowly, the Cross hung low to the sea,
And down the shadowy reaches the tide came swirling free,
The lustrous purple blackness of the soft Australian night
Waned in the grey awakening that heralded the light;
Still in the dying darkness, still in the forest dim
The pearly dew of the dawning clung to each giant limb,
Till the sun came up from ocean, red with the cold sea mist,
And smote on the limestone ridges, and the shining tree-tops kissed
Then the fiery Scorpion vanished, the magpie’s note was heard,
And the wind in the she-oak wavered and the honeysuckles stirred;
The airy golden vapour rose from the river breast,
The kingfisher came darting out of his crannied nest,
And the bullrushes and reed-beds put off their sallow grey
And burnt with cloudy crimson at the dawning of the day.
The Cross—The constellation of the Southern Cross, which appears to become lower in the sky towards the morning. Rudyard Kipling has a similar phrase in The Native Born: “And the Cross swings low for the morn.”
The fiery Scorpion—The brilliant constellation Scorpio. It contains Antares, a star of the first magnitude, which shines with a reddish light.
-
Thanks to everyone for such wonderful nostalgic poetry My family home was destroyed , along with whole areas of my home town when a SUPER HIGHWAY replaced a large section ...blocks and blocks of where I grew up So the only way I can return is though my memory and my heart.
I came across a poem I wrote so I can share it with you
HURRY SEPTEMBER
August is still waiting to arrive
For me I hope it passes by
Moves fastly through the last hot days -
Summer's heat weighs me down-
Bloated with heat and humidity,
The days drag by.With anxious eye
I scan the sky-strain to see
Clouds in the northwest sky.
See my mother raise her head-
LIft it into the wind and say-
AH ! Autumn is near,the wind today
IS coming somewhere off of ice.
The August heated air blunts its
Arrival and will hold it back for awhile!
Stiil one day soon, standing on my deck-
I will feel a breeze lift my heat
Upon my neck and touch me with
A cooler hand and say --The wind today
Is coming somewhere off of ice!
I hear me sigh with great relief,
And say so only I can hear-
Oh that sounds so nice----------
SEPTEMBER IS ALMOST HERE!
anna alexander
July 30 2008
3:07 PM
-
Barbara: How nice of you to remember Australia like that - Cuthbertson is not well known these days. He wrote that poem sometime in the late 19th century - it's a different world now but nothing has changed so far as our sunrises are concerned - the brilliant Southern Cross is still there - as is
the lustrous purple blackness of the soft Australian night
perfect description.
I think the election resulting in a hung parliament is due to a protest vote against the present government for its mismanagement - the opposition gained many seats and some of the protest vote went to minor parties. Some seats are still in doubt. It will be a couple of weeks before all counting is completed - the overseas postal vote doesn't close until next week sometime.... the journos are having a field day - every day.
-
Found this - not Pulitzer Prize worthy but says it after another day of 106 with promises of 106 minimum tomorrow - Heat Index [temp plus humidity] will be 112 to 113 - and then - maybe - just maybe - a cold front is expected that will bring the temps down to 96 - I know - only 96 but hay that is 10 degrees cooler and if it happens they predict that we will have seen the last over 100 degree day for this year...
A Day in a Texas Heat Wave
~ Jeff Haby
After sunrise-
The air feels sticky,
Like honey drying and thick.
Texas heat gradually builds
As noontime approaches-
Heat such as in a warming oven
Or a roaring fire.
The heat and humidity combine
To a heat index of one-o-nine.
Sweat drips from every brow.
How a normal human can handle it-
I don't know how.
The sun is still only halfway
Across the sky.
Weak grass and bushes
Begin to wilt and die.
The temperature reaches 100 again.
Only sunset gives relief
From the red hot
Sunburning thief.
Praying tomorrow will be the day
That there will be rain
Because another 14 hours of the sun's ray
Will send a few more people insane.
Even with air conditioning
A Texas heat wave can be so frustrating.
-
Don't know about a Texas heatwave but that poem could be applied to a heatwave anywhere in Australia (except perhaps in Tasmania).
I really feel for those who are suffering hot and humid weather -but right now I'm longing for some warm weather as we've had a long and cold winter - but I know that from December through to end of March I'll be moaning about the high temps.
-
I loved that song, JACKIE. Sad, gentle and nostalgic. You have to
wonder how a man with that background; loving family, friends and lover,
would wind up in a death cell.
"we think of the life in our memory as simpler when it was probably just familiar and so we knew how to negotiate with each other.."
BARB, that is a very insightful thought. I believe you're right.
I read this mornings offerings, and I think to myself that this is why we
love poets. No matter what is on our minds or in our hearts, the poet
can express it for us.
-
Salem youngsters start school in two weeks, after the harvest. San Jose, where I grew up, is in the Santa Clara Valley which in the 40's was known as "The Valley of Heart's Delight", filled with fruit tree orchards, beautiful beyond words when in bloom. http://www.mariposaresearch.net/santaclararesearch/ Harvesting the fruit was too important to allow school to interfere, first day was late in September when I was young.
-
Get the Dish
A welcome summer- night command
When the Philadelphia temperature sweltered
Even after the sun had set; not a breeze or a drop of rain
To make the evening bearable.
But the corner store on the avenue
Waited with open door for the ice cream couriers,
Dispatched with the biggest serving bowl in the house.
Fleet of foot, strong on memory.
They raced for the precious scoops:
Never forgetting who wanted chocolate, peach, black raspberry
And then the careful trek back home
Up sidewalks still giving off the scorching heat
Past the white railing- porches of the row houses,
The wind chimes, the creaking green rocking chairs,
The Phillies game on the radio,
The greetings from the humid darkness.
.
-bellemere
-
Maybe this was written for fairanna:
Ode to the End of Summer
Phyllis McGinley
Summer, adieu!
Adieu, gregarious season.
Goodbye, revoir, farewell.
Now day comes late; now chillier blows the breeze on
Forsaken beach and boarded-up hotel.
Now wild geese fly together in thin lines
And Tourist Homes take down their lettered signs.
It fades- this green, this lavish interval,
This time of flowers and fruits,
Of melons ripe along the orchard wall,
Of sun and sails and wrinkled linen suits;
Time when the world seems rather plus than minus
And pollen tickles the allergic sinus.
Now fugitives to farm and shore and highland
Cancel their brief escape.
The Ferris Wheel is quiet at Coney Island
And quaintness trades no longer on the Cape;
While meek-eyed parents hasten down the ramps
To greet their offspring, terrible from camps.
Turn up the steam, the year is growing older,
The maple boughs are red,
Summer farewell! Farewell the sunburnt shoulder,
Farewell the pleasant kerchief on the head,
Farewell the thunderstorm, complete with lightening
And the white shoe that ever needeth whitening.
Farewell, vacation friendships, sweet but tenuous,
Ditto to slacks and shorts
Farewell , O strange compulsion to be strenuous,
Which sends us forth to death on tennis courts.
Farewell, mosquito, horror of our nights,
Clambakes, iced tea, and transatlantic flights.
Unstintingly, I yield myself to autumn
And Equinoctial sloth.
I hide my swimsuit in the bureau’s bottom,
Nor fear the fury of the aftermoth.
Forswearing porch and pool and beetled garden,
My heart shall rest, my arteries shall harden.
Welcome, kind Fall, and every month with “r” in
Whereto my mind is bent.
Come, sedentary season that I star in,
O firelit Winter of my deep content.
Amid the snows, the sleet, the blizzard’s raw gust
I shall be cozier than I was in August.
Safe from the picnic sleeps the unlittered dell,
The last Good Humour sounds its final bell.
And all is silent. Summer, farewell, farewell.
-
A fascinating poem, BELLE. I've never heard of being able to go to
the store with a bowl and order ice cream by the scoop. I hope the
bowl was chilled; better chance of getting the ice cream home unmelted.
Phyllis McGinley's poem was a lot of fun. Being 'sent to death on
tennis courts' and no fear of the "aftermoth", and welcoming "the Winter
of my 'deep content'" This lady is fun.
I found this late August poem. Time is almost up for August.
"August rushes by like desert rainfall,
A flood of frenzied upheaval,
Expected,
But still catching me unprepared.
Like a matchflame
Bursting on the scene,
Heat and haze of crimson sunsets.
Like a dream
Of moon and dark barely recalled,
A moment,
Shadows caught in a blink.
Like a quick kiss;
One wishes for more
But it suddenly turns to leave,
Dragging summer away."
- Elizabeth Maua Taylor
-
I can't remember if Nana chilled "The Dish" or not. I do know that my brothr in law was teased as "cheap" because he nver bought ice cream for his own family, but at the home of the girl he was courting he was known as "Get the Dish Joey" in family folklore.
-
The temps may not be saying end of summer but the calendar is sure saying the end of summer and heat or not the football fields are alive.
Your poem Bellemere reminds me the first time our family learned of Black Raspberry Ice cream - up until then the only flavors available were Chocolate, Vanilla and Strawberry - it was the summer of 1939 and my mother and her sister with all the cousins spent two months in a rented house in the mountains including the cousins from a thrid sister who could not come - our fathers came up every other weekend - we often took long walks to the nearby town where sometimes we were treated to an ice-cream cone - we noticed folks licking this purplish ice cream and asked about it - sure enough it was Black Raspberry and so from then on it was the flavor of choice - it wasn't till the Spring when I was in the second grade, 1941 that we learned of a Howard Johnson ice cream store on a busy road to a nearby town that sold an incredible number of flavors - I remember my mother always ordering Pecan while my sister and I flirted with Peach or Cherry.
The End of Summer
~ by Rachel Hadas
Sweet smell of phlox drifting across the lawn—
an early warning of the end of summer.
August is fading fast, and by September
the little purple flowers will all be gone.
Season, project, and vacation done.
One more year in everybody’s life.
Add a notch to the old hunting knife
Time keeps testing with a horny thumb.
Over the summer months hung an unspoken
aura of urgency. In late July
galactic pulsings filled the midnight sky
like silent screaming, so that, strangely woken,
we looked at one another in the dark,
then at the milky magical debris
arcing across, dwarfing our meek mortality.
There were two ways to live: get on with work,
redeem the time, ignore the imminence
of cataclysm; or else take it slow,
be as tranquil as the neighbors’ cow
we love to tickle through the barbed wire fence
(she paces through her days in massive innocence,
or, seeing green pastures, we imagine so).
In fact, not being cows, we have no choice.
Summer or winter, country, city, we
are prisoners from the start and automatically,
hemmed in, harangued by the one clamorous voice.
Not light but language shocks us out of sleep
ideas of doom transformed to meteors
we translate back to portents of the wars
looming above the nervous watch we keep.
-
I remember when there were only three flavors of ice cream, but I can't
remember what flavor was the first to join them. Probably a fruit, like
peach. I do remember turning that crank to make homemade ice cream.
Probably the only chore we kids did cheerfully. ;)
-
Peach was my favorite; it seems to have disappeared. But summer and ice cream are still linked, aren't they? In spite of all the cholesterol warnings.
-
Yes! August and ice cream!
-
Before summer is over, I need to post some of my favoprite summer haiku.
How easily it lights up,
How easily it goes out,
The firefly
Chora
-
Oh yes, Joan - Summer Haiku!
I wrote this some years ago - if you never lived in the South you may not get it but it is a piece of summer fun.
A Geico skitters
boys have grown and moved away
Geico has a tail.
-
Coming all too soon - the storms of the equinox: line storms
A Line-Storm Song by Robert Frost
The line-storm clouds fly tattered and swift,
The road is forlorn all day,
Where a myriad snowy quartz stones lift,
And the hoof-prints vanish away.
The roadside flowers, too wet for the bee,
Expend their bloom in vain.
Come over the hills and far with me,
And be my love in the rain.
The birds have less to say for themselves
In the wood-world’s torn despair
Than now these numberless years the elves,
Although they are no less there:
All song of the woods is crushed like some
Wild, easily shattered rose.
Come, be my love in the wet woods; come,
Where the boughs rain when it blows.
There is the gale to urge behind
And bruit our singing down,
And the shallow waters aflutter with wind
From which to gather your gown.
What matter if we go clear to the west,
And come not through dry-shod?
For wilding brooch shall wet your breast
The rain-fresh goldenrod.
Oh, never this whelming east wind swells
But it seems like the sea’s return
To the ancient lands where it left the shells
Before the age of the fern;
And it seems like the time when after doubt
Our love came back amain.
Oh, come forth into the storm and rout
And be my love in the rain.
Robert Frost
-
What a beautiful couple of lines -
"And the shallow waters aflutter with wind
From which to gather your gown."
-
THE END OF SUMMER
~ Shannon Georgia Schaubroeck,
The summer days are fading, as they must
From endless hours to short and fleeting light
The bird's once bright, immortal tune, now cries
A melancholy aura to the dusk
The children fiercely climb, and dream, and race
Before their wild and unchained days depart
And yet beneath the zeal lies a half heart
For there isn't time, there's only enough space
The sun seems low, a hazy orange sphere
Now reminiscing sweetly of the days
When endlessly before you summer lay
And as in the deep, crimson dusk you stir
Your soul joins with the birds in wistful brood
Crying for lost summer days, for childhood
-
Barbara: I never lived in the South, but I had boys, so I figured it out. Made me laugh.
What lovely poems.
-
What is really funny is to see the oldest boy when he was young look incredulous when he thought he captured a lizard and comes up with a tail. Then the temptation is like telling younger brothers about Santa. What is even more amazing is how the boys really believe if they try harder to catch it higher on its body they will be successful. I realized soon it was just a boy thing that they keep on attempting till they are near the end of their High School years and they can drive a car. That is when all childhood challengers are shoved aside.
Farm Boy After Summer
~ by Robert Francis
A seated statue of himself he seems.
A bronze slowness becomes him. Patently
The page he contemplates he doesn't see.
The lesson, the long lesson, has been summer.
His mind holds summer, as his skin holds sun.
For once the homework, all of it, was done.
What were the crops, where were the fiery fields
Where for so many days so many hours
The sun assaulted him with glittering showers.
Expect a certain absence in his presence.
Expect all winter long a summer scholar,
For scarcely all its snows can cool that color
-
RAIN IN SUMMER
~ by Henry Wadsworth Longfellow
How beautiful is the rain!
After the dust and heat,
In the broad and fiery street,
In the narrow lane,
How beautiful is the rain!
How it clatters along the roofs,
Like the tramp of hoofs
How it gushes and struggles out
From the throat of the overflowing spout!
Across the window-pane
It pours and pours;
And swift and wide,
With a muddy tide,
Like a river down the gutter roars
The rain, the welcome rain!
The sick man from his chamber looks
At the twisted brooks;
He can feel the cool
Breath of each little pool;
His fevered brain
Grows calm again,
And he breathes a blessing on the rain.
From the neighboring school
Come the boys,
With more than their wonted noise
And commotion;
And down the wet streets
Sail their mimic fleets,
Till the treacherous pool
Ingulfs them in its whirling
And turbulent ocean.
In the country, on every side,
Where far and wide,
Like a leopard's tawny and spotted hide,
Stretches the plain,
To the dry grass and the drier grain
How welcome is the rain!
In the furrowed land
The toilsome and patient oxen stand;
Lifting the yoke encumbered head,
With their dilated nostrils spread,
They silently inhale
The clover-scented gale,
And the vapors that arise
From the well-watered and smoking soil.
For this rest in the furrow after toil
Their large and lustrous eyes
Seem to thank the Lord,
More than man's spoken word.
Near at hand,
From under the sheltering trees,
The farmer sees
His pastures, and his fields of grain,
As they bend their tops
To the numberless beating drops
Of the incessant rain.
He counts it as no sin
That he sees therein
Only his own thrift and gain.
These, and far more than these,
The Poet sees!
He can behold
Aquarius old
Walking the fenceless fields of air;
And from each ample fold
Of the clouds about him rolled
Scattering everywhere
The showery rain,
As the farmer scatters his grain.
He can behold
Things manifold
That have not yet been wholly told,--
Have not been wholly sung nor said.
For his thought, that never stops,
Follows the water-drops
Down to the graves of the dead,
Down through chasms and gulfs profound,
To the dreary fountain-head
Of lakes and rivers under ground;
And sees them, when the rain is done,
On the bridge of colors seven
Climbing up once more to heaven,
Opposite the setting sun.
Thus the Seer,
With vision clear,
Sees forms appear and disappear,
In the perpetual round of strange,
Mysterious change
From birth to death, from death to birth,
From earth to heaven, from heaven to earth;
Till glimpses more sublime
Of things, unseen before,
Unto his wondering eyes reveal
The Universe, as an immeasurable wheel
Turning forevermore
In the rapid and rushing river of Time.
-
The last of Summer is Delight --
~ by Emily Dickinson
The last of Summer is Delight --
Deterred by Retrospect.
'Tis Ecstasy's revealed Review --
Enchantment's Syndicate.
To meet it -- nameless as it is --
Without celestial Mail --
Audacious as without a Knock
To walk within the Veil.
-
The children fiercely climb, and dream, and race
Before their wild and unchained days depart
Ah, so true. I remember.
-
There seems to be a school of educational thought that the summer vacation is bad for the kids; they can't retain that they have learned. This makes the country less competitive. So we should do away with it? That will be a tough fight, but more and more working moms would go for it. (Glad I got my long childhood summers in, aren't you?)
-
Without summer I wonder how a child learns to amuse themselves and live life using their own integrity and free time rather than living their entire formative years within a scheduled system.
Too bad the school systems of this nation do not all own and run a camp - if every child with working parents could have a month in the out of doors learning to swim and identify the birds and trees with time to just lay on the ground and watch ants without the fear of strangers then I think children would have a more rounded understanding of themselves, others and the world they live in. Of course ranch and farm kids have that experience so once again there cannot be a national schedule established for all children.
Well this is one of those days when I am not getting much accomplished - I am about ready to throw in the towel and take a nap because even my disposition is down - it is pretty bad when you get angry at the weather - we keep getting promised showers and none appear - we were told over a week ago we were experiencing the last of the 100 day temps - well no rain and still 100s - now they are saying Friday a front should bring showers and temps in the mid 90s - I am tired of dry and I am tired of planning based on the heat of the day - but mostly I think I am just plain cranky -
Afternoon Nap
~ David Shumate
It is like finding a hole in the universe. A door nobody else knows about.
You swimg it open and crawl through into the streets of a small town. You
pass the barbershop. The pharmacy. The bank. The grocery. Maybe a
row of grain elevators on the edge of town. All the houses are white.
People are sitting out on their porches as if theyve been expecting you.
They wave and say a few words. Some ask you to come up and visit for a
time. They want to know what you were doing before you fell asleep and
what you plan on donig when you wake up. Theyre fascinated by it all.
Sleep is the sole religion of this town. Icons of their reclining saints are
everywhere. On Sundays even the infirm gather their pillows and blankets
and walk to church to lie down on the pews and worship their great and
slumbering god. Its such a pleasant place, you almost hate to leave.
-
"of sun and sails and wrinkled linen suits"...that is such a magical line, spoken aloud. Loved that poem.
-
Yes Tomereader that is a wonderful line full of lovely imagery -
OK I need to fill up the next two posts and then reserve the top of the next page for the new heading that will be ready as soon as I get a SeniorLearner link to the graphic.
The Bee Boy's Song
~ by Rudyard Kipling
Bees! Bees! Hark to your bees!
'Hide from your neighbours as much as you please,
But all that has happened, to us you must tell,
Or else we will give you no honey to sell!'
A Maiden in her glory,
Upon her wedding-day,
Must tell her Bees the story,
Or else they'll fly away.
Fly away - die away -
Dwindle down and leave you!
But if you don't deceive your Bees,
Your Bees will not deceive you.
Marriage, birth or buryin',
News across the seas,
All you're sad or merry in,
You must tell the Bees.
Tell 'em coming in an' out,
Where the Fanners fan,
'Cause the Bees are justabout
As curious as a man!
Don't you wait where trees are,
When the lightnings play;
Nor don't you hate where Bees are,
Or else they'll pine away.
Pine away - dwine away -
Anything to leave you!
But if you never grieve your Bees,
Your Bees'll never grieve you!
-
Quiet Riot
~ by McCartte
Quietly I stand in the warm sunlight
quietly I become a part of their riot
out and in and out again
Dancing and wiggling, chin to chin
Whirling and twirling
a twist and a spin
go this way then that
all to an end
Gather and carry
place to place I roam
stop here, stop there,
then carry it home.
In thru the door,
my burden undone
task to task,to each his own.
Work, ah work, it's never all done
-
(http://seniorlearn.org/bookclubs/poetry/poetryfall10.jpg)
|
The Apple Orchard
~ by Shawn Bailey
The dew-softened blades
of fescue wet my feet,
small brushstrokes of icy wetness
on my way to the orchard.
The sunlight scatters
the morning mist
that shelters the trees from
the horizon.
I spy the juicy red apples
lounging in the trees,
moist with dawn
and there are thousands of them.
Fruitful, edible decor.
|
Autumn Poetry
In this Discussion we share what stirs our heart -
Bring us a gift of a poem
Yours, or the work of another poet. - Famous Poets and Poems about Autumn (http://famouspoetsandpoems.com/thematic_poems/autumn_poems.html)
- Fall Season Poems (http://poetry.about.com/od/ourpoemcollections/a/autumnpoems.htm)
Discussion Leaders: Barb (augere@ix.netcom.com) & fairanna (fairanna@verizon.net)
-
AUTUMN TREE
OH tall tree of our knowing,shedding its leaves;
It's a matter now of facing the preponderance
of sky appearing through its branches,
Filled by summer. it seemed deep and thick,
filling our minds, too, so comfortably,
Now its whole interior us an avenue of stars.
And the stars do not know us.
Rainer Marie Rilke
this is a poet that I have always admired and loved his poems they seem to both paint a picture and ask a question ..I thought when I was looking at a tree still full of leaves ..even in bright sunlight you cant see sky as the leaves are so thick ...but I know when winter has come and all the leaves are gone it will hold its bare branches aloft and and paint a dark pattern against the sky.....waiting to hear if the hurricane will give us a visit...anna
-
I sort of dread autumn poetry, but not autumn. Hope we can find some cheerful gems among all the poems about autumn.
Our Cape Cod end of summer weekend trip postponed until we see what
Earl is going to do. usually, the days emmediately after a hurricane are breathtakingly beautiful near the sea. Let's hope.
-
Driving outside of town this time of year we see a patchwork of great swaths of various colored grasses - some are sun bleached almost white, some are a rose red - there is copper colored grass and grass the color of a fawn - if there is any green it is a deep sage green near the base of the grass clumps - with the wide expanse of sky it is a melody of soft strokes punctuated by an outcropping of rock here and there or a couple of low growing mesquites or in some fields a majestic oak casts shade on the cows gathered looking for cover from the heat of the sun. And so to honor our grassy plateaus here is one of dear Emily's poems
THE GRASS POEM
~ Emily Dickinson.
The grass so little has to do,–
A sphere of simple green,
With only butterflies to brood,
And bees to entertain,
And stir all day to pretty tunes
The breezes fetch along,
And hold the sunshine in its lap
And bow to everything;
And thread the dews all night, like pearls,
And make itself so fine,–
A duchess were too common
For such a noticing.
And even when it dies, to pass
In odors so divine,
As lowly spices gone to sleep,
Or amulets of pine.
And then to dwell in sovereign barns,
And dream the days away,–
The grass so little has to do,
I wish I were the hay.
-
Autumn has always been my favorite time ..a gift before winter appears and locks me in I love spring and early summer before the days becomes too hot and I stay in for the sun seems to burn the grass, the flowers and my winter white arms. Autumn always seems to be full of surprises..one day is hot but the night now is cool the breezes are cool and when I am outdoors I need a sweater or jacket to protect my shoulders from the cooler air and then the leaves seem happy to see Autumn arrive...they welcome her with palette of colors ...and paint the woods with glorious riotous flames ...I will remember them when they are gone and hope I will see Autumn again next year ...Winter brings a different picture . the sunlight is less and night time seems to long and dinner needs candles and looking outdoors all you see are the golden globes of streetlights and cars passing by.....it seems I feel the earth turning ...moving toward the shortest day of the year when I wait for the next day to appear , and hear the earth move back toward spring and longer days until Autumn reappears not a poem but my feelings hope everyone will be able to take advangtage of autumns colors anna
-
I agree, BARB. I think it's important that children have time for their
childhood. Free time, to wander and explore and imagine.
I'm sorry the rain has been bypassing you. The promised rains have been
coming through here. You could try making a small, personal rain with
your hose, and standing under it, and spraying your roof. Never know what
might help.
Yesterday was absolutely gorgeous. Skies of gorgeous blue with big,
white fluffy clouds arrranged with perfect artistry. Every tree seemed
perfectly shaped and distinctive in it's particular shade of green. I
do hope other people were pausing to enjoy it as much as I did.
ANNA, that may not be a poem, but it was most poetically expressed. It's a lovely
piece of prose and I very much enjoyed it.
-
Classic but so good to re-visit - that norther pushed through yesterday bringing rain and today is our first cool day.
John Keats (1795-1821)
TO AUTUMN.
SEASON of mists and mellow fruitfulness,
Close bosom-friend of the maturing sun;
Conspiring with him how to load and bless
With fruit the vines that round the thatch-eves run;
To bend with apples the moss’d cottage-trees,
And fill all fruit with ripeness to the core;
To swell the gourd, and plump the hazel shells
With a sweet kernel; to set budding more,
And still more, later flowers for the bees,
Until they think warm days will never cease,
For Summer has o’er-brimm’d their clammy cells.
Who hath not seen thee oft amid thy store?
Sometimes whoever seeks abroad may find
Thee sitting careless on a granary floor,
Thy hair soft-lifted by the winnowing wind;
Or on a half-reap’d furrow sound asleep,
Drows’d with the fume of poppies, while thy hook
Spares the next swath and all its twined flowers:
And sometimes like a gleaner thou dost keep
Steady thy laden head across a brook;
Or by a cyder-press, with patient look,
Thou watchest the last oozings hours by hours.
Where are the songs of Spring? Ay, where are they?
Think not of them, thou hast thy music too,—
While barred clouds bloom the soft-dying day,
And touch the stubble plains with rosy hue;
Then in a wailful choir the small gnats mourn
Among the river sallows, borne aloft
Or sinking as the light wind lives or dies;
And full-grown lambs loud bleat from hilly bourn;
Hedge-crickets sing; and now with treble soft
The red-breast whistles from a garden-croft;
And gathering swallows twitter in the skies
-
I check here often just to ENJOY the poems you share and each one says a hundred words that are not written except in my mind as I read ..What I see are people , the poets themselves and the readers and posters is It is true we only have one life to live but when you enjoy the wonder of each second , of the world , the beauty that is there then even a short life seems wonderful The poem I am posting is not a poem about autumn or winter but a poem for each minute of our lives..
A MAP OF THE WORLD
One of the ancient maps of the world
is heart shaped, carefully drawn
and once washed with bright colors,
though the colors are faded
as you might expect feelings to fade
from a fragile old heart, the brown map
of a life. But feeling is indelible,
and longing infinite,a starburst compasss
pointing in all directions
two lovers might go, a fresh breeze
swelling their sails, the future uncharted;
still far from the edge
where the seas pour into the stars.
by one of my favorite poets TED KOOSER
anna
-
How about this one?
"The breezes taste
Of apple peel.
The air is full
Of smells to feel-
Ripe fruit, old footballs,
Burning brush,
New books, erasers,
Chalk, and such.
The bee, his hive,
Well-honeyed hum,
And Mother cuts
Chrysanthemums.
Like plates washed clean
With suds, the days
Are polished with
A morning haze."
- John Updike, September
-
Oh Babi - w-o-n-d-e-r-f-u-l down to "the plates washed clean with suds" - you had to have hand-washed dishes to appreciate that imagery.
Anna that last line of Ted Kooser's poem makes you stop in your tracks. "where the seas pour into the stars"
-
SEPTEMBER POEM
~ Helen Hunt Jackson
The goldenrod is yellow,
The corn is turning brown,
The trees in apple orchards
With fruit are bending down;
The gentian’s bluest fringes
Are curling in the sun;
In dusty pods the milkweed
Its hidden silk has spun;
The sedges flaunt their harvest
In every meadow nook,
And asters by the brookside
Make asters in the brook;
From dewy lanes at morning
The grapes’ sweet odors rise;
At noon the roads all flutter
With yellow butterflies–
By all these lovely tokens
September days are here,
With summer’s best of weather
And autumn’s best of cheer.
-
Thanks Barb - Keats is my favourite English poet. I think this is probably due to my English professor, with whom I was in love. When he recited Keats to the class I used to go all dreamy and warm and fuzzy. Did you see the movie "Bright Star? The strange thing about that film was that Keats was identical to that English professor. My favourite of all his poems is definitely "La Belle Dame sans Merci". May I break out of Autumn to include it here? I am sure most of the folks on here know the poem, but I would like to reintroduce it. Thanks again for the inspiration. btw It is Spring here. September is my favourite month,
-
Have at it roshanarose - we certainly were not faithful to summer where we - certain poems just cry to be shared and we use the seasons as a way to have some structure however, even your situation - autumn on the calendar but springtime is blooming - hopefully you also have a few Aussie poets you will share with us - it would be fun to know your thoughts on the work of some of your national poets.
-
I would like to be able to post an art work by one of the Pre-Raphaelites here, depicting the knight and the beautiful woman without pity, but I don't know how to do it. Ginny explained how to in detail but I can't seem to get it.
Enjoy the poem anyway.
For the record there are two versions of this poem - the original version written in 1819 and the published version in 1820. Some day I will make an attempt to learn why this was the case. I, personally, prefer the original. Enjoy!
Original version of La Belle Dame Sans Merci, 1819
Oh what can ail thee, knight-at-arms,
Alone and palely loitering?
The sedge has withered from the lake,
And no birds sing.
Oh what can ail thee, knight-at-arms,
So haggard and so woe-begone?
The squirrel's granary is full,
And the harvest's done.
I see a lily on thy brow,
With anguish moist and fever-dew,
And on thy cheeks a fading rose
Fast withereth too.
I met a lady in the meads,
Full beautiful - a faery's child,
Her hair was long, her foot was light,
And her eyes were wild.
I made a garland for her head,
And bracelets too, and fragrant zone;
She looked at me as she did love,
And made sweet moan.
I set her on my pacing steed,
And nothing else saw all day long,
For sidelong would she bend, and sing
A faery's song.
She found me roots of relish sweet,
And honey wild, and manna-dew,
And sure in language strange she said -
'I love thee true'.
She took me to her elfin grot,
And there she wept and sighed full sore,
And there I shut her wild wild eyes
With kisses four.
And there she lulled me asleep
And there I dreamed - Ah! woe betide! -
The latest dream I ever dreamt
On the cold hill side.
I saw pale kings and princes too,
Pale warriors, death-pale were they all;
They cried - 'La Belle Dame sans Merci
Hath thee in thrall!'
I saw their starved lips in the gloam,
With horrid warning gaped wide,
And I awoke and found me here,
On the cold hill's side.
And this is why I sojourn here
Alone and palely loitering,
Though the sedge is withered from the lake,
And no birds sing.
-
In truth, Barbara, I am not a great reader of Australian poetry. As I recall Gumtree and I posted some poetry by Adam Lindsay Gordon, Henry Lawson and "The Man From Snowy River" a while ago. You have now set me a task - I will take a closer look at Australian poets.
-
How lovely - I just fell into a dream state reading La Belle Dame Sans Merci - brings back all those wonderful stories about knights and forbidden love or love versus an arranged union and knights on a quest - Tristram and Isolde - Abelard and Heloise - Lancelot and Guinevere - Roswall and Lillian - Sir Gowther - Sir Gawain - on and on - such lovely reads - nice to curl up with when in a couple of months the wind blows and the house is quiet.
I do not know if either of these are the paintings you had in mind roshanarose since several of the Pre-Raphaelites painted their vision of this poem - of them these are my two favorites - The Sir Frank Diksee's version and the Henry Meynell Rheam version - usually Waterhouse is my favorite artist of this period but this time his version for me not so...
(http://www.cwrl.utexas.edu/~bump/E392M/cp/WindAmongtheReeds/DikseeBelleDameSansMerci.jpg)
(http://www.1st-art-gallery.com/thumbnail/173652/1/La-Belle-Dame-Sans-Merci.jpg width=290 height=400)
-
Beautiful paintings, BARB. I especially liked Dicksee's version.
-
They are aren't they Babi - I wouldn't want them in my home but they are lovely to see from time to time. The other from this period I love is the Waterhouse version of The Lady of Shalott
Back to autumn... Here in Texas we are not anywhere near popping into winter jackets but then many areas in the north are already feeling a nip in the air when the sun goes down. In fact all the talk of Autumn for us is like photos in a fantasy storybook - we do not see changes in leaves or sweater weather till November and sometimes December - our way of knowing it is Autumn is the sun sets earlier and every town is preparing or just getting over Friday Night Football
Autumn Song
Katherine Mansfield
Now's the time when children's noses
All become as red as roses
And the colour of their faces
Makes me think of orchard places
Where the juicy apples grow,
And tomatoes in a row.
Come then, find your ball and racket,
Pop into your winter jacket,
With the lovely bear-skin lining.
While the sun is brightly shining,
Let us run and play together
And just love the autumn weather.
-
Barb - This day you are my hero/heroine. I somehow felt that you would post those beautiful pix if I hinted. And Katherine Mansfield is one of my favourite short story writers. She wrote one about a Tea Party that I especially love. Thank you. Merci. Ευχαριστώ πάρα πολύ.
-
The Queen and the Soldier
Suzanne Vega
The soldier came knocking upon the queen's door
He said, "I am not fighting for you any more"
The queen knew she'd seen his face someplace before
And slowly she let him inside.
He said, "I've watched your palace up here on the hill
And I've wondered who's the woman for whom we all kill
But I am leaving tomorrow and you can do what you will
Only first I am asking you why."
Down in the long narrow hall he was led
Into her rooms with her tapestries red
And she never once took the crown from her head
She asked him there to sit down.
He said, "I see you now, and you are so very young
But I've seen more battles lost than I have battles won
And I've got this intuition, says it's all for your fun
And now will you tell me why?"
The young queen, she fixed him with an arrogant eye
She said, "You won't understand, and you may as well not try"
But her face was a child's, and he thought she would cry
But she closed herself up like a fan.
And she said, "I've swallowed a secret burning thread
It cuts me inside, and often I've bled"
He laid his hand then on top of her head
And he bowed her down to the ground.
"Tell me how hungry are you? How weak you must feel
As you are living here alone, and you are never revealed
But I won't march again on your battlefield"
And he took her to the window to see.
And the sun, it was gold, though the sky, it was gray
And she wanted more than she ever could say
But she knew how it frightened her, and she turned away
And would not look at his face again.
And he said, "I want to live as an honest man
To get all I deserve and to give all I can
And to love a young woman who I don't understand
Your highness, your ways are very strange."
But the crown, it had fallen, and she thought she would break
And she stood there, ashamed of the way her heart ached
She took him to the doorstep and she asked him to wait
She would only be a moment inside.
Out in the distance her order was heard
And the soldier was killed, still waiting for her word
And while the queen went on strangling in the solitude she preferred
The battle continued on"
Sorry if I have mucked up the page size again Barbara. This song always reminds me of "La Belle Dame sans Marci". Reads like poetry, is a song, but to me it is a very clear portrait of that soldier and his young queen. I can easily visualise them.
-
Oh, I didn't like that one, ROSE. Upsetting really. Are all Vegas' poems like that?
-
Babi - I am so sorry. Perhaps if you heard the song it would be better. Vega tells it as it is.
-
Ah the dichotomy of caring for your people and holding the land so they are not subject to the will of an invader - difficult to see as a participant as individual soldiers loose their identity and become corps, divisions, regiments and brigades of soldiers.
Well I had a night of it - flooding all over Austin - from 12 to 15 inches of rain fell and the rushing water hopped the curb making my front lawn a lake and traveling down the driveway into the garage - thank Goodness I was still up and at 1:30 in the morning in the pouring down rain I am out there with a hoe scrapping all the grass making a trench a foot wide across my lawn to give the water another channel - By doing so i kept the water from hopping the sill in the garage and getting into the house - just as I was finished we lost our electricity - thank goodness I could feel my way to a box of matches and the candle I keep for emergency and that was enough light to pull down the other candles and then called the city electric company on my cell.
It was hot without the AC so I opened a few windows rain or not and sat on the sofa after getting out of my wet clothes - of course fell asleep and the the electric company called at 4:45 to tell me service was back. In a stupor I went to bed, clothes and all. Never closed the windows so I cooled all the out of doors but I was dead on my feet and didn't wake up till after 11: this morning.
Now for the cleanup - thank goodness the only thing I worried about in the garage was the lawn mower and I got it wheeled up on the sill - the rest I cleared earlier in the summer when my grandson visited so he had a place for his vehicle next to mine.
Well I am off to the salt mines... ;)
Stevie Ray Vaughan Lyrics:
Texas Flood
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=s9YBGaozZW0&feature=related
Well there's floodin' down in Texas....All of the telephone lines are down
Well there's floodin' down in Texas....All of the telephone lines are down
And I've been tryin' to call my baby....Lord and I can't get a single sound
Well dark clouds are rollin' in....Man I'm standin' out in the rain
Well dark clouds are rollin' in....Man I'm standin' out in the rain
Yeah flood water keep a rollin'....Man it's about to drive poor me insane
Well I'm leavin' you baby....Lord and I'm goin' back home to stay
Well I'm leavin' you baby....Lord and I'm goin' back home to stay
Well back home I know floods and tornados....Baby the sun shines every day
-
Nature is the true leveller.
-
Oh, no need to apologize, ROSE. We all have our likes and dislikes.
That one just struck me harshly.
Oh, BARB, you are having a rough time in Austin this year. If it's not
drought, it's flood. I'm glad you at least didn't have empty out your
garage. Thank goodness for small blessings.
-
Barb, thank goodness the rain didn't get in your garage. We had some downpours here yesterday, and even the tornado sirens went off, which scared me! We watched the weather continually, but were able to determine the cloud was moving in another direction. It did blow an 18 wheeler tractor trailer into a building, which is no longer structurally safe. This was in an industrial type area, not too far from Love Field, and my husband comes home that way every day, but he was already home by the time the wall cloud came up. We got a lot of rain too.
-
The Cloud
~ Percy Bysshe Shelley (1792–1822)
I BRING fresh showers for the thirsting flowers,
From the seas and the streams;
I bear light shade for the leaves when laid
In their noonday dreams.
From my wings are shaken the dews that waken
The sweet buds every one,
When rocked to rest on their mother’s breast,
As she dances about the sun.
I wield the flail of the lashing hail,
And whiten the green plains under,
And then again I dissolve it in rain,
And laugh as I pass in thunder.
I sift the snow on the mountains below,
And their great pines groan aghast;
And all the night ’tis my pillow white,
While I sleep in the arms of the blast.
Sublime on the towers of my skiey bowers,
Lightning my pilot sits,
In a cavern under is fretted the thunder,
It struggles and howls at fits;
Over earth and ocean, with gentle motion,
This pilot is guiding me,
Lured by the love of the genii that move
In the depths of the purple sea;
Over the rills, and the crags, and the hills,
Over the lakes and the plains,
Wherever he dream, under mountain or stream
The Spirit he loves remains;
And I all the while bask in heaven’s blue smile,
Whilst he is dissolving in rains.
The sanguine sunrise, with his meteor eyes,
And his burning plumes outspread,
Leaps on the back of my sailing rack,
When the morning star shines dead,
As on the jag of a mountain crag,
Which an earthquake rocks and swings,
An eagle alit one moment may sit
In the light of its golden wings.
And when sunset may breathe from the lit sea beneath,
Its ardours of rest and of love,
And the crimson pall of eve may fall
From the depth of heaven above,
With wings folded I rest, on mine airy nest,
As still as a brooding dove.
That orbèd maiden with white fire laden,
Whom mortals call the moon,
Glides glimmering o’er my fleece-like floor,
By the midnight breezes strewn;
And wherever the beat of her unseen feet,
Which only the angels hear,
May have broken the woof of my tent’s thin roof,
The stars peep behind her and peer;
And I laugh to see them whirl and flee,
Like a swarm of golden bees,
When I widen the rent in my wind-built tent,
Till the calm rivers, lakes, and seas,
Like strips of the sky fallen through me on high,
Are each paved with the moon and these.
I bind the sun’s throne with a burning zone,
And the moon’s with a girdle of pearl;
The volcanoes are dim, and the stars reel and swim,
When the whirlwinds my banner unfurl.
From cape to cape, with a bridge-like shape,
Over a torrent sea,
Sunbeam-proof, I hang like a roof,
The mountains its columns be.
The triumphal arch through which I march
With hurricane, fire, and snow,
When the powers of the air are chained to my chair,
Is the million-coloured bow;
The sphere-fire above its soft colours wove,
While the moist earth was laughing below.
I am the daughter of earth and water,
And the nursling of the sky;
I pass through the pores of the ocean and shores;
I change, but I cannot die.
For after the rain when with never a stain,
The pavilion of heaven is bare,
And the winds and sunbeams with their convex gleams,
Build up the blue dome of air,
I silently laugh at my own cenotaph,
And out of the caverns of rain,
Like a child from the womb, like a ghost from the tomb,
I arise and unbuild it again.
-
Incantation
~ by Czeslaw Milosz
Human reason is beautiful and invincible.
No bars, no barbed wire, no pulping of books,
No sentence of banishment can prevail against it.
It establishes the universal ideas in language,
And guides our hand so we write Truth and Justice
With capital letters, lie and oppression with small.
It puts what should be above things as they are,
Is an enemy of despair and a friend of hope.
It does not know Jew from Greek or slave from master,
Giving us the estate of the world to manage.
It saves austere and transparent phrases
From the filthy discord of tortured words.
It says that everything is new under the sun,
Opens the congealed fist of the past.
Beautiful and very young are Philo-Sophia
And poetry, her ally in the service of the good.
As late as yesterday Nature celebrated their birth,
The news was brought to the mountains by a unicorn and an echo.
Their friendship will be glorious, their time has no limit.
Their enemies have delivered themselves to destruction.
Berkeley, 1968
-
My life is in-between
My intolerance-mind
And
My tolerance-heart.
From my heart I learn
Tolerance-songs,
And from my mind I learn
Indulgence-stories.
by Sri Chinmoy
-
This poem is a Ghazal pronounced ("ghuzzle") is an Arabic word that means "talking to women," developed in Persia in the 10th century AD from the Arabic verse form qasida. It was brought to India with the Mogul invasion in the 12th century. Ghazals are set to music. A number of American poets, including Adrienne Rich and W.S. Merwin, have written Ghazals.
A traditional Ghazal consists of five to fifteen couplets. A refrain (a repeated word or phrase) appears at the end of both lines of the first couplet and at the end of the second line in each succeeding couplet. In addition, one or more words before the refrain are rhymes or partial rhymes. The lines should be of approximately the same length and meter. The poet may use the final couplet as a signature couplet, using his or her name in first, second or third person, and giving a more direct declaration of thought or feeling to the reader.
Each couplet should be a poem in itself, like a pearl in a necklace. There should not be continuous development of a subject from one couplet to the next through the poem. The refrain provides a link among the couplets, but they should be detachable, quotable, grammatical units. There should be an epigrammatic terseness, yet each couplet should be lyric and evocative.
Bombay: my soul mate
~ by shuchika
I love Mumbai. I call it Mumbai because words have been beaten into coercion. Fear got added to Mumbai’s lexicon years ago.
The town I had come to, the town I had fallen in love with was called Bombay. The issue is not what you call it today, the issue is fear.
I fell in love with Mumbai after I read Midnight’s children. And Rushdie’s Bombay became my karmbhoomi. Till yesterday, I busied myself writing about the humdrum of my Corporate existence. Or what I did with my weekends.
I have never felt like taking sides on this blog. Political alignment of any kind in blog or life is very worthless for me. But I cant see my Bombay and your Mumbai burning and I want to tell you what this town means for outsiders.
My first idea of Bombay was of course fueled by Bollywood cinemas. A simple small town girl descends from the train in search of her lost beau and ends up in a brothel full of greedy aunts and honey soaked Mamajis. What I had for Bombay then was probably what David would have for Goliath before he actually met him.
And then there was Rushdie’s Bombay. Raw. Unnerving. Crazy. Yet so lovable.
I came to Mumbai alone in 1999. One cold train journey alone sealed my destiny in the city. The first time I came here, I did what any rustic country cousin does. I gobbled Batata Vada from Ratna Giri to Mumbai. I went to Marine Drive when it rained. I bought shoes from Linking Road scarves from Colaba. I made a house, a sand house like all hopeless romantics on Juhu Beach. It is my lucky charm in this city.
When Carry Bradshaw asks Louise from St Louise, why did you come to New York in the movie Sex and the City, she replies unhesitant; “to find love”. I felt the same gnawing in Mumbai.
I owe so much to the city. My pay cheques. My Independence. Myself. In the fret for love, it is here I found myself.My true self.
And suddenly I am being told that I am not welcome. I am a Bihari. And by the way nor is Amitabh Bachchan, he is a UPite. Or Shahrukh Khan, he is from Delhi Maybe even poet Gulzaar, he is from Lahore (OMG !!!) What about Unnikrishan (who was slain fighting for this city ?). And Shabana Azmi, who once went on hunger strike fighting for slum dwellers (she is a Muslim from Azamgarh, she was never welcome).
What about Rushdie? A writer, muslim by religion, shunned by muslims world over, ( would that make him your ally ?) a Bombay boy, not welcome in his own country, who loves Bombay perhaps as much as you do, how would you, react to Rushdie, who is its best brand ambassador, ( read his piece on Mumbai Meri Jaan) which box would you put him into “hate them all”?
Your brand of politics in dated. India is at a crossroad. Maharastra is at a crossroad. There is stiff competition among states. Take lessons from Modi. Or condescend further. Take lessons from Nitish Kumar. You and uncle’s agenda are as old as the uncle himself. Political symbolisms in India have evolved from vandalism, beating up Muslims to train journeys with common man and dalit visits.
First, it was South Indians, then Muslims, now UP ites and Biharis. Very soon you will out of work because there would be nobody left to hate.
I still think calling Khan a traitor was the real low point. He is a goddamn youth icon. He is what Mumbai stands for.
And by the way, if you really want to unwelcome me you have to do a lot before you can get down to turning me out. You have got to throw out all the colleges and Institutions that invite nationwide talent. You have got to ask all organizations that employ us Indians here. You would have to ask bollywood to go fuck itself elsewhere. You would have to stop trains from UP- Bihar at Igatpuri or before. You would have to make the cities unsafe for women; you would have to stop the financial fulcrum of Mumbai. You would have to make Mumbai difficult to navigate. You would have to stop Gulzaar from reading Izhaar Khan’s poetry at Bandra Fort. Because these are the things and people who make Mumbai, not you.
So stop your rhetoric, and make clouds out of the cardboard box you put people into. I recommend poetry at Bandra fort for your political detox.
I have resolved to protect my sand house at Juhu Beach. Let’s see whose side the sea is on.
-
Beautiful and very young are Philo-Sophia
And poetry, her ally in the service of the good.
I like that; poetry as an ally of philosophy.
The repeated refrains must have gotten lost in translation on the Ghazal. The whole thing
reads more like a blog, full of the author's views and commentary.
I think I may have posted this one before, but I do like it so much.
Nature XXVII, Autumn
by Emily Dickinson
The morns are meeker than they were,
The nuts are getting brown;
The berry's cheek is plumper,
The rose is out of town.
The maple wears a gayer scarf,
The field a scarlet gown.
Lest I should be old-fashioned,
I'll put a trinket on.
-
Emily alwasy brings us back to what is important doesn't she - a couple of poems by Emily Dickinson
Heaven is what I cannot reach!
The apple on the tree,
Provided it do hopless hang,
That "heaven" is, to me.
The color on the cruising cloud,
The interdicted ground
Behind the hill, the house behind, --
There Paradise is found!
I Taste A Liquor Never Brewed
I taste a liquor never brewed,
From tankards scooped in pearl;
Not all the vats upon the Rhine
Yield such an alcohol!
Inebriate of air am I,
And debauchee of dew,
Reeling, through endless summer days,
From inns of molten blue.
When the landlord turn the drunken bee
Out of the foxglove's door,
When butterflies renounce their drams,
I shall but drink the more!
Till seraphs swing their snowy hats,
And saints to windows run,
To see the little tippler
Leaning against the sun!
-
The Oak
~ Alfred Lord Tennyson
Live thy Life,
Young and old,
Like yon oak,
Bright in spring,
Living gold;
Summer-rich
Then; and then
Autumn-changed
Soberer-hued
Gold again.
All his leaves
Fall'n at length,
Look, he stands,
Trunk and bough
Naked strength.
-
Here is one of our poets. He was a Hippy type of person he was prolific in the sixties and seventies of the last century. He had a commune where people came and went on a sort of pilgrimage.
Tomcat
This tomcat cuts across
zones of the respectable
through fences, walls, following
other routes, his own. I see
the sad whiskered skull-mouth fall
wide, complainingly, asking
to be picked up and fed, when
I thump up the steps through bush
at 4tm. He has no
dignity, thank God! Has grown
older, scruffier, the ash-
black coat sporting one or two
flowers like round stars, badges
of bouts and fights. The snake head
is seamed on top with rough scars:
old Samurai! He lodges
in cellars, and the tight furred
scrotum drives him into wars
As if mad, yet tumbling on
the rug looks female, Turkish-
Trousered. His bagpipe shriek at
Sluggish dawn dragged me out in
Pyjamas to comb the bush
(he being under the vet
for septic bites). The old fool
stood, body hard as a board,
heart thudding, hair on end, at
the house corner, terrible,
yelling at something. They said
'Get him doctored.' I think not.
- James K. Baxter.
-
Thanks Kiwi - I was not familier with him or his work - what a great poem you chose as an introductin - of course had to find out a bit more about him - this is a nice link that offers a synopsis of his life - http://www.poetseers.org/poets/james_baxter/
There is something that calls in this poem included in the artticle. It could be just that it is the truth about life although all of us are not angry.
High Country Weather
- James K. Baxter
Alone we are born,
And die alone.
Yet see the red-gold cirrus,
Over snow-mountain shine.
Upon the upland,
Ride easy stranger.
Surrender to the sky,
Your heart of anger.
-
Thanks so much for the Dickinson poems, BARB. They're always a pleasure.
I like James Baxter and his cat, KIWI. 'Samurai'...what a perfect name
for a tom. I know just what he means about having septic wounds to
treat. With our long-haired cat, we don't even know he has an injury
until he gets sick from them! And he is neutered. Doesn't mean he can't
get hurt.
-
not exactly a poem but oh such a reminder that we need from time to time.
The Paradoxical Commandments
by Dr. Kent M. Keith
People are illogical, unreasonable, and self-centered.
Love them anyway.
If you do good, people will accuse you of selfish ulterior motives.
Do good anyway.
If you are successful, you will win false friends and true enemies.
Succeed anyway.
The good you do today will be forgotten tomorrow.
Do good anyway.
Honesty and frankness make you vulnerable.
Be honest and frank anyway.
The biggest men and women with the biggest ideas can be shot down by the smallest men and women with the smallest minds.
Think big anyway.
People favor underdogs but follow only top dogs.
Fight for a few underdogs anyway.
What you spend years building may be destroyed overnight.
Build anyway.
People really need help but may attack you if you do help them.
Help people anyway.
Give the world the best you have and you'll get kicked in the teeth.
Give the world the best you have anyway.
© Copyright Kent M. Keith 1968, renewed 2001
-
Good thoughts, BARB. I remember having seen this before; don't know
when or where, but I like it.
-
Wild Geese
~ Mary Oliver
You do not have to be good.
You do not have to walk on your knees
for a hundred miles through the desert, repenting.
You only have to let the soft animal of your body
love what it loves.
Tell me about despair, yours, and I will tell you mine.
Meanwhile the world goes on.
Meanwhile the sun and the clear pebbles of the rain
are moving across the landscapes,
over the prairies and the deep trees,
the mountains and the rivers.
Meanwhile the wild geese, high in the clean blue air,
are heading home again.
Whoever you are, no matter how lonely,
the world offers itself to your imagination,
calls to you like the wild geese, harsh and exciting--
over and over announcing your place
in the family of things.
-
After Apple-Picking
~ Robert Frost
My long two-pointed ladder's sticking through a tree
Toward heaven still,
And there's a barrel that I didn't fill
Beside it, and there may be two or three
Apples I didn't pick upon some bough.
But I am done with apple-picking now.
Essence of winter sleep is on the night,
The scent of apples: I am drowsing off.
I cannot rub the strangeness from my sight
I got from looking through a pane of glass
I skimmed this morning from the drinking trough
And held against the world of hoary grass.
It melted, and I let it fall and break.
But I was well
Upon my way to sleep before it fell,
And I could tell
What form my dreaming was about to take.
Magnified apples appear and disappear,
Stem end and blossom end,
And every fleck of russet showing clear.
My instep arch not only keeps the ache,
It keeps the pressure of a ladder-round.
I feel the ladder sway as the boughs bend.
And I keep hearing from the cellar bin
The rumbling sound
Of load on load of apples coming in.
For I have had too much
Of apple-picking: I am overtired
Of the great harvest I myself desired.
There were ten thousand thousand fruit to touch,
Cherish in hand, lift down, and not let fall.
For all
That struck the earth,
No matter if not bruised or spiked with stubble,
Went surely to the cider-apple heap
As of no worth.
One can see what will trouble
This sleep of mine, whatever sleep it is.
Were he not gone,
The woodchuck could say whether it's like his
Long sleep, as I describe its coming on,
Or just some human sleep.
-
(http://seniorlearn.org/bookclubs/poetry/poetryfall10.jpg)
|
The Apple Orchard
~ by Shawn Bailey
The dew-softened blades
of fescue wet my feet,
small brushstrokes of icy wetness
on my way to the orchard.
The sunlight scatters
the morning mist
that shelters the trees from
the horizon.
I spy the juicy red apples
lounging in the trees,
moist with dawn
and there are thousands of them.
Fruitful, edible decor.
|
Autumn Poetry
In this Discussion we share what stirs our heart -
Bring us a gift of a poem
Yours, or the work of another poet. - Famous Poets and Poems about Autumn (http://famouspoetsandpoems.com/thematic_poems/autumn_poems.html)
- Fall Season Poems (http://poetry.about.com/od/ourpoemcollections/a/autumnpoems.htm)
Discussion Leaders: Barb (augere@ix.netcom.com) & fairanna (fairanna@verizon.net)
-
A beautiful poem. A remarkable poet. Any writer who can make use of my senses is remarkable. I can smell those apples. Mmmmm so sweet and tangy. Thanks for the sensation (scentsation).
-
Oh, we all recognize what happens when the day has been full of a
repetitious chose, don't we? Frost captures it beautifully. Sometimes
in my mind I would feel that I could not fall asleep until I had
finished some vague, demanding chore.
Only in dreams or half-sleep do images merge with sounds and scents.
What do you think of this one?
The Song in the Dream
by Saskia Hamilton
The song itself had hinges. The clasp on the eighteenth-century Bible
had hinges, which creaked; when you released the catch,
the book would sigh and expand.
The song was of two wholes joined by hinges,
and I was worried about the joining, the spaces in between
the joints, the weight of each side straining them.
-
hmmm that poem took me all over with thoughts - maybe the song is the opening hinges - and then I thought of the hinges on doors and trunks and the connections that are held in place by the hinges as well as the one who opens the lid or door causing the hinges to sing. Wonderful metaphor - interesting how we no longer hinge book covers -
I am thinking that anything hinged holds something we value - when I was young diaries were still hinged - today what is essentially a personal diary is the makings of a blog or page on facebook or a constent twitter announcing your thoughts to who ever in the world wants to know.
But then I look around in this room and notice the most inane doors are hinged - the door to the room, the closet door and the doors to two cabinets that hold things like paper. ink and folders and sets of instructional tapes. Nothing on the level of an eighteenth century Bible. I wonder if eighteenth century Koran's were hinged and then I wonder what other religions keep holy certain books and if so what are they and how were they clasped.
-
Shel silverstein has a silly poem about Hinges...
Hinges
If we had hinges on our head
There wouldn't be no sin,
'Cause we could take the bad stuff out
And leave the good stuff in.
-
here is another Hinge poem by Maggie Dietz.
Hinge
In a damp camel wool coat
The door-hinges creaked
Thickened with Winston smoke
Fresh snow on the fedora's rim
He waited for them
Turning to dew in the kitchen
Until they came from their work
Steam rising from his shoulders
Assembling oranges and cloves
Like smoke
Losing the oranges, rusted as hinges
His eyes invisible
(Like bushes surrounded with bees)
Behind glasses frosted as flutes
They flocked to that place
In the safe cupboard …
-
The creaking hinge of my cranium has allowed a Greek poem to venture out onto this page.
ITHAKA
Constantine Cavafy
As you set out for Ithaka
hope your road is a long one,
full of adventure, full of discovery.
Laistrygonians, Cyclops,
angry Poseidon - don't be afraid of them:
you'll never find things like that one on your way
as long as you keep your thoughts raised high,
as long as a rare excitement
stirs your spirit and your body.
Laistrygonians, Cyclops,
wild Poseidon - you won't encounter them
unless you bring them along inside your soul,
unless your soul sets them up in front of you.
Hope your road is a long one.
May there be many summer mornings when,
with what pleasure, what joy,
you enter harbours you're seeing for the first time;
may you stop at Phoenician trading stations
to buy fine things,
mother of pearl and coral, amber and ebony,
sensual perfumes of every kind -
as many sensual perfumes as you can;
and may you visit many Egyptian cities
to learn and go on learning from their scholars.
Keep Ithaka always in your mind.
Arriving there is what you're destined for.
But don't hurry the journey at all.
Better if it lasts for years,
so you're old by the time you reach the island,
wealthy with all you've gained on the way,
not expecting Ithaka to make you rich.
Ithaka gave you the marvellous journey.
Without her you wouldn't have set out.
She has nothing left to give you now.
And if you find her poor, Ithaka won't have fooled you.
Wise as you will have become, so full of experience,
you'll have understood by then what these Ithakas mean
-
marvelous - exotic and wise... I love it...
-
Barb, the line that stood out to me in 'Song in the Dream, and seemed
to hold it's meaning, is "when you released the catch,
the book would sigh and expand".
The poet speaks of two halves joined by the hinges and her fear of the
strain on that joining. It speaks to me of a relationship that has become very confining.
-
And if we have Greek poets, are they to be followed by Romans? Here is young Virgil, before he wrote the Aeneid, in a (one of many) period when Rome was in chaos:
From GEORGICS I
by Virgil
I feel the dread,
and the sun burns me, burns like a fever.
The world is full of war, and at home, crime
resembles a war. Men flock to the city
leaving their fields to weeds, their tools to rust.
Plowshares now are beaten into swords.
It’s bad in Asia, bad in Europe, bad...
No treaties hold, no laws hold, nothing
But Mars, blood red ... He holds it all
hurtling through the sky in his chariot.
I feel those wheels rumble. I feel the sway
of speed. The horses are mad and running faster.
They ought to check. They ought to answer the reins.
There ought to be reins.
But there are none.
-
Wow Joan talk about descriptive - no wonder we still read Virgil - I can almost take this poem and tweek the words about the men who first left their farms for the city manufacturing job and now their children leave their home for want of any job.
No treaties hold, no laws hold the problem, there are no laws preventing or making it difficult for companies to send their manufacturing to other nations. Well I better be careful I am sounding too political however, I feel the dread of rumbling wheels that have been with us now for nearly a decade.
Babi when you spoke of the joining I started to look for photos of 18 century hinged bibles and found this nugget - evidently the 17th century Bible Box was the beginnings of a what later became a desk.
http://www.collectorsweekly.com/articles/bible-boxes-were-also-desks/
-
Goodness, JoanK, you're going to get me to read Virgil yet. That's magnificent. It could be a description of every lawless period from then to now.
Roshanarose, I really like "Ithaka". Here and in the "Author, Author" discussion you're reminding me of a poet I hadn't thought about for a few years. Time to do some rereading.
-
He is saying "Stop the World I want to get off!" but he knows its too late and he cannot stop what is happening. Like many of our generation feel about the world situation right now.
Carolyn
-
"The horses are mad and running faster.
They ought to check. They ought to answer the reins.
There ought to be reins.
But there are none."
-
I loved the Virgil poem also.
I thought that you might like to know that "Ithaka" was read by Maurice Templesman at Jacqueline Kennedy Onassis' funeral.
-
change of pace
An Arab Love-Song
~ Francis Thompson. 1859–1907
THE hunchèd camels of the night
Trouble the bright
And silver waters of the moon.
The Maiden of the Morn will soon
Through Heaven stray and sing,
Star gathering.
Now while the dark about our loves is strewn,
Light of my dark, blood of my heart, O come!
And night will catch her breath up, and be dumb.
Leave thy father, leave thy mother
And thy brother;
Leave the black tents of thy tribe apart!
Am I not thy father and thy brother,
And thy mother?
And thou—what needest with thy tribe's black tents
Who hast the red pavilion of my heart?
-
I wonder if his song is after hearing the hinges on a Bible
Go, songs, for ended is our brief, sweet play
~ by Francis Thompson
Go, songs, for ended is our brief, sweet play;
Go, children of swift joy and tardy sorrow:
And some are sung, and that was yesterday,
And some are unsung, and that may be tomorrow.
Go forth; and if it be o'er stony way,
Old joy can lend what newer grief must borrow:
And it was sweet, and that was yesterday,
And sweet is sweet, though purchased with sorrow.
Go, songs, and come not back from your far way:
And if men ask you why ye smile and sorrow,
Tell them ye grieve, for your hearts know Today,
Tell them ye smile, for your eyes know Tomorrow.
-
I kept thinking it was Shelley and couldn't find this poem to Virgil - voila found it however it is Lord Tennyson who wrote
To Virgil
~ by Lord Alfred Tennyson at the Request of the Mantuans for the 19th Centenary of Virgil's Death
Roman Virgil, thou that singest
Ilion's lofty temples robed in fire,
Ilion falling, Rome arising,
wars, and filial faith, and Dido's pyre;
Landscape-lover, lord of language
more than he that sang the Works and Days,
All the chosen coin of fancy
flashing out from many a golden phrase;
Thou that singest wheat and woodland,
tilth and vineyard, hive and horse and herd;
All the charm of all the Muses
often flowering in a lonely word;
Poet of the happy Tityrus
piping underneath his beechen bowers;
Poet of the poet-satyr
whom the laughing shepherd bound with flowers;
Chanter of the Pollio, glorying
in the blissful years again to be,
Summers of the snakeless meadow,
unlaborious earth and oarless sea;
Thou that seest Universal
Nature moved by Universal Mind;
Thou majestic in thy sadness
at the doubtful doom of human kind;
Light among the vanished ages;
star that gildest yet this phantom shore;
Golden branch amid the shadows,
kings and realms that pass to rise no more;
Now thy Forum roars no longer,
fallen every purple Caesar's dome -
Tho' thine ocean-roll of rhythm
sound for ever of Imperial Rome -
Now the Rome of slaves hath perished,
and the Rome of freemen holds her place,
I, from out the Northern Island
sundered once from all the human race,
I salute thee, Mantovano,
I that loved thee since my day began,
Wielder of the stateliest measure
ever moulded by the lips of man.
-
Oh, these were great! That poem of Virgil was so much more lovely
than the translation of his work that I read. The Arab love song was just right. And thanks for the article on the Bible boxes, BARB.
-
there are no laws preventing or making it difficult for companies to send their manufacturing to other nations.
I simply loved that "Virgil". Sending mfg. to other nations: this fall, well soon on TV, there will be a series (comedy) Outsourced (maybe not quite) There was a very cute little movie titled Outsourced, which was funny and enjoyable, but the permutations behind it are not funny. Day by day, week by week, more and more of us lose jobs to outsourcing. We need to make it difficult for companies to send their mfg. outside our borders.
Even the ancient poetry tells us "the more things change, the more things stay the same". Now I will step down before the political police jump all over me! LOL
-
Oh I come here and am fed ....my whole body, my senses , my mind , my heart ...I smile . I laugh , I weep and sigh for poets speak of so many things......how can people not love poetry ? I feel sadden for those who disdain and never read or hear poetry spoken....thank you everyone for sharing the poems posted .....I have read and re read the last two pages ---in them you offered a banquet ............and fed my heart, my soul, my mind...that is what poetry does ..reading poems from the past we are reminded the world has always been the same .......every since Cain killed Abel man has sought to destroy what God has wrought........instead of seeking ways to get along we keep inventing newer weapons, fists, stick. swords, guns , tanks, planes, and now weapons of mass destruction ..Whatever poet I have read I have learned something ...not always noble or good because poets SEE the world and write about what they see and feel
I am at a point where I have begun to feel able and capable again.. and each day I pick up one of my books of poetry because I need to read what someone has said and find something that speaks to me...and this discussion opens my mind as I read of newer poets ( not always young just new to me) I am going to share another of Ted Koosers Poems and bless you for your sharing
SCREECH OWL
All night each reedy, whinny
from a bird no bigger than a heart
flies out of a tall black pine
and , in a breath , is taken away
by the stars. Yet, with small hope
from the center of darkness,
it calls out again and again.
When I returned home ..finally ...I sat on a deck swing it was almost dark and in a tree I saw one of the owls that have lived here since we moved here in 1972.....I no longer hear them but know they are there......they prefer the tallest branches and in the past I never saw them but could hear them I am glad this one spent a few minutes visiting me before he flew away......it helped to make me feel welcome....always , anna
-
Hello Anna!
Lovely to meet you here.
Carolyn
-
What wonderful poems here today. I go into my day refreshed.
-
Barbara: Thanks for posting the Tennyson To Virgil. It's a poem of my youth and once I had it by heart but I haven't read it for such a long time though occasionally a few lines from it will flit through my mind - for years almost always when I come across something remarkable that someone has done ( in any field) I say to myself the line from the last verse:
I salute thee, Mantovano
That comma after thee, is a masterstroke by Tennyson as it emphasises both thee and Mantovano - at least in my reading.
- and now that I'm learning Latin with Ginny the final couplet takes on added meaning for me :
Wielder of the stateliest measure
ever moulded by the lips of man.
The more I learn of Latin the truer the stateliest measure becomes.
This is only one more example of how our appreciation of poetry grows with our own experience.
Again, my thanks - you quite made my day!
-
So glad you are home and feeling more yourself again, ANNA. Where do you live, that you have owls so close by? I don't believe I've ever seen a live owl.
I came across this; Goodfellow is new to me, but I like his style.
Morning Mist
Successive layers of mist
Slowly rise to greet us
We, the exhausted
Half insane from lack of sleep
yet unable to sustain our indifference
to the unfolding awesome beauty
A multi-layered mist
set against an awakening Sun
An incomprehensible ghost-dance
Shifting hues of soft light play upon our tired eyes
We drive slowly our breaths shallow and silent
for fear that the spell be broken and the mist disperse
Disperse like a forgotten dream.
Stephen Goodfellow
-
lovely Babi - driving back from my daughter's coming off t hose mountains I often can look down into a Valley of layers of mist - thank goodness the road is high enough so that I can drive on and not be blanketed.
I am remembering as a teen mist on the water so thick all you could hear was the sounds of a bouy rocking, a distant fog horn and the slapping of water against the side of the boat. The mist swallowed up human voices then gradually from gray and white it sparkled yellow and then an orange. You knew the sun was trying to break through and you had to quick cover up to prevent a severe sunburn that is brutal in a yellow mist. Slowly moving, calling out as we go we picked our way back to shore even before the mist would blow out to sea, always around 10: in the morning.
Thoreau does a poem about Mist
Mist
Low-anchored cloud,
Newfoundland air,
Fountain head and source of rivers,
Dew-cloth, dream drapery,
And napkin spread by fays;
Drifting meadow of the air,
Where bloom the dasied banks and violets,
And in whose fenny labyrinth
The bittern booms and heron wades;
Spirit of the lake and seas and rivers,
Bear only purfumes and the scent
Of healing herbs to just men's fields!
-
Robert Frost always pleases doesn't he...
Going for Water
~ Robert Frost (1915)
The well was dry beside the door,
And so we went with pail and can
Across the fields behind the house
To seek the brook if still it ran;
Not loth to have excuse to go,
Because the autumn eve was fair
(Though chill), because the fields were ours,
And by the brook our woods were there.
We ran as if to meet the moon
That slowly dawned behind the trees,
The barren boughs without the leaves,
Without the birds, without the breeze.
But once within the wood, we paused
Like gnomes that hid us from the moon,
Ready to run to hiding new
With laughter when she found us soon.
Each laid on other a staying hand
To listen ere we dared to look,
And in the hush we joined to make
We heard, we knew we heard the brook.
A note as from a single place,
A slender tinkling fall that made
Now drops that floated on the pool
Like pearls, and now a silver blade.
-
ah and the Irish mist...
The Lost Heifer
~ Austin Clarke
When the black herds of the rain were grazing,
In the gap of the pure cold wind
And the watery hazes of the hazel
Brought her into my mind,
I thought of the last honey by the water
That no hive can find.
Brightness was drenching through the branches
When she wandered again,
Turning sliver out of dark grasses
Where the skylark had lain,
And her voice coming softly over the meadow
Was the mist becoming rain.
-
Beautiful.
-
I have often found it interesting that a poem will make me SEE AND FEEL when only an exceptional piece of prose does the same ----
Growing up when we had 78 records played on wind up phonographs ..you didn't just hear it once but many times ...and when with my first pay check at 16 I purchased a Philco electric phono player it was MAGIC...and I played the records OVER AND OVER for myself and my friends..and memorized a lot of songs..I find that I often recall a special song and this week I have been singing THE SEPTEMBER SONG ... I don't recall who sang it but I keep feeling it was some one new from play whose name I don't recall I did copy it from the net since I wanted to make sure I was right AND I WAS and thought I would share my memory with you....
SEPTEMBER SONG
Oh, it's a long, long while from May to December
But the days grow short when you reach September
When the autumn weather turns the leaves to flame
One doesn't have time for the waiting game.
Oh , the days dwindle down to a precious few
September, November
And these few precious days I'll spend with you
These precious days I'll spend with you.
When we marry we always hope the precious days will last until the end ..but sadly that is not always true bur good memories do survive and that helps some......love to all .. anna
-
September Song is from the musical "Knickerbocker Holiday", with music by Kurt Weill and lyrics by Maxwell Anderson.
Weill said that whenever he wrote a song, he heard it in the voice of Lotte Lenya, his wife, singer, and best interpreter of his songs. So here's a clip of her singing it, though in this case I don't think she's that great. Her husky voice is perfect for a lot of his stuff, though.
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=rdc4oBnu_fw (http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=rdc4oBnu_fw)
-
Anna--amen to the rest of what you said.
-
A regional bit of knowledge us inlanders wouldn't know. I had
no idea one could get a bad sunburn as it came out of an orange
mist. In fact, I didn't know there was such a thing as yellow and
orange mist.
I liked Thoreau's "Mist" very much. The Frost I knew. Austin
Clarke's lost heifer puzzles me a bit. What has a heifer to do with a
honey hive? If this is a woman he is writing of, she won't thank him
to be called a heifer.
"SEPTEMBER SONG" is a favorite with me, ANNA.
-
Babi next to Yeats, Austin Clarke is Ireland's second best known and loved poet of that era. He was a Journalist in England for 15 years before going back to Ireland to write plays, novels and poems. His novels are out of print and a collection of his plays has been translated into English since 2000. His poetry has continued to be read and available in English. What is remarkable is how he wrote poetry in English using the poetry pattern of speech and rhythm of the Gallic.
You have to be careful looking up the novels of Austin Clarke since there is a more recent author from Canada with the same name. The Irish Austin Clarke writes as Yeats did about Ireland's past much of it in mythology.
The key to understanding the poem about the cows [which are in the rain like a black mass with no distinction between individual cows] is the line about the last honey near the water that no hive can find. You have to stretch a bit but it is a memory of a sweet time with his lady and so the soft rolling mist is reminding him of her loveliness. The cows, because they have a different look as if a surreal body of a black herd sets you up to realize in the mist and rain everything takes on a different form the easier to bring memory images to life.
Thanks for the memory Annafair, The 1920s and 30s sure was an era in the US of classical songs that still resonates and is included in the repertoire of only the best performers today. No whipping the crowds up with a Kurt Weill, Gershwin or Cole Porter song. September Song really captures the month doesn't it - the soft melody and then that line the days dwindle down - pause - to a precious few captures how the days are getting shorter in addition to the months of the year are only a few.
Oh yes, Babi when you are in a boat and there is a morning mist often it is not a gray and cloudy day so when the sun is in the sky it is as if each droplet of mist is a magnifying class for the sun and the mist takes on a yellowish orangey ting - looking at it from an area where you are out of the mist it still appears to be a light almost white gray. Not as dark as it was before the sun was high in the sky but in the middle of the mist it is no longer this gray mass and yes, in a mist just like on a bright overcast day the sun is magnified through all that moisture and you come up with a severe sun burn unless you wear a shirt and a hat or a bandanna on your forehead. I am not sure if today's sun blocks are a help but then I have not been in a mist out on the water in a few years.
-
here is another Austin Clarke poem...
The Blackbird Of Derrycairn
Stop, stop and listen for the bough top
Is whistling and the sun is brighter
Than God's own shadow in the cup now!
Forget the hour-bell. Mournful matins
Will sound, Patric, as well at nightfall.
Faintly through mist of broken water
Fionn heard my melody in Norway.
He found the forest track, he brought back
This beak to gild the branch and tell, there,
Why men must welcome in the daylight.
He loved the breeze that warns the black grouse,
The shouts of gillies in the morning
When packs are counted and the swans cloud
Loch Erne, but more than all those voices
My throat rejoicing from the hawthorn.
In little cells behind a cashel,
Patric, no handbell gives a glad sound.
But knowledge is found among the branches.
Listen! That song that shakes my feathers
Will thong the leather of your satchels.
Cashel in this poem I think it is referring to the Rock of Cashel
http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Rock_of_Cashel
The poem seems to be saying that the conversion of the Irish by St. Patrick was as quiet and all encompassing as a breeze or mist blown to Norway from Ireland or the natural gathering of birds.
-
I love all the poems posted and as always I not only read them but FEEL them SEE them I loved the one you just posted and it reminds me of fall or spring when the geese and ducks arrive here on the lakes and ponds of Virginia ,,sometimes they almost fill the ponds and the grasses roundabout I can almost hear them say Hey that was some trip was'nt it? and I think our leader did a good job He was last when we left last winter .. so glad to see him back I didnt get as far as Canada this year .. you know I am getting old and dont know how many years I have left . but boy it has been great ...I feel sorry for humans ,,tethered to the ground ...and planes just get in the way ..no wind smoothing your feathers as you go....oh well it has been a great life..hope to see you next year
-
Poems of Thomas Hardy
Days to Remember
Do you recall
That day in Fall
When we walked toward Saint Alban's Head,
On thistledown that summer had shed,
Or must I remind you?
Winged thistle -seeds which hitherto
Had lain as none were there ,or few,
But rose at the brush of your petti-coat seam
(As ghosts might rise of the recent dead)
And sailed on the breeze in a nebulous stream
Like a comet's tail behind you:
You don't recall
That day in Fall?
Then do you remember
That sad November
When you left me never to see me more,
And looked quite other than theretofore,
As if it could not be you?
And lay by the window whence you had gazed
So many times when blamed or praised,
Morning or noon, through years and years,
Accepting the gifts that Fortune bore,
Sharing, enduring , joys, hopes, fears!
Well: I never more did see you-
Say you remember
That sad November!
He lived a long time for his time and wrote a lot of poems ..this book is his whole collection and it has 931 pages and the printing is sort of small...A lot of his poems makes me think he is writing them when he was older Remembering the past .the people he once knew I know I do the same .....there are so few left from my childhood days I do keep in touch with several and it makes me glad I can say do you remember when we met, when we were three at Sunday School ? Or when we started to date? Those memories are life gifts...and like the poem it is good to be able to say SAY YOU REMEMBER THOSE CHILDHOOD DAYS>. anna
-
Thanks for explaining the Clarke poem, BARB. The 'honey near the
water' did sound like a romantic tryst. It just didn't make sense
in context until you explained it.
Also, the mist. Our mists tend to be low-lying, so I've never
seen the sun from within the mist. I do understand about getting
sunburn on overcast days. I learned that one the hard way.
Treasure those memories, ANNA. Growing up as I did, moving about every
other year, I had no lasting childhood friends. It's a lack I can only measure
by seeing the closeness of my daughter to the friends she grew up with.
-
Thomas Hardy is such a wonderful writer. I think the poem I remember most of his is "The Ruined Maid". I have the complete "Novels of Thomas Hardy", but, to my shame, have not read all of them, although I have read "Tess of the d'Urbervilles" and "Far from the Madding Crowd" three times each.
I remember after reading a certain section in "Jude the Obscure" feeling as though someone had punched me in the stomach. Not many writers can cause that kind of sensation. I could never bring myself to read thre book again.
Excellent choice of Hardy's work Anna!
-
I've read some of Hardy's works, but I found him too depressing and
did not read all of them.
I looked for the rest of this poem, but these four lines are all
I could find.
"Sorrow and scarlet leaf,
Sad thoughts and sunny weather.
Ah me, this glory and this grief
Agree not well together!"- Thomas Parsons, 1880, A Song For September
-
(http://seniorlearn.org/bookclubs/poetry/poetryfall10.jpg)
|
The Apple Orchard
~ by Shawn Bailey
The dew-softened blades
of fescue wet my feet,
small brushstrokes of icy wetness
on my way to the orchard.
The sunlight scatters
the morning mist
that shelters the trees from
the horizon.
I spy the juicy red apples
lounging in the trees,
moist with dawn
and there are thousands of them.
Fruitful, edible decor.
|
Autumn Poetry
In this Discussion we share what stirs our heart -
Bring us a gift of a poem
Yours, or the work of another poet. - Famous Poets and Poems about Autumn (http://famouspoetsandpoems.com/thematic_poems/autumn_poems.html)
- Fall Season Poems (http://poetry.about.com/od/ourpoemcollections/a/autumnpoems.htm)
Discussion Leaders: Barb (augere@ix.netcom.com) & fairanna (fairanna@verizon.net)
-
here is a short bio about Parsons from the Harvard online Library
Thomas William Parsons (1819-1892) was a dentist, a poet, and translator of Dante's works. His early education was at the Boston Latin School though he did not graduate. In 1836 he visited Italy where he studied Italian literature and translated the first ten cantos of Dante's Inferno. He returned to Boston in 1837 and studied dentistry at the Harvard Medical School (though he did not receive a degree) and then practiced dentistry in Boston. In 1853 Harvard College granted him an honorary A.M. degree. In 1857 he married Anna (or Hannah) M. Allen (1821-1881). After 1872 he engaged in only literary pursuits chiefly in Boston, Scituate, and Wayland.
Parsons is known especially for his translation of Dante. In 1843 he printed anonymously the earliest published American translation of any considerable portion of Dante: The first ten cantos of the Inferno of Dante Alighieri: Newly translated into English verse. Boston: W.D. Ticknor (private printing), 1843. In later years he published the entire Inferno (1867), about two-thirds of the Purgatorio, and others. His most frequently quoted poem is "On a bust of Dante." It is said that Parsons served as the model for Henry Wadsworth Longfellow's "the Poet" in his Tales of a Wayside Inn.
-
here is another Thomas Hardy that is just a bit more upbeat...
The Youth Who Carried A Light
I saw him pass as the new day dawned,
Murmuring some musical phrase;
Horses were drinking and floundering in the pond,
And the tired stars thinned their gaze;
Yet these were not the spectacles at all that he conned,
But an inner one, giving out rays.
Such was the thing in his eye, walking there,
The very and visible thing,
A close light, displacing the gray of the morning air,
And the tokens that the dark was taking wing;
And was it not the radiance of a purpose rare
That might ripe to its accomplishing?
What became of that light? I wonder still its fate!
Was it quenched ere its full apogee?
Did it struggle frail and frailer to a beam emaciate?
Did it thrive till matured in verity?
Or did it travel on, to be a new young dreamer's freight,
And thence on infinitely?
-
One thing I appreciate is the ability to re read the poems and thoughts posted ..so I just spent the better part of an hour re reading page 48 and then appreciating Barbara's Hardy poem....I was reminded when reading the poems about hinges ,my husband's aunt, who was a school teacher and a great reader had a book, not a Bible ..that was held within an thin wooden chest..with hinges and a clasp to open it,....I dont recall what book was inside but it was a novel ..I loved Ithaka ...I would love to believe I would take all my good memories with me...and Virgil's poem is a perfect description of our present world and have lived long enough to know that it is a description of many time periods...and the Arab love song...I dont have a poem to share today but just enjoyed reading what has gone before ....may your days be special...love, anna
-
It doesnt matter how many poets I read I cant seem to find one who describes AUTUMN so I went to google and found the lyrics of Autumn in New York and remember Frank Sinatra singing it...so here goes Just be glad you cant hear me singing it because I CANT SING>>>.always, anna
Autumn in New York
Its time to end my holiday and bid the country a hasty farewell.
So on this gray and melancholy day, I'll move to a Manhatten hotel.
I'll dispose of my rose- coloured chattels and prepare for my share of
adventures and battles.
Here on the twenty-seventh floor looking down on the city I hate and adore!
Autumn in New York, why does in seem so inviting?
Autumn in New York, it spells the thrill of first nighting
Glittering crowds and shimmering clouds in canyons of steel,
they're making me feel at home.
It's autumn in New York that brings the promise of new love, autumn in New York
Is often mingled with pain.
Dreamers with empty hands may sigh for exotic lands;
It's Autumn in New York,
It's good to live again....
.
Right now I would settle for AUTUMN IN VIRGINIA
-
Babi - Evidently Hardy was once asked if he considered his books "pessimistic". He replied that they are more "realistic" than "pessimistic". Jude the Obscure is certainly one of the most visceral books I have read. I would not recommend it for most folks. There is no denying imho that he is a great writer, however.
-
Two poems by Kenneth Fearing written in the 1930s.
Aphrodite Metropolis
Harry loves Myrtle--He has strong arms, from the warehouse,
And on Sunday when they take the bus to emerald meadows he doesn't say:
"What will your chastity amount to when your flesh withers in a little while?"
No,
On Sunday, when they picnic in emerald meadows they look at the Sunday paper:
GIRL SLAYS BANKER-BETRAYER
They spread it around on the grass
BATH-TUB STIRS JERSEY ROW
And then they sit down on it, nice.
Harry doesn't say "Ziggin's Ointment for withered flesh,
Cures thousands of men and women of motes, warts, red veins,
flabby throat, scalp and hair diseases,
Not expensive, and fully guaranteed."
No,
Harry says nothing at all,
He smiles,
And they kiss in the emerald meadows on the Sunday paper.
And this one written just before WWII when WWI was still fresh in the minds of those struggling with its damage.
Ad
WANTED: Men
Millions of men are WANTED AT ONCE in a big field;
NEW, TREMENDOUS, THRILLING, GREAT.
If you've been a figure in the chamber of horrors,
If you've ever escaped from a psychiatric ward,
If you thrill at the thought of throwing poison into wells, have heavenly visions of people, by the thousands, dying in flames--
YOU ARE THE VERY MAN WE WANT
We mean business and our business is YOU
WANTED: A race of brand-new men.
Apply: Middle Europe;
No skill needed;
No ambition required; no brains wanted and no character allowed;
TAKE A PERMANENT JOB IN THE COMING PROFESSION
Wages: DEATH.
-
ROSE, it has been my observation that people who call
themselves 'realistic' tend to have a gloomy view of life.
They may be right, but I'm much happier with my more
hopeful view.
Oooh. Mr. Fearing's "Ad" ought to damp some warlike ardor. He overstates his point, perhaps, but he states it most ferociously.
-
Another Ted Kooser poem it reminded me of all the letters my husband and I exchanged over the years ..we tried to write every day when he was away....and the last line sort of says it all ...RAIN is forecast here I HOPE IT IS TRUE>
Pocket Poem
If this comes creased and creased again and soiled
as if I had opened it a thousand times
to see if what I'd written here was right,
it's all because I looked too long for you
to put it in your pocket. Midnight says
the little gifts of lonliness come wrapped
by nervous fingers. What I wanted this
to say was that I want to be so close
that when you find it, it is warm from me.
-
Oh, my, fairanna, that Pocket Poem is absolutely wonderful!
-
how poignent the Ted Kooser Pocket Poem - thanks Fairanna.
This one is long but oh it is just too perfect not to share...
Looking For Each Other
~ Thich Naht Hahn
I have been looking for you, World Honored One,
since I was a little child.
With my first breath, I heard your call,
and began to look for you, Blessed One.
I've walked so many perilous paths,
confronted so many dangers,
endured despair, fear, hopes, and memories.
I've trekked to the farthest regions, immense and wild,
sailed the vast oceans,
traversed the highest summits, lost among the clouds.
I've lain dead, utterly alone,
on the sands of ancient deserts.
I've held in my heart so many tears of stone.
Blessed One, I've dreamed of drinking dewdrops
that sparkle with the light of far-off galaxies.
I've left footprints on celestial mountains
and screamed from the depths of Avici Hell, exhausted, crazed with despair
because I was so hungry, so thirsty.
For millions of lifetimes,
I've longed to see you,
but didn't know where to look.
Yet, I've always felt your presence with a mysterious certainty.
I know that for thousands of lifetimes,
you and I have been one,
and the distance between us is only a flash of though.
Just yesterday while walking alone,
I saw the old path strewn with Autumn leaves,
and the brilliant moon, hanging over the gate,
suddenly appeared like the image of an old friend.
And all the stars confirmed that you were there!
All night, the rain of compassion continued to fall,
while lightning flashed through my window
and a great storm arose,
as if Earth and Sky were in battle.
Finally in me the rain stopped, the clouds parted.
The moon returned,
shining peacefully, calming Earth and Sky.
Looking into the mirror of the moon, suddenly
I saw myself,
and I saw you smiling, Blessed One.
How strange!
The moon of freedom has returned to me,
everything I thought I had lost.
From that moment on,
and in each moment that followed,
I saw that nothing had gone.
There is nothing that should be restored.
Every flower, every stone, and every leaf recognize me.
Wherever I turn, I see you smiling
the smile of no-birth and no-death.
The smile I received while looking at the mirror of the moon.
I see you sitting there, solid as Mount Meru,
calm as my own breath,
sitting as though no raging fire storm ever occurred,
sitting in complete peace and freedom.
At last I have found you, Blessed One,
and I have found myself.
There I sit.
The deep blue sky,
the snow-capped mountains painted against the horizon,
and the shining red sun sing with joy.
You, Blessed One, are my first love.
The love that is always present, always pure, and freshly new.
And I shall never need a love that will be called “last.”
You are the source of well-being flowing through numberless troubled lives,
the water from you spiritual stream always pure, as it was in the beginning.
You are the source of peace,
solidity, and inner freedom.
You are the Buddha, the Tathagata.
With my one-pointed mind
I vow to nourish your solidity and freedom in myself
so I can offer solidity and freedom to countless others,
now and forever.
-
Barbara - I loved Aphrodite Metropolis, the poem. But thought the title divine.
-
Barbara I loved this last poem you posted ..VERY MUCH ends my day on a perfect note...
-
PS I CANT SEEM TO FIGURE OUT HOW TO POST IN BOLD I USED TO KNOW BUT OBVISIOUSLY I AM NOT DOING IT RIGHT ...HELP HELP (http://)
-
Anna put at the beginning of the sentence or poem the letter b between [ ] with no space between the letter and the parenthases - then at the very end of where you want the bold to stop put /b between the [ ]
I tried to fix your image put the entire URL was not in you post for me to do it - but again before the url put the letters img between [ ] and then at the end of the URL put /img between [ ]
In fact if you just want to put the url in your post I can fix it for you -
-
Yes roshanarose, he does write with tongue in cheeck doesn't he - the title is fun and so ironic. She is just a pre-pill good girl...
-
this poem is discussed on-line as much as Robert Frost's poem about picking apples...
Apples
~ Laurie Lee
Behold the apples’ rounded worlds:
juice-green of July rain,
the black polestar of flowers, the rind
mapped with its crimson stain.
The russet, crab and cottage red
burn to the sun’s hot brass,
then drop like sweat from every branch
and bubble in the grass.
They lie as wanton as they fall,
and where they fall and break,
the stallion clamps his crunching jaws,
the starling stabs his beak.
In each plump gourd the cidery bite
of boys’ teeth tears the skin;
the waltzing wasp consumes his share,
the bent worm enters in.
I, with as easy hunger, take
entire my season’s dole;
welcome the ripe, the sweet, the sour,
the hollow and the whole.
-
Another Laurie Lee who died in 1997.
Town Owl
On eves of cold, when slow coal fires,
rooted in basements, burn and branch,
brushing with smoke the city air;
When quartered moons pale in the sky,
and neons glow along the dark
like deadly nightshade on a briar;
Above the muffled traffic then
I hear the owl, and at his note
I shudder in my private chair.
For like an auger he has come
to roost among our crumbling walls,
his blooded talons sheathed in fur.
Some secret lure of time it seems
has called him from his country wastes
to hunt a newer wasteland here.
And where the candlabra swung
bright with the dancers’ thousand eyes,
now his black, hooded pupils stare,
And where the silk-shoed lovers ran
with dust of diamonds in their hair,
he opens now his silent wing,
And, like a stroke of doom, drops down,
and swoops across the empty hall,
and plucks a quick mouse off the stair…
-
Of corse that is what I was thinking - not Laurie who is a man but Annabel - the Edgar Allen Poe poem
here goes...
Annabel Lee
~ Edgar Allan Poe
It was many and many a year ago,
In a kingdom by the sea,
That a maiden there lived whom you may know
By the name of Annabel Lee;
And this maiden she lived with no other thought
Than to love and be loved by me.
I was a child and she was a child,
In this kingdom by the sea:
But we loved with a love that was more than love -
I and my Annabel Lee;
With a love that the winged seraphs of heaven
Coveted her and me.
And this was the reason that, long ago,
In this kingdom by the sea,
A wind blew out of a cloud, chilling
My beautiful Annabel Lee;
So that her high-born kinsmen came
And bore her away from me,
To shut her up in a sepulchre
In this kingdom by the sea.
The angels, not half so happy in heaven,
Went envying her and me -
Yes! that was the reason (as all men know,
In this kingdom by the sea)
That the wind came out of the cloud one night,
Chilling and killing my Annabel Lee.
But our love it was stronger by far than the love
Of those who were older than we -
Of many far wiser than we -
And neither the angels in heaven above,
Nor the demons down under the sea,
Can ever dissever my soul from the soul
Of the beautiful Annabel Lee;
For the moon never beams without bringing me dreams
Of the beautiful Annabel Lee;
And the stars never rise but I feel the bright eyes
Of the beautiful Annabel Lee;
And so, all the night-tide, I lie down by the side
Of my darling -my darling -my life and my bride,
In the sepulchre there by the sea -
In her tomb by the sounding sea.
-
Edgar Allen Poe was one of the first poets I memorized and I read his biography as well What a surprise when we moved here to Virginia and found out he was stationed in the Army at historic Ft Monroe....there is a picture of him and post about his duties ...He also had sessions at the Hotel there * forgotten it's name and read his poetry* there was a portrait at the hotel showing all the people (mostly ladies) sitting and watching him read..... I also memoriized BELLS BELLS etc It is such a dramatic poem for a young person to read and memorize....just checking to see if I have the BOLD where it should be,,,,anna
-
You did it - hurray for you... :) ;)
-
Miss Lee is good at setting a mood by the choice of words.
Choosing 'basements', 'crumbling walls', 'country wastes'.
I've always loved "Annabel Lee". Poe's poetry always has such
a strong rhythm and echo to it, it's like rocking in a boat.
ANNA, I once read "Bells" to an audience of my mother and her
close friend and could not resist inserting, in that long list
of 'bells', the word "hell's". Fortunately, they giggled before
looking prim and proper.
-
Babi Lee is a Mr. - here is a pretty good Bio - looks like he was an all 'round ladies man among other things...
http://www.spartacus.schoolnet.co.uk/SPlee.htm
With all the talk of Poe's The Bells looks like we need to include it here...
Hear the sledges with the bells -
Silver bells!
What a world of merriment their melody foretells!
How they tinkle, tinkle, tinkle,
In the icy air of night!
While the stars that oversprinkle
All the heavens seem to twinkle
With a crystalline delight;
With a crystalline delight;
Keeping time, time, time,
In a sort of Runic rhyme,
To the tintinnabulation that so musically wells
From the bells, bells, bells, bells,
Bells, bells, bells -
From the jingling and the tinkling of the bells.
II
Hear the mellow wedding bells -
Golden bells!
What a world of happiness their harmony foretells!
Through the balmy air of night
How they ring out their delight!
From the molten-golden notes,
And all in tune,
What a liquid ditty floats
To the turtle-dove that listens, while she gloats
On the moon!
Oh, from out the sounding cells
What a gush of euphony voluminously wells!
How it swells!
How it dwells
On the Future! -how it tells
Of the rapture that impels
To the swinging and the ringing
Of the bells, bells, bells,
Of the bells, bells, bells, bells,
Bells, bells, bells -
To the rhyming and the chiming of the bells!
III
Hear the loud alarum bells -
Brazen bells!
What a tale of terror, now, their turbulency tells!
In the startled ear of night
How they scream out their affright!
Too much horrified to speak,
They can only shriek, shriek,
Out of tune,
In a clamorous appealing to the mercy of the fire,
In a mad expostulation with the deaf and frantic fire,
Leaping higher, higher, higher,
With a desperate desire,
And a resolute endeavor
Now -now to sit or never,
By the side of the pale-faced moon.
Oh, the bells, bells, bells!
What a tale their terror tells
Of despair!
How they clang, and clash, and roar!
What a horror they outpour
On the bosom of the palpitating air!
Yet the ear it fully knows,
By the twanging
And the clanging,
How the danger ebbs and flows;
Yet the ear distinctly tells,
In the jangling
And the wrangling,
How the danger sinks and swells,
By the sinking or the swelling in the anger of the bells -
Of the bells,
Of the bells, bells, bells, bells,
Bells, bells, bells -
In the clamor and the clangor of the bells!
IV
Hear the tolling of the bells -
Iron bells!
What a world of solemn thought their monody compels!
In the silence of the night,
How we shiver with affright
At the melancholy menace of their tone!
For every sound that floats
From the rust within their throats
Is a groan.
And the people -ah, the people -
They that dwell up in the steeple,
All alone,
And who tolling, tolling, tolling,
In that muffled monotone,
Feel a glory in so rolling
On the human heart a stone -
They are neither man nor woman -
They are neither brute nor human -
They are Ghouls:
And their king it is who tolls;
And he rolls, rolls, rolls,
Rolls
A paean from the bells!
And his merry bosom swells
With the paean of the bells!
And he dances, and he yells;
Keeping time, time, time,
In a sort of Runic rhyme,
To the paean of the bells,
Of the bells -
Keeping time, time, time,
In a sort of Runic rhyme,
To the throbbing of the bells,
Of the bells, bells, bells -
To the sobbing of the bells;
Keeping time, time, time,
As he knells, knells, knells,
In a happy Runic rhyme,
To the rolling of the bells,
Of the bells, bells, bells -
To the tolling of the bells,
Of the bells, bells, bells, bells,
Bells, bells, bells -
To the moaning and the groaning of the bells.
-
Barbara thanks so much for posting THE BELLS I love the words ..how he uses some of the most interesting and perfect words to describe his ideas and his poetic story I think I loved it because it was SO DRAMATIC>..and when you were reciting it certainly had the attention of the listeners!hoping the bold works :)
-
Ah, okay. "Laurie" is not a name you often see for a man. Short for
Laurence, perhaps?
Here's another strong example of rhythm in poetry, with shorter
lines than Poe uses. They seem to me to echo a native American speech pattern, but I don't know if that's accurate or not.
Hiawatha's Departure from The Song of Hiawatha
by Henry Wadsworth Longfellow
By the shore of Gitchie Gumee,
By the shining Big-Sea-Water,
At the doorway of his wigwam,
In the pleasant Summer morning,
Hiawatha stood and waited.
All the air was full of freshness,
All the earth was bright and joyous,
And before him through the sunshine,
Westward toward the neighboring forest
Passed in golden swarms the Ahmo,
Passed the bees, the honey-makers,
Burning, singing in the sunshine.
Bright above him shown the heavens,
Level spread the lake before him;
From its bosom leaped the sturgeon,
Aparkling, flashing in the sunshine;
On its margin the great forest
Stood reflected in the water,
Every tree-top had its shadow,
Motionless beneath the water.
From the brow of Hiawatha
Gone was every trace of sorrow,
As the fog from off the water,
And the mist from off the meadow.
With a smile of joy and triumph,
With a look of exultation,
As of one who in a vision
Sees what is to be, but is not,
Stood and waited Hiawatha.
-
Ah Babi you shared one of my favorites - I have the complete Hiawatha saga in a big fat book and every year I am going to read the entire story but still have not accomplished the task. The Epic borrows from the life of the real Hiawatha who lived in the 14 century.
Longfellow rhymed using words from the Ojibway - although the story is about an Iroquois the Native American words are from the Minnesota Tribe - here is a nice site that shows the original word and its meaning and then how Longfellow used the word in his poem.
http://www.native-languages.org/hiawatha.htm
There is a Hiawatha national park in Minnesota established by President Roosevelt in 1909 that has 6 wilderness areas - the only area I had heard about was the Mackinac Wilderness and it has been on my 'Bucket List' for many years - hmmm I better get serious if I am going to get there while I can still do some hiking.
My father used to enjoy ringing out two poems in their entirety - Paul Rever's Ride and the Wreck of the Hesperus - both learned in the fourth grade and both with a decided beat which seems to be helpful to engaging an audience with a poem spoken from memory.
-
here is another bit from the poem when he is older that I have always loved...
Hiawatha's Departure
By the shore of Gitche Gumee,
By the shining Big-Sea-Water,
At the doorway of his wigwam,
In the pleasant Summer morning,
Hiawatha stood and waited.
All the air was full of freshness,
All the earth was bright and joyous,
And before him, through the sunshine,
Westward toward the neighboring forest
Passed in golden swarms the Ahmo,
Passed the bees, the honey-makers,
Burning, singing In the sunshine.
Bright above him shone the heavens,
Level spread the lake before him;
From its bosom leaped the sturgeon,
Sparkling, flashing in the sunshine;
On its margin the great forest
Stood reflected in the water,
Every tree-top had its shadow,
Motionless beneath the water.
From the brow of Hiawatha
Gone was every trace of sorrow,
As the fog from off the water,
As the mist from off the meadow.
With a smile of joy and triumph,
With a look of exultation,
As of one who in a vision
Sees what is to be, but is not,
Stood and waited Hiawatha.
Toward the sun his hands were lifted,
Both the palms spread out against it,
And between the parted fingers
Fell the sunshine on his features,
Flecked with light his naked shoulders,
As it falls and flecks an oak-tree
Through the rifted leaves and branches.
O'er the water floating, flying,
Something in the hazy distance,
Something in the mists of morning,
Loomed and lifted from the water,
Now seemed floating, now seemed flying,
Coming nearer, nearer, nearer.
Was it Shingebis the diver?
Or the pelican, the Shada?
Or the heron, the Shuh-shuh-gah?
Or the white goose, Waw-be-wawa,
With the water dripping, flashing,
From its glossy neck and feathers?
It was neither goose nor diver,
Neither pelican nor heron,
O'er the water floating, flying,
Through the shining mist of morning,
But a birch canoe with paddles,
Rising, sinking on the water,
Dripping, flashing in the sunshine;
And within it came a people
From the distant land of Wabun,
From the farthest realms of morning
Came the Black-Robe chief, the Prophet,
He the Priest of Prayer, the Pale-face,
With his guides and his companions.
And the noble Hiawatha,
With his hands aloft extended,
Held aloft in sign of welcome,
Waited, full of exultation,
Till the birch canoe with paddles
Grated on the shining pebbles,
Stranded on the sandy margin,
Till the Black-Robe chief, the Pale-face,
With the cross upon his bosom,
Landed on the sandy margin.
Then the joyous Hiawatha
Cried aloud and spake in this wise:
"Beautiful is the sun, O strangers,
When you come so far to see us!
All our town in peace awaits you,
All our doors stand open for you;
You shall enter all our wigwams,
For the heart's right hand we give you.
"Never bloomed the earth so gayly,
Never shone the sun so brightly,
As to-day they shine and blossom
When you come so far to see us!
-
BARB, that is fascinating. I wonder how Longfellow came to know the Ojibway language. I notice one word that is still used as a name today..."Winona". I wonder if the Judd's knew it was Ojibway for eldest daughter?
Thanks for posting another section of the poem; I really enjoyed it. I can remember when I
was very young reading a sneering criticism of Longfellow and this poem and being very
disconcerted. Now I am old enough to feel free to trust my own judgment and ignore the
critic.
-
My goodness, 'Hiawatha" takes me back to schooldays when we learned a couple of passages.
I'm no expert on Longfellow let alone Indian Tribal legends but I'm curious as to how 'they' know that the real Hiawatha lived in the 14th century? I've also seen reference to him active in the 16th century. Either way it seems rather far back for an accurate dating from oral legend.
-
The Legend of the real Hiawatha is credited for gathering the tribes into a peace that created the Iroquois Confederacy - Since there is so much written history about the Iroquois Confederacy we have approximate dates - this is a legend and so some information is shrouded in myth - however Hiawatha lived further west and was found gathering shells on a lake by Chief Dekanawida from the eastern Mohawk Nation.
The Britannica says, Hiawatha was born in 1450 which would be the 15th century. Arthur C. Parker's in his Seneca Myths and Folk Tales says he met Chief Dekanawida in 1390. The dates offered in the many written accounts of the legend are anyplace between the 14C and the 17C.
The Iroquois Confederacy was very active in full hilt when the Dutch sailed up the Hudson and traded before they settled New Amsterdam [New York] in 1614–1674. There are records showing other traders in the area before the Dutch were on record finding the Hudson in 1609. The sophistication and unity within the Confederacy during these early encounters with Europeans show the Confederacy was a well oiled trading operation and so the dates for Hiawatha as founder had to be minimum the early 1500s
We would have to research history because the dates would have to coinside with the lives of Tadadaho and Dekanawida - I have faith that Arthur C. Parker would have Incorporated that kind of research in preparation for writing his book.
The legend says, it was Hiawatha's philosophy of tribes with like languages should not be at war with each other and when he spoke of his ideas to his people, Chief Tadadaho of the Onondaga tribe asked him to leave. And so, he was living by the Lake, alone, making wampum belts in which the type and color of shell were a message explaining his ideas for those who found the belts in the future.
Dekanawida asks him to accompany him and they tell first the Mohawk and then the other tribes in the area. That is the start of the formation of the Iroquois Confederacy. Dekanawida builds a long house in Albany as a symbol of the political structure of the confederacy -
I have omitted lots of details but that in essence is the legend and so much matches the history written by Europeans about the confederacy of which many of its laws and way of operation is reflected in the US Constitution far more than any borrowed legal thinking from European laws.
-
The Onondaga Madonna
~ by Duncan Campbell Scott
She stands full-throated and with careless pose,
This woman of a weird and waning race,
The tragic savage lurking in her face,
Where all her pagan passion burns and glows;
Her blood is mingled with her ancient foes,
And thrills with war and wildness in her veins;
Her rebel lips are dabbled with the stains
Of feuds and forays and her father's woes.
And closer in the shawl about her breast,
The latest promise of her nation's doom,
Paler than she her baby clings and lies,
The primal warrior gleaming from his eyes;
He sulks, and burdened with his infant gloom,
He draws his heavy brows and will not rest.
-
Mohawk Indian Prayer
Oh Great Spirit, Creator of all things;
Human Beings, trees, grass, berries.
Help us, be kind to us.
Let us be happy on earth.
Let us lead our children
To a good life and old age.
These our people; give them good minds
To love one another.
Oh Great Spirit,
Be kind to us
Give these people the favor
To see green trees,
Green grass, flowers, and berries
This next spring;
So we all meet again
Oh Great Spirit,
We ask of you.
-
THE CORN HUSKER
~ By Pauline Johnson-Tekahoniwake of the Six Nations Reservation, died 1913
Hard by the Indian lodges, where the bush
Breaks in a clearing, through ill-fashioned fields,
She comes to labor, when the first still hush
Of Autumn follows large and recent yields.
Age in her fingers, hunger in her face,
Her shoulders stooped with weight of work and years
But rich in tawny coloring of her race,
She comes a-field to strip the purple ears,
And all her thoughts are with the days gone by,
Ere Might's injustices banished from their lands
Her people, that to-day unheeded like,
Like the dead husks that rustle through her hands.
The Six Nations made up the Iroquois Confederacy.
-
Native American prayer. Sorry, I've lost the citation:
Red is the east;
It is where the daybreak star,
the star of knowledge appears.
Red is the rising sun
Bringing us a new day
New experiences.
We thank you, Great Spirit, for each new day
That we are allowed to live upon
Our Mother Earth
-
Oh what joy to visit here and read some of the poems from my past How old I was I no longer know but Hiawatha I memorized a great deal of it and loved to say it to myself And I have read some of the history Having been born with a curious mind and no sisters to interrupt my thinking I read so many books etc about Indians ....I did have five brothers but 3 were much older and two 3 and 6 years younger so my time was my own.....
A few years ago we discussed a single poet each month and now that I am cleaning house ( I should say the mess that is my house ) I came across a small book of poems from a poet in California Timothy Steele..he was very kind and visited our discussion and made comments ..so here is one of his.....
In an Eucalyptus Grove
Some small dark thing thrashed in the path;
And I dumbfounded and afraid,
Recoiling from it's agony,
Could not decipher , much less aid.
This lizard-was it?--or a young snake,
Yet even as I stood aghast
A long thin leaf spun down upon
And quelled the shadow it had cast.
-
I like the Mohawk prayer. It has my idea of the right priorities.
Isn't it interesting that New York's state capital is in Albany, the centre of the Iroquois Confederacy? I doubt that is coincidence. It must have already been associated in people's minds with a seat of government when the colony was deciding on a capital.
I have some Cherokee in my ancestry, so I found this Cherokee poem.
Blue Bird Song
In the early morning mist
upon the thin frayed branch
Of the silver maple tree
Sits a beauty of Creation
He is named Bluebird by the Cherokee
He is one of many who carry the feather of healing
That comes from ancient ways
Through prayer and the Spirit
Ah Ho!
by Camile K. Bishop (Windsong)
-
I guess what I love best about a lot of poetry and especially Indian poetry ,,they can say a lot in a few words..."cleaning " house I am uncovering in book cases, boxes, bags etc a lot of books of poetry...this morning I found a book by Caroline Kennedy ...My Favorite book for Children....but I have found in myself and many others regardless of how old we are poetry speaks to us ..here is one from the book And I have seen the wild geese leaving in early fall and returning in early spring and am always thrilled to hear their call///
Something told the wild geese
Something told the wild geese
It was time to go.
Though the fields lay golden
Something whispered,-"Snow".
Leaves were green and stirring,
Berries, luster-glossed,
But beneath warm feathers
Something cautioned,-"Frost."
All the sagging orchards,
Steamed with amber spice,
But each wild breast stiffened
At remembered ice,
Something told the wild geese
It was time to fly-
Summer sun was on their wings,
Winter in their cry.
Rachel Field
-
An interesting morning here in Austin as we sat glued to the TV often hearing over and over similar reports - Most of these police and for sure the students weren't alive in 1966 but the shadow of that collective memory of the Whitman shootings from the UT tower sat heavy as most of the local newscasters reported without the usual excited staccato voiced hype but rather a slow deliberate almost emotionless reporting.
So many poems about Death however I really like what Mary Oliver has to say...
When Death Comes
When death comes
like the hungry bear in autumn;
when death comes and takes all the bright coins from his purse
to buy me, and snaps the purse shut;
when death comes
like the measle-pox
when death comes
like an iceberg between the shoulder blades,
I want to step through the door full of curiosity, wondering:
what is it going to be like, that cottage of darkness?
And therefore I look upon everything
as a brotherhood and a sisterhood,
and I look upon time as no more than an idea,
and I consider eternity as another possibility,
and I think of each life as a flower, as common
as a field daisy, and as singular,
and each name a comfortable music in the mouth,
tending, as all music does, toward silence,
and each body a lion of courage, and something
precious to the earth.
When it's over, I want to say all my life
I was a bride married to amazement.
I was the bridegroom, taking the world into my arms.
When it's over, I don't want to wonder
if I have made of my life something particular, and real.
I don't want to find myself sighing and frightened,
or full of argument.
I don't want to end up simply having visited this world
-
I loved the Mary Oliver poem, BARB. It's one I'd like to save and read again from time to time.
I didn't watch any new programs, yesterday, so I hadn't heard about the shootings in Austin.
That poor young man. He didn't injure anyone else in the end; just himself. Those who knew
him described him as emotionally reserved. It sounds as though he was keeping too much
locked up inside. Such a sad waste.
-
BarbaraStAubrey: Thanks so much for enlightening me in regard to Hiawatha. I really have no real knowledge of the oral traditions and legends of the American Indian peoples - only the snippets one picks up here and there throughout one's life. I guess it would be much the same if you were faced with the traditions, languages and cultures of the many indigenous peoples of Australia - the Pitjantjatjara tribe who live in the north around Uluru (Ayers Rock) or the Warlpiri (Central Aust) and closer to me the Nyungar people (South Western Australia) - Before white settlement there were some 400 distinct tribes all with their own tribal lands and complex cultures etc. - not sure how many are still around these days.
Anyway thanks again, - I really appreciate you taking the time and trouble.
-
(http://seniorlearn.org/bookclubs/poetry/poetryfall10.jpg)
|
The Apple Orchard
~ by Shawn Bailey
The dew-softened blades
of fescue wet my feet,
small brushstrokes of icy wetness
on my way to the orchard.
The sunlight scatters
the morning mist
that shelters the trees from
the horizon.
I spy the juicy red apples
lounging in the trees,
moist with dawn
and there are thousands of them.
Fruitful, edible decor.
|
Autumn Poetry
In this Discussion we share what stirs our heart -
Bring us a gift of a poem
Yours, or the work of another poet. - Famous Poets and Poems about Autumn (http://famouspoetsandpoems.com/thematic_poems/autumn_poems.html)
- Fall Season Poems (http://poetry.about.com/od/ourpoemcollections/a/autumnpoems.htm)
Discussion Leaders: Barb (augere@ix.netcom.com) & fairanna (fairanna@verizon.net)
Gumtree as Australia has many varied tribes each with their own traditions and stories so also are there many differences among the Native American tribes in the US. Hiawatha represents the North-central and North-eastern tribes who lived in the forests and along lakes and rivers -
A few years ago we spent a month discovering the poetry of a Muskogee Native American who now lives in the southwest but whose people were from the Southeast - at the time we read Jo Harjo's poetry we learned of the early traditions of the Cherokee, Muskogee Creek, Choctaw, Chickasaw, and how the Seminole established themselves in Florida as well as the great tragedy of the Trail of Tears that forced the Cherokee and Muskogee nations from their homeland in what is now Georgia and the Carolina's as well as parts of Alabama and Tennessee on a long winter march to Oklahoma Territory. We learned of the Red and White towns and all about the Red Stick War - much of their history is available on the internet if you are curious.
here is one of Jo Harjo's poems - which by the way Harjo is one of the most popular names among the Muskogee Creeks
Ah, Ah
~ by Joy Harjo
for Lurline McGregor
Ah, ah cries the crow arching toward the heavy sky over the marina.
Lands on the crown of the palm tree.
Ah, ah slaps the urgent cove of ocean swimming through the slips.
We carry canoes to the edge of the salt.
Ah, ah groans the crew with the weight, the winds cutting skin.
We claim our seats. Pelicans perch in the draft for fish.
Ah, ah beats our lungs and we are racing into the waves.
Though there are worlds below us and above us, we are straight ahead.
Ah, ah tatttoos the engines of your plane against the sky—away from these waters.
Each paddle stroke follows the curve from reach to loss.
Ah, ah calls the sun from a fishing boat with a pale, yellow sail. We fly by
on our return, over the net of eternity thrown out for stars.
Ah, ah scrapes the hull of my soul. Ah, ah.
-
And here are Cheokee poets...
The Blue Bird Song
~ by Camile K. Bishop (Windsong)
In the early morning mist
upon the thin frayed branch
Of the silver maple tree
Sits a beauty of Creation
He is named Bluebird by the Cherokee
He is one of many who carry the feather of healing
That comes from ancient ways
Through prayer and the Spirit
Ah Ho!
Sweet Cherokee Garden
~ Michele Bonnell
The trip was long
Winding through congested streets, bumper nudging traffic
Escaping the frowns and frazzle of urban tension
The trip was long
Remembering the stories of my great-grandmother
The gift of sharing my ancestors' story
The trip was long
As alone in body but not in spirit the journey begins
The mountains gently lure
The trip was long
Cedar scent drifts on the wind, warm like home-cooked dinner
When the screen door swings open
A sweet garden is here
Beside the museum that speaks to my soul
Sharing our story
A sweet garden is here
Inviting new memories woven with the call of yesterday
The embrace of the mountains surrounding
A sweet garden is here
Shining in the speckled sunlight, breathing life anew
Drums of the Powwow gently rock the fertile earth
A sweet garden is here
A grown child returns giving thanks to
Great-grandmother for the stories that brought her back to
A sweet Cherokee garden
-
Pitjantjatjara Wow, I'm impressed you can spell that one, GUM. What I have
read about the spiritual 'trails' of the indigenous of Australia has been
fascinating. I may have read more books situated in Australia than any other
country except England. And the U.S., of course. A rugged country, with many
similarities to Texas.
-
Barbara - How wonderful for you exploring the poetry of the Native Americans. Such different cultures and yet such similarities of mind and soul. The Australian Aboriginal culture expresses itself well through their art and of course through the stories of the 'Dreamtime' - their creation myths which vary from tribe to tribe but fundamentally are the same. Thanks again for informing me ... I think we all agree that it would take many lifetimes to read about everything that interests us.
Babi: To us, Pitjantjatjara and other tribal names are something like Cherokee and Iroquois to you.
I'm surprised that you've read lots of books situated in Australia - whenever I mention an Aussie author or book on these boards I can sometimes feel everyone's eyes glazing over -which is a shame as Aussie literature is alive and well and takes many forms.
And yes, in places, Australia could be likened to what I imagine Texas is like. It's useful to remember that Australia is almost exactly the same size as America - the difference amounts to only a couple of hundred square metres. So, geographically, the country is as diverse as yours - tropical rainforests, mountains, arid deserts, inland floodplains and lakes, rolling hill country, temperate zones, stunning coastlines etc. Your phrase ' a rugged country' brought an iconic poem to my mind which I'll post - hope you enjoy it.
-
This iconic poem was written by a young women while she was in England and feeling homesick for Australia.
My Country
Dorothea MacKellar
The love of field and coppice,
Of green and shaded lanes,
Of ordered woods and gardens
Is running in your veins,
Strong love of grey-blue distance
Brown streams and soft dim skies,
I know, but cannot share it,
My love is otherwise.
I love a sunburnt country,
A land of sweeping plains,
Of rugged mountain ranges,
Of droughts and flooding rains,
I love her far horizons,
I love her jewel sea,
Her beauty and her terror,
The wide brown land for me.
A stark white ring-barked forest
All tragic to the moon,
The sapphire-misted mountains,
The hot gold hush of noon,
Green tangle of the brushes,
Where lithe lianas coil,
And orchids deck the treetops
And ferns the warm dark soil.
Core of my heart, my country!
Her pitiless blue sky,
When sick at heart, around us
We see the cattle die –
But then the grey clouds gather,
And we can bless again
The drumming of an army
The steady soaking rain
Core of my heart, my country!
Land of the Rainbow Gold,
For flood, and fire and famine,
She pays us back threefold –
Over the thirsty paddocks,
Watch after many days,
The filmy veil of greenness
That thickens as we gaze.
An opal hearted country,
A wilful, lavish land –
All you who have not loved her
You will not understand –
Though earth holds many splendours,
Wherever I may die,
I know to what brown country
My homing thoughts will fly.
-
Like thousands of Australian schoolchildren I learned "My Country". It always reminds me of my primary school playground and our free milk; our meat or apple pies; and the occasional caning of some unfortunate boy. Vivid memories and a delight to revisit that poem.
It also makes me remember the "Norah" books, about growing up on a cattle property and being able to ride every day. How envious I was of Norah and her friends. "My Country" makes me remember hot Christmases and swimming at the local waterholes; seeing snakes; almost sitting on a frill neck; spotting the elusive platypus; kangaroos bounding along in large mobs . It also makes me remember the blue-grey of the eucalyptus; the far-off scent of bushfire and the red-hot pokers in my father's garden. Sights, sounds and scents all brought back to me by that poem. Thanks Gum.
-
How lovely to have a picture of the memories from Australia - keep 'em coming...
here is an age old
Sonnet 73
~ William Shakespeare (1609)
That time of year thou mayst in me behold
When yellow leaves, or none, or few, do hang
Upon those boughs which shake against the cold,
Bare ruined choirs, where late the sweet birds sang.
In me thou see’st the twilight of such day
As after sunset fadeth in the west;
Which by and by black night doth take away,
Death’s second self, that seals up all in rest.
In me thou see’st the glowing of such fire,
That on the ashes of his youth doth lie,
As the deathbed whereon it must expire,
Consumed with that which it was nourished by.
This thou perceiv’st, which makes thy love more strong,
To love that well which thou must leave ere long.
-
Roshanarose: Yes, we all learned My Country at school - though school days would be the last thing it brings to my mind. The imagery is very powerful and for me evokes elements of the continent itself and forces of nature that are always evident right across this, our 'wilful, lavish land'
-
Is James Lister Cuthbertson a well known poet in Australia - this is one of his poems but I do not know him.
An Australian Sunrise
The Morning Star paled slowly, the Cross hung low to the sea,
And down the shadowy reaches the tide came swirling free,
The lustrous purple blackness of the soft Australian night,
Waned in the gray awakening that heralded the light;
Still in the dying darkness, still in the forest dim
The pearly dew of the dawning clung to each giant limb,
Till the sun came up from ocean, red with the cold sea mist,
And smote on the limestone ridges, and the shining tree-tops kissed;
Then the fiery Scorpion vanished, the magpie's note was heard,
And the wind in the she-oak wavered, and the honeysuckles stirred,
The airy golden vapour rose from the river breast,
The kingfisher came darting out of his crannied nest,
And the bulrushes and reed-beds put off their sallow gray
And burnt with cloudy crimson at dawning of the day.
-
No, Barbara - Cuthbertson is not well known. Most of his stuff was 'occasional' verses written for the boys and masters at Geelong Grammar School. I have a memory that he fell from favour and was sent packing back to England - maybe for inappropriate behaviour toward the boys. - that may be incorrect.
-
Here's one by Henry Kendall - a different kind of iconic poet from say, Paterson, Lawson et al. His Englishness shows through especially in choice of language which he uses in ways that Paterson and Lawson et al do not.
The Australian Bellbird's has a singular, chiming note which carries well in the bush - it has often saved men (especially pioneer men) from dying of thirst by directing them to water. The bird itself is pretty nondescript.
Bellbirds – Henry Kendall
By channels of coolness the echoes are calling,
And down the dim gorges I hear the creek falling;
It lives in the mountain where moss and the sedges
Touch with their beauty the banks and the ledges.
Through breaks in the cedar and sycamore bowers
Struggles the light that is love to the flowers,
And. softer than slumber, and sweeter than singing,
The notes of the bellbirds are running and ringing.
The silver voiced bellbirds, the darlings of daytime!
They sing in September their songs of the May-time;
When shadows wax strong, and the thunder bolts hurtle,
They hide with their fear in the leaves of the myrtle.
When rain and the sunshine shine mingled together,
They start up like fairies that follow fair weather;
And straightway the hues of their feathers unfolden
Are the green and the purple, the blue and the golden.
October, the maiden of bright yellow tresses,
Loiters for love in these cool wildernesses,
Loiters, knee deep, in the grasses, to listen,
Where dripping rocks gleam and leafy pools glisten:
Then is the time when the water moons splendid
Break with their gold, and are scattered or blended
Over the creeks, till the woodlands have warning
Of songs of the Bellbird and wings of the Morning.
Welcome as waters unkissed by the summers
Are the voices of bellbirds to the thirsty far comers.
When fiery December sets foot in the forest,
And the need of the wayfarer presses the sorest,
Pent in the ridges and for ever and ever
The bellbirds direct him to spring and to river,
With ring and with ripple, like runnels whose torrents
Are toned by the pebbles and the leaves in the currents.
Often I sit, looking back to a childhood,
Mixt with the sights and the sounds of the wildwood,
Longing for power and the sweetness to fashion,
Lyrics with beats like the heartbeats of Passipn: -
Songs interwoven of lights and of laughters
Borrowed from bell-birds in far forest rafters;
So I might keep in the city and alleys
The beauty and strength of the deep mountain valleys;
Charming to slumber the pain of my losses.
With glimpses of creeks and a vision of mosses.
-
A great poem, GUM. I guess we all love the land we were born too and knew as children. I, for one, cannot be happy long where there are no trees around me. But Ms McKellar evokes all the beauties of her 'brown land'.
I found this little quote and thought it was good.
Poetry helps us acknowledge and notice our own places with more care.
What does San Antonio smell like? Jasmine drift. Honeysuckle, mountain laurel. When we have houseguests, they say, 'My God! Your birds are so loud!' Or, 'Oh those trains at 2:00 a.m. How do you sleep?' After all these years they have become our lullabies.
– Naomi Shihab Nye
-
COME LITTLE LEAVES
~ by George Cooper
"Come, little leaves" said the wind one day,
"Come over the meadows with me, and play;
Put on your dresses of red and gold;
Summer is gone, and the days grow cold."
Soon as the leaves heard the wind's loud call,
Down they came fluttering, one and all;
Over the brown fields they danced and flew,
Singing the soft little songs they knew.
"Cricket, good-bye, we've been friends so long;
Little brook, sing us your farewell song-
Say you're sorry to see us go;
Ah! you are sorry, right well we know.
"Dear little lambs, in your fleecy fold,
Mother will keep you from harm and cold;
Fondly we've watched you in vale and glade;
Say, will you dream of our loving shade?"
Dancing and whirling the little leaves went;
Winter had called them and they were content-
Soon fast asleep in their earthly beds,
The snow laid a soft mantle over their heads.
-
October's Bright Blue Weather
~ Helen Hunt Jackson
O suns and skies and clouds of June,
And flowers of June together,
Ye cannot rival for one hour
October's bright blue weather;
When loud the bumblebee makes haste,
Belated, thriftless vagrant,
And goldenrod is dying fast,
And lanes with grapes are fragrant;
When gentians roll their fingers tight
To save them for the morning,
And chestnuts fall from satin burrs
Without a sound of warning;
When on the ground red apples lie
In piles like jewels shining,
And redder still on old stone walls
Are leaves of woodbine twining;
When all the lovely wayside things
Their white-winged seeds are sowing,
And in the fields still green and fair,
Late aftermaths are growing;
When springs run low, and on the brooks,
In idle golden freighting,
Bright leaves sink noiseless in the hush
Of woods, for winter waiting;
When comrades seek sweet country haunts,
By twos and twos together,
And count like misers, hour by hour,
October's bright blue weather.
O sun and skies and flowers of June,
Count all your boasts together,
Love loveth best of all the year
October's bright blue weather.
-
And for our Australian friends...
Letter to Joanne Kyger
~ Robert Adamson
I’ve always wanted to use the word ‘sempiternal’ —
your concept of the second soul
as an animal spirit, and your lines :
‘If it dies, you die
That’s it.’
gives me a chance.
I first came across that word
in a poem by Eliot, and knew even then
it was trouble. That was long before
I knew Old Possum once wore green pancake
makeup to the Bank (think of him saying
‘sempiternal’ in drag).
When I saw you in California
I felt as if I was walking through a past
I’d not actually lived, it was a case of
the years as books rather than ‘the years as catches’.
The hills around Bolinas remind me
of Bulli Pass, the dome of your sky hung with
turkey buzzards
instead of pelicans.
The roadkill was mainly skunks
rather than wombats,
we saw a herd of elk grazing on a cliff —
I noticed they held their heads
and pricked their ears like kangaroos except
they were on all fours.
The humming birds at your feeder
were like bogong moths, except better dressed,
and many of the poets in California we met were honeyeaters too.
-
October is definitely my month, BARB, and I have always loved it's 'bright
blue weather". Cool enough to appreciate a sweater, sunny enough to make
the 'coolth' pleasant.
Mr. Adamson is a whimsical fellow. Humming birds like bogong moths, only better-dressed.
And the tidbit about T.S. Eliot and the green pancake makeup! I assume that's true and he
didn't just make it up. Who would think of something like that?
-
Autumn chrysanthemums have beautiful color
~ by T'ao Ch'ien (365 - 427)
Autumn chrysanthemums have beautiful color,
With dew in my clothes I pluck their flowers.
I float this thing in wine to forget my sorrow,
To leave far behind my thoughts of the world.
Alone, I pour myself a goblet of wine;
When the cup is empty, the pot pours for itself.
As the sun sets, all activities cease;
Homing birds, they hurry to the woods singing.
Haughtily, I whistle below the eastern balcony --
I've found again the meaning of life.
-
Rainy am here in Va and cool Welcomed after summers scorching heat ...my poetry here, members of the poetry society of VA have a challenge for each meeting ..Next Tuesday we are supposed to use the word apogee at the end of a poem Interestingly I wrote one while I was in California and intended to use it .but was inspired to write a new one and will share it with you.....I will give you a report of the meeting next Tues and how it was accepted..
october
October is the doorway to winter-
what falls from the sky
is rain not snow--
days are crisp
evenings light ---
and night is slow to come.
leaves reluctantly say goodbye-
pile their beauty on the ground.
Ancient oaks always keep a few--
when winter arrives ---
they look like old men
with raggedy, leafy beards.
We have aged together -
for almost forty years.
I have watched them grow-
for all those years.
While they have become taller---
I am a bit shorter and near my end.
So I wonder while I be here?
When they reach their apogee.
anna alexander
October 4 2010
11:48 AM
-
Thanks Barbara - I enjoyed the comparisons in "Letter to Joanne Kyger".
-
Strange, isn't it, ANNA, how we grow taller as we grow up, and shorter as we grow old.
I have a poem by Anne Bradstreet here. It seems to be as though is cut off unfinished, but..
the truth of it remains the same.
OLD AGE
by: Anne Bradstreet (c.1612-1672)
My memory is short, and braine is dry.
My Almond-tree (gray haires) doth flourish now,
And back, once straight, begins apace to bow.
My grinders now are few, my sight doth faile
My skin is wrinkled, and my cheeks are pale.
No more rejoyce, at musickes pleasant noyse.
-
My mother always talked about October's "bright blue weather". She must have known that poem.
I loved the poem about the Australian bellbird. If you wonder what he sounds like, here he is:
http://home.iprimus.com.au/punkclown/PunkClown/Bellbird.htm (http://home.iprimus.com.au/punkclown/PunkClown/Bellbird.htm)
And for contrast, here's the kookaberra:
http://home.iprimus.com.au/punkclown/Punkclown/Kooka.htm (http://home.iprimus.com.au/punkclown/Punkclown/Kooka.htm)
-
fairanna - Your poem was so beautiful. More please. Conversely, October is the doorway to Summer here, and my beautiful daughter was born on October 4th. So I love October.
-
Moment in Time
~ by Cynthia Kepp
We talked,
We walked,
for a Moment in Time.
You passed through my life that day and left your mark.
You may never pass my way again,
Or you may stay for a lifetime.
No matter what,
I want to say thank you for the impression you made
that will stay with me for eternity.
I enjoyed the walk,
I enjoyed the talk.
I am blessed for that moment in time.
The first time I saw you I knew you would affect my life,
though your role I did not know.
I asked myself, "Why is he alone?
Why does he sit so quiet, all alone?
Is he sad?
Is he glad to be alone?
Is he alone?
Is he lonely? "
There is so much I want to know.
I asked myself, "Why him?
When so many people pass through my life each day,
why him? "
What attracts me to you?
What makes me want to know more?
I want to know.
Even if my questions are never answered,
There is one thing I want you to know.
I have been blessed by the effect you had on me in that
Moment in Time.
-
The Museum of Stones
~ by Carolyn Forché
This is your museum of stones, assembled in matchbox and tin,
collected from roadside, culvert, and viaduct,
battlefield, threshing floor, basilica, abattoir,
stones loosened by tanks in the streets
of a city whose earliest map was drawn in ink on linen,
schoolyard stones in the hand of a corpse,
pebble from Apollinaire’s oui,
stone of the mind within us
carried from one silence to another,
stone of cromlech and cairn, schist and shale, hornblende,
agate, marble, millstones, and ruins of choirs and shipyards,
chalk, marl, and mudstone from temples and tombs,
stone from the silvery grass near the scaffold,
stone from the tunnel lined with bones,
lava of the city’s entombment,
chipped from lighthouse, cell wall, scriptorium,
paving stones from the hands of those who rose against the army,
stones where the bells had fallen, where the bridges were blown,
those that had flown through windows and weighted petitions,
feldspar, rose quartz, slate, blueschist, gneiss, and chert,
fragments of an abbey at dusk, sandstone toe
of a Buddha mortared at Bamiyan,
stone from the hill of three crosses and a crypt,
from a chimney where storks cried like human children,
stones newly fallen from stars, a stillness of stones, a heart,
altar and boundary stone, marker and vessel, first cast, lode, and hail,
bridge stones and others to pave and shut up with,
stone apple, stone basil, beech, berry, stone brake,
stone bramble, stone fern, lichen, liverwort, pippin, and root,
concretion of the body, as blind as cold as deaf,
all earth a quarry, all life a labor, stone-faced, stone-drunk
with hope that this assemblage, taken together, would become
a shrine or holy place, an ossuary, immovable and sacred,
like the stone that marked the path of the sun as it entered the human dawn.
-
THE MOMENT
Margaret Atwood
The moment when, after many years
of hard work and a long voyage
you stand in the centre of your room,
house, half-acre, square mile, island, country,
knowing at last how you got there,
and say, I own this,
is the same moment when the trees unloose
their soft arms from around you,
the birds take back their language,
the cliffs fissure and collapse,
the air moves back from you like a wave
and you can't breathe.
No, they whisper. You own nothing.
You were a visitor, time after time
climbing the hill, planting the flag, proclaiming.
We never belonged to you.
You never found us.
It was always the other way round.
-
Ah Margaret Atwood nailed it didn't she...
Here is one from schooldays with bits and pieces often quoted by the best of speakers.
To the Virgins, to make much of Time,
~ by Robert Herrick
Gather ye rosebuds while ye may,
Old Time is still a-flying:
And this same flower that smiles today
To-morrow will be dying.
The glorious lamp of heaven, the sun,
The higher he’s a-getting,
The sooner will his race be run,
And nearer he’s to setting.
That age is best which is the first,
When youth and blood are warmer,
But being spent, the worse, and worst,
Times still succeed the former.
Then be not coy, but use your time,
And while ye may, go marry:
For having lost but once your prime,
You may for ever tarry.
-
I found this wonderful site - if you have ever marveled at the construction and feel of a book from the Everyman Library their site explains the story. I purchased many an Everyman edition but did not know they had a series of poetry books - I think with all my books I cannot add another and yet, this publisher builds a beautiful book that you can hardly believe is as affordable as many of the books piled high on the tables of a book store.
http://www.randomhouse.com/knopf/classics/about.html
Poem for Everyman
~ By John Wood
I will present you
parts
of
my
self
slowly
if you are patient and tender.
I will open drawers
that mostly stay closed
and bring out places and people and things
sounds and smells, loves and frustrations, hopes and sadness,
bits and pieces of three decades of life
that have been grabbed off
in chunks
and found lying in my hands.
they have eaten
their way into my memory,
carved their way into
my heart.
altogether-you or I will never see them-
they are me.
If you regard them lightly,
deny they are important
or worse judge them
I will quietly, slowly,
begin to wrap them up,
in small pieces of velvet,
like worn silver and gold jewelry,
tuck them away
in a small wooden chest of drawers
and close.
-
Ah, BARB, you have gone straight to the heart of an old love/lust....the yearning for books. I
have firmly squelched that desire in these later years. My shelves are full and my wallet is thin.
But thinking of the Everyman library and reading John Wood's poem...ah, well, I'll enjoy the
nostalgia a while.
-
I read that Seamus Heaney is verly ill and may be near the end of his life... in the way of a prayer here is one of his more touching poems.
1. Sunlight
There was a sunlit absence.
The helmeted pump in the yard
heated its iron,
water honeyed
in the slung bucket
and the sun stood
like a griddle cooling
against the wall
of each long afternoon.
So, her hands scuffled
over the bakeboard,
the reddening stove
sent its plaque of heat
against her where she stood
in a floury apron
by the window.
Now she dusts the board
with a goose's wing,
now sits, broad-lapped,
with whitened nails
and measling shins:
here is a space
again, the scone rising
to the tick of two clocks.
And here is love
like a tinsmith's scoop
sunk past its gleam
in the meal-bin.
-
Seamus Heaney is new to me. I really like the poem, and I'm sorry to hear he is so ill. I made
a quick detour to learn more about him, and lo!, he's a Nobel prize winner in literature! I read
a few of his poems. Very similar in invoking scenes, textures, childhood memories.
-
Yes, back during SeniorNet days and when we first started on this site we were focusing on one poet a month and one of the months Annafair chose Seamus Heaney - many of the poems we enjoyed more than others were about the simple activities around a home and farm. The Irish have a way with words like no other - we see it among our leaders - those with Irish Heritage have a silver tongue about the prfound as well as the simplest of life's activities.
This is one of his poems I remember we shared and at the time it became one of the favorites for the group.
Digging
~ by Seamus Heaney
Between my finger and my thumb
The squat pen rests: snug as a gun.
Under my window, a clean rasping sound
When the spade sinks into gravelly ground:
My father, digging. I look down
Till his straining rump among the flowerbeds
Bends low, comes up twenty years away
Stooping in rhythm through potato drills
Where he was digging.
The coarse boot nestled on the lug, the shaft against the inside knee was levered firmly.
He rooted out tall tops, buried the bright edge deep
To scatter new potatoes that we picked
Loving their cool hardness in our hands.
By God, the old man could handle a spade.
Just like his old man.
My grandfather cut more turf in a day
Than any other man on Toner's bog.
Once I carried him milk in a bottle
Corked sloppily with paper. He straightened up
To drink it, then fell to right away
Nicking and slicing neatly, heaving sods
Over his shoulder, going down and down
For the good turf. Digging.
The cold smell of potato mould, the squelch and slap
Of soggy peat, the curt cuts of an edge
Through living roots awaken in my head.
But I've no spade to follow men like them.
Between my finger and my thumb
The squat pen rests.
I'll dig with it.
-
Oh, excellent! Too often those whose skill lies with a 'pen' rather than a homely tool, fail to
give the digger the respect that is his due. I can well recall the time my stepmother felt the need
to chide me with, "You have book sense but no horse sense." We do need to respect, and appreciate, those with the horse sense. :)
I found this bit of whimsy. It made me smile, so I'll share it.
COMMON SENSE
I have no genius. Though I make no doubt,
Sage reader, thou would’st soon have found this out:
I tell thee, lest thou waste thy precious time
In seeking here for aught but sense and rhyme—
Plain common sense; but no ecstatic feats,
And rhymes at least as good as Mister Keates’*.
Time was when bards were few: then might you see
In Button’s room the whole fraternity;
But now, like Egypt’s frogs, on every hand
They spread and croak and darken all the land:
[Charles Hughes Terrot]
-
Age wears me down and my energy since the viral bronchitis this summer is much less than before and much less now when I need more THANKS for Seamus Heaney I LOVED HIS POEMS the pictures he painted with words were life to me for I could see and feel what my grandparents knew and shared with me...they were already old when I was young and now I am old but like them I have stayed young in my heart and mind and soul....I'm off this eve to read the poem I shared ..but it is not age that tires me but the result of the bronchitis and the STRONG antibiotic I was given .....ah well it has been nice a bit warmer here for a few days and tomorrow a return to Octobers "bright blue weather" and the a feel of a "nip in the weather " AND I loved the Australian poets and have often wished I could go there ...it sounds a bit like it used to be here ..God Bless to all....anna
-
For fairanna in particular and explorers of the lyrical in general.
It is with deep respect of the Aboriginal people of Australia and the land that is theirs upon which I stand, that I submit this poem from a poet much admired and missed.
We Are Going
by Oodgeroo Noonuccal
They came in to the little town
A semi-naked band subdued and silent
All that remained of their tribe.
They came here to the place of their old bora ground
Where now the many white men hurry about like ants.
Notice of the estate agent reads: 'Rubbish May Be Tipped Here'.
Now it half covers the traces of the old bora ring.
'We are as strangers here now, but the white tribe are the strangers.
We belong here, we are of the old ways.
We are the corroboree and the bora ground,
We are the old ceremonies, the laws of the elders.
We are the wonder tales of Dream Time, the tribal legends told.
We are the past, the hunts and the laughing games, the wandering camp fires.
We are the lightening bolt over Gaphembah Hill
Quick and terrible,
And the Thunderer after him, that loud fellow.
We are the quiet daybreak paling the dark lagoon.
We are the shadow-ghosts creeping back as the camp fires burn low.
We are nature and the past, all the old ways
Gone now and scattered.
The scrubs are gone, the hunting and the laughter.
The eagle is gone, the emu and the kangaroo are gone from this place.
The bora ring is gone.
The corroboree is gone.
And we are going.'
Oodgeroo Noonuccal was born Kathleen Jean Mary Ruska on 32 November 1920. She was born on Stradbroke Island - Minjerribah, off the South Queensland Coast of Australia. Her ethnicity was Quandamooka.
In 1985 she appeared with her grandson, Denis Walker (Jr) in Bruce Beresford’s film The Fringe Dwellers.
In 1988 she adopted a traditional name: Oodgeroo (meaning "paperbark tree") Noonuccal (her tribe's name).[17] That same year she returned her MBE in protest and to make a political statement at the condition of her people in the year of Australia's Bicentenary celebrations.[17] She died in 1993.
-
Roshanarose Thanks for reminding me of Oodgeroo. She was never afraid to stand up and be counted. Her English surname Ruska is intriguing - the 'ka' ending has several connotations in European languages or is it just slang? I should go check it out.
Barbara I used to read a lot of Seamus Heaney - he always seems to get his message across in seemingly simple language. His translation of Beowulf is very powerful and very readable. Here's a little from the first page -
from Beowulf translated by Seamus Heaney
Afterwards a boy child was born to Shield,
a cub in the yard, a comfort sent
by God to that nation. He knew what they had tholed,
the long times and troubles they'd come through
without a leader; so the Lord of Life,
the glorious Almighty, made this man renowned.
Shield had fathered a famous son:
Beow's name was known through the north.
And a young prince must be prudent like that,
giving freely while his father lives
so that afterwards in age when fighting starts
steadfast companions will stand by him
and hold the line. Behaviour that's admired
is the path to power among people everywhere.
and a little further on:
These were hard times, heart breaking
for the prince of the Shieldings: powerful counsellors,
the highest in the land, would lend advice,
plotting how best the bold defenders
might resist and beat off sudden attacks.
Sometimes at pagan shrines they vowed
offerings to idols, swore oaths
that the killer of souls might come to their aid
and save the people. That was their way,
their heathenish hope; deep in their hearts
they remembered hell. The Almighty Judge
of good deeds and bad, the Lord God,
Head of the Heavens and High King of the World,
was unknown to them. Oh, cursed is he
who in time of trouble has to thrust his soul
to the fire's embrace, forfeiting help;
he has nowhere to turn. But blessed is he
who after death can approach the Lord
and find friendship in the Father's embrace.
So that troubled time continued, woe
that never stopped, steady affliction
for Halfdane's son, too hard an ordeal.
There was panic after dark, people endured
raids in the night, riven by the terror
Beowulf is a wonderful piece- one can find parallels throughout history and in the present day.
Fairanna Sorry to know you're still feeling not quite yourself and hope your health will soon improve. Antibiotics can be the very devil and play havoc with one's system. Take care.
-
I've been glued to my computer monitor watching the Chilean miners rise in a metal cage from a pipe in the ground - Seeing these survivors and reading reams of information now available about surviving a trauma I thought I would find a poem about surviving - I was not prepared for the vast number of painful experiences that survivors have written about.
I did not know this poem by a well-known World War One poet whose work I have read many times. The poem may be about a war that took place 100 years ago however, it could be written today about the experience of returning soldiers -
We see the same affects among abused children and battered wives - among survivors of kidnapping, roadside bombs, floods, death camps, and those whose opportunity to achieve are denied them all over the world because of their race, sex, creed or color. Most of them have a story of survival - It is astonishing to realize how much pain exists and yet, we seldom talk about the courage, the bravery, the fortitude, the drive to survive that quietly surrounds us among everyday survivors that pass through our lives.
I am including a second poem because I think if we did a bit more listening as the poem suggests, while we acknowledge our own survival strengths and skills we could all walk a little taller while being more humble and compassionate to others. Don't mean to preach - it is just that this concept of strength as a bond among survivors is a glorious gift I have overlooked that is as meaningful as a triumphant win by a sports team.
Survivors
~ Siegfried Sassoon [Oct. 1917]
No doubt they'll soon get well; the shock and strain
Have caused their stammering, disconnected talk.
Of course they're "longing to go out again,"--
These boys with old, scared faces, learning to walk,
They'll soon forget their haunted nights; their cowed
Subjection to the ghosts of friends who died,--
Their dreams that drip with murder; and they'll be proud
Of glorious war that shatter'd all their pride ...
Men who went out to battle, grim and glad;
Children, with eyes that hate you, broken and mad.
The second survival poem needs its own post...
-
Please Listen ~ a poem by a survivor
When I ask you to listen to me and you start giving me advice, you have not done what I asked.
When I ask you to listen to me and you begin to tell me why I shouldn't feel that way, you are trampling on my feelings.
When I ask you to listen to me and you feel you have to do something to solve my problem, you have failed me, strange as that may seem.
Listen! All I ask is that you listen. Don't talk or do - just hear me.
Advice is cheap; 20 cents will get you both Dear Abby and Billy Graham in the same newspaper, and I can do for myself; I am not helpless. Maybe discouraged and faltering, but not helpless.
When you do something for me that I can and need to do for myself, you contribute to my fear and inadequacy. But when you accept as a simple fact that I feel what I feel, no matter how irrational, then I can stop trying to convince you and get about this business of understanding what's behind this irrational feeling.
And when that's clear, the answers are obvious and I don't need advice. Irrational feelings make sense when we understand what's behind them.
Perhaps that's why prayer works, sometimes, for some people - because G*d is mute, and he doesn't give advice or try to fix things. G*d just listens and lets you work it out for yourself.
So please listen, and just hear me.
And if you want to talk, wait a minute
for your turn - and I will listen to you.
by Author Unknown
-
Gumtree thanks you have helped me make up my mind - I have the book and the Cd of Seamus Heaney reading Beowulf and thought I should pass it on but had no idea to whom. I have now decided after seeing the words in print again - I am the one who admired and have the good memory of reading while listening to him read on this tape so why get rid of it - If I only visit it again one time it is better than the tape ending up on a heap at the used books store with no guarantee it would ever be listened to with as much joy as it deserves.
-
and Babi your observation about common sense again the Chilean Miners are hoisted up by old fashioned hand built nuts and bolts along with a wheel that looks like an illustration for an erector set sold at Christmas. With all our technology it is heartwarming to see hands using hammers and rope and steel cable to get a life saving job accomplished.
The Hammer
~ by Carl Sandburg
I have seen
The old gods go
And the new gods come.
Day by day
And year by year
The idols fall
And the idols rise.
Today
I worship the hammer.
-
ah and this reminds us that we are each the center of the Earth - which in his words is what I think Oodgeroo Noonuccal
is saying... thanks for sharing a bit of Australia with us...and now here is a bit from a Muscogee-Cherokee Native American.
My House is the Red Earth
~ by Joy Harjo
My house is the red earth; it could be the center of the world. I’ve heard New York, Paris, or Tokyo called the center of the world, but I say it is magnificently humble. You could drive by and miss it. Radio waves can obscure it. Words cannot construct it, for there are some sounds left to sacred wordless form. For instance, that fool crow, picking through trash near the corral, understands the center of the world as greasy strips of fat. Just ask him. He doesn’t have to say that the earth has turned scarlet through fierce belief, after centuries of heartbreak and laughter—he perches on the blue bowl of the sky, and laughs.
-
(http://seniorlearn.org/bookclubs/poetry/poetryfall10.jpg)
|
The Apple Orchard
~ by Shawn Bailey
The dew-softened blades
of fescue wet my feet,
small brushstrokes of icy wetness
on my way to the orchard.
The sunlight scatters
the morning mist
that shelters the trees from
the horizon.
I spy the juicy red apples
lounging in the trees,
moist with dawn
and there are thousands of them.
Fruitful, edible decor.
|
Autumn Poetry
In this Discussion we share what stirs our heart -
Bring us a gift of a poem
Yours, or the work of another poet. - Famous Poets and Poems about Autumn (http://famouspoetsandpoems.com/thematic_poems/autumn_poems.html)
- Fall Season Poems (http://poetry.about.com/od/ourpoemcollections/a/autumnpoems.htm)
Discussion Leaders: Barb (augere@ix.netcom.com) & fairanna (fairanna@verizon.net)
-
"Please Listen" is a powerful poem...and excellent advice. I have always been too
quick to try and help someone solve a problem. Like the man says, advice is cheap.
It's hard to know sometimes whether someone wants help, or just wants to put it all
into words and be heard.
"...the earth has turned scarlet through fierce belief.." That line left me bemused,
wondering what Ms. Harjo meant by it.
-
Perhaps: "the earth has turned scarlet..." meaning by blood shed in wars because of "fierce belief". That would make sense to me.
-
Yes. Tomreader that is what I make of the phrase as well - that scarlet represents all the blood spilled in war and wars are about folks inability to negotiate what they each fiercely believe is acceptable that others should make room for and respect.
We're still at it aren't we as we think our ideas for success is how we measure the value of land, buildings, people, nations, religions, the environment. On and on it goes as we think our view should be top dog and we are willing to stand firm with teeth bared to further our beliefs. Ah so - it does take two to tango and so there has to be room for all views and that takes work, respect and a willingness to find answers.
Ownership is a funny thing - do we own our ideas, the land, minerals - the wind, a view, and yet all of these have been the basis of a court case and the basis of many a war.
-
After reading Joy Harjo and Sandburg it occurs to me that often the poems with the simplest words move us the most. In Central Australia the earth literally is red; and in American Indian folklore the crow is regarded as a "shape shifter" and in some cultures crows represent the souls of the dead. If you are able to tie them all together you must have lived a thousand lifetimes, like the crow.
Chief Seattle
How can you buy or sell the sky, the warmth of the land?
The idea is strange to us.
If we do not own the freshness of the air and the sparkle of the water,
how can you buy them?
Every part of the Earth is sacred to my people.
Every shining pine needle, every sandy shore, every mist in the dark woods, every clear and humming insect is holy in the memory and experience of my people.
The sap which courses through the trees carries the memory and experience of my people.
The sap which courses through the trees carries the memories of the red man.
The white man's dead forget the country of their birth when they go to walk among the stars.
Our dead never forget this beautiful Earth, for it is the mother of the red man.
We are part of the Earth and it is part of us.
The perfumed flowers are our sisters, the deer, the horse, the great eagle, these are our brothers.
The rocky crests, the juices in the meadows, the body heat of the pony, and the man, all belong to the same family.
So, when the Great Chief in Washington sends word that he wishes to buy our land, he asks much of us.
The Great White Chief sends word he will reserve us a place so that we can live comfortably to ourselves.
He will be our father and we will be his children.
So we will consider your offer to buy land.
But it will not be easy.
For this land is sacred to us.
This shining water that moves in streams and rivers is not just water but the blood of our ancestors.
If we sell you land, you must remember that it is sacred blood of our ancestors.
If we sell you land, you must remember that it is sacred, and you must teach your children that it is sacred and that each ghostly reflection in the clear water of the lakes tells of events in the life of my people.
The waters murmur is the voice of my father's father.
The rivers of our brothers they quench our thirst.
The rivers carry our canoes and feed our children.
If we sell you our land, you must remember to teach your children that the rivers are our brothers, and yours, and you must henceforth give the rivers the kindness that you would give my brother.
We know that the white man does not understand our ways.
One portion of land is the same to him as the next, for he is a stranger who comes in the night and takes from the land whatever he needs.
The Earth is not his brother, but his enemy and when he has conquered it, he moves on.
He leaves his father's graves behind, and he does not care.
He kidnaps the Earth from his children, and he does not care.
-
Ouch - profound and yet so true - what a damaging and embarrassing legacy to leave...
I believe in progress but we sure have not figured out how to combine progress with caring for the earth - nor caring for its people -
I find that combination to be a struggle in my own life and if I cannot figure it out for a simple shelter, transportation and sustenance balanced against earning the where with all to support services to and the maintenance of my shelter, transportation and sustenance I cannot complain too loudly when small business cannot figure it out much less large corporations -
We assume Business and Government has the knowledge and wisdom of Soloman and because of greed or catering to the money to secure re-election those in power do not use it - I wonder if part of the problem is few of us have figured out how to balance progress with taking care of this earth.
And then to reclaim the use of changed property is another nightmare of balance - just consider the drawn out negotiations over re-building the twin towers or what should or should not be built near ground zero - it sure was easier when progress like buildings in large cities is not an issue and we could leave the earth as it was when we walked before roads and aeroplanes much less rocket ships into outer space.
How do we balance it....
Balance
~ by Adam Zagajewski ~ translated by Clare Cavanagh
I watched the arctic landscape from above
and thought of nothing, lovely nothing.
I observed white canopies of clouds, vast
expanses where no wolf tracks could be found.
I thought about you and about the emptiness
that can promise one thing only: plenitude—
and that a certain sort of snowy wasteland
bursts from a surfeit of happiness.
As we drew closer to our landing,
the vulnerable earth emerged among the clouds,
comic gardens forgotten by their owners,
pale grass plagued by winter and the wind.
I put my book down and for an instant felt
a perfect balance between waking and dreams.
But when the plane touched concrete, then
assiduously circled the airport's labryinth,
I once again knew nothing. The darkness
of daily wanderings resumed, the day's sweet darkness,
the darkness of the voice that counts and measures,
remembers and forgets.
-
AH, yes, TOMEREADER, that does make sense. Thank you.
We have, at least, begun to understand the need to care for the earth. Whether it
is enough, I don't know. I can only hope it's not too little, too late. I don't think
I would ever go so far as to say business and government are founts of wisdom :-\, but
they do have resources and funds. The difficult balance, of course, is assigning
priorities.
A very thoughtful...and thought provoking..poem, BARB.
-
Here is a Mary Oliver treat -
http://www.nytimes.com/interactive/2009/07/05/travel/20090705-mary-oliver-audio-ss/index.html
-
And here is a group of chapbooks that each held a Robert Frost poem - be sure you click the arrow above the photo to see the slide show.
http://www.nytimes.com/slideshow/2009/12/02/books/20091202_frost_ss_index.html?ref=poetry_and_poets
-
One of Seamus Heaney's poems from his new book "Human Chain"
Coal Sack
Not coal dust, more the weighty grounds of coal
The lorryman would lug in open bags
And vent into a corner,
A sullen pile
But soft to the shovel, accommodating
As the clattering coal was not.
In days when life prepared for rainy days
It lay there, slumped and waiting
To dampen down and lengthen out
The fire, a check on mammon
And in its own way
Keeper of the flame.
This isn’t lump coal, the top screening from the mine, but the bottom-deck “slack coal,” the cheap bits and grindings that fall through the other meshes. This refuse coal trims the cost of the fire (hence the mention of the Bible’s Mammon). “Keeper of the flame” is its own droll joke, as if the coal, like the poet, honors the dead.
-
Barb, what exactly is a chapbook? I've seen the word somewhere before but I don't
know what it means. I had the vague impression it was a medieval term.
"Coal Sack" brought to ming a song Tennessee Ernie Ford used to sing. It's long, but it
tells a story.
SIXTEEN TONS
Some people say a man is made outta mud
A poor man's made outta muscle and blood
Muscle and blood and skin and bones
A mind that's a-weak and a back that's strong
You load sixteen tons, what do you get
Another day older and deeper in debt
Saint Peter don't you call me 'cause I can't go
I owe my soul to the company store
I was born one mornin' when the sun didn't shine
I picked up my shovel and I walked to the mine
I loaded sixteen tons of number nine coal
And the straw boss said "Well, a-bless my soul"
(chorus)
I was born one mornin', it was drizzlin' rain
Fightin' and trouble are my middle name
I was raised in the canebrake by an ol' mama lion
Cain't no-a high-toned woman make me walk the line
(chorus)
If you see me comin', better step aside
A lotta men didn't, a lotta men died
One fist of iron, the other of steel
If the right one don't a-get you
Then the left one will
You load sixteen tons, what do you get
Another day older and deeper in debt
Saint Peter don't you call me 'cause I can't go
I owe my soul to the company store
-
Fun question because it involves history and I love the history of the simple things in life from dyes to cloth to design and books are right up there.
There is an evolving way that information was printed and sold - after the printing press those who could read were not always the wealthy and so if you have any knowledge of early music that we still sing in Appalachia and other pockets of Scotch-Irish and English heritage you have heard of Broadsides - these were one up from a scroll using rag [paper made from old cloth or woodfibre] cut broader than long and sold for half a penny or so.
Then came the 'chapbook' which has two influences creating its name - back in the sixteenth century when these booklets first appeared [about 1543] the 'chap' who sold goods would walk the streets saying he was your chap for whatever he was selling which included, tucked in his belt or pockets these small books - they were the rag paper now folded with a simple printed design on the cover or maybe only the name of the author and the title of what the book contained and then another piece of paper folded and cut to create between 4 to maybe 16 pages all sewn in the middle making a slim inexpensive book - this would be one section of a book which is simply a series of groups of pages that are sewn in the middle and then the groups are lined up and with a gauze like material attached holding together the groups of 8 to 16 pages with a special glue - all of this is attached to a binding that incorporates a hard board cloth cover or a piece of leather.
Anyhow back to our chapbook - the contents had a dubious beginning through most of the early nineteenth century - Thomas Paine and others who did not support the King and Calvin along with a few other new religious leaders who did not support the Pope distributed their essays on chapbooks. And so off the alters and from the mouths of politicians chapbooks were degraded.
That degradation held on for a long time so that Robert Frost was brave - the degradation was if you were not good enough to be published in a book than your work was not qualified to be discussed and it was simply the gushings of a would-be writer. However, his work was one poem at a time that was illustrated with pen and ink sketches and printed by artists rather than by a large publishing house.
With the advent of the self-publishing industry and small printing houses more chapbooks were published that included the poetry of many who were not recognized by major publishers. Then with the advent of computers, self publishing really took off with covers often no more than construction paper that is not the quality of rag paper but a rougher paper that gives the booklet the look of an old fashioned chapbook.
And talk about Tennessee Ernie Ford - Yes, probably his most famous however, I love this excerpt for his Christmas show years ago with his son Brian - I used to have in color but here is the black and white version - a riot
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=drYeE1VGR6I
-
An interesting aside here since you are discussing "chap books": If you have read any of Audrey Niffenegger's books, "Time Traveler's Wife" and "Her Fearful Symmetry", you realize that there is something about her writing that you know is "attached" to something in her youth. I know attached is not the right word, but my brain is not cooperating this morning. There was the little YouTube or link of some kind that I saw yesterday, telling how she first started writing as a child, making little books, with pictures she drew, etc. In essence, chap books. I hope I can think of where I saw that clip, as it was terrifically interesting, and she also told of some of the writers/artists who influenced her work and this is very evident in the subjects of her writing. Some of you with better "research" skills than I can probably find this clip quickly.
-
Oh, I wish I could hear that video, BARB. I really liked that man and loved his voice.
And thank you for the history of the chapbooks.
TOME, I would not be surprised to find that all writers had been at it since childhood. I think
talents like that show themselves early on. Writers can't help scribbling and artists are driven to
sketch and paint, even at a very young age.
I'm posting this little bit from a Renaissance poet..for no particular reason.
When to Her Lute Corinna Sings, by Thomas Campion
When to her lute Corinna sings,
Her voice revives the leaden strings,
And doth in highest notes appear
As any challenged echo clear;
But when she doth of mourning speak,
Ev’n with her sighs the strings do break.
And as her lute doth live or die,
Let by her passion, so must I:
For when of pleasure she doth sing,
My thoughts enjoy a sudden spring,
But if she doth of sorrow speak,
Ev’n from my heart the strings do break.
-
I have just started a novel by Nicholson Baker, "The Anthologist" , a first person narrative by a once-in-a-while published poet who gets invited to write an introduction to an anthology of great poetry, and is having trouble with his selections. The beginning chapter is his "take" on some aspects of poetr, such as "tetrameter" vs. "pentameter" and he almost lost me.
But I will perserve until he gets to work on his selections for the anthology.
Meanwhile , here again is my autumn poem committed tomemory years ago and never forgotten.
-
Spring and Fall: To a Young Child
Márgarét, are you gríeving
Over Goldengrove unleaving?
Leáves, líke the things of man, you
With your fresh thoughts care for, can you?
Ah! ás the heart grows older
It will come to such sights colder
By and by, nor spare a sigh
Though worlds of wanwood leafmeal lie;
And yet you wíll weep and know why.
Now no matter, child, the name:
Sórrow's spríngs áre the same.
Nor mouth had, no nor mind, expressed
What heart heard of, ghost guessed:
It ís the blight man was born for,
It is Margaret you mourn for.
-
And here's another, from our beloved Lucy Maud Montgomery. Here's 'darkening druit glens of fir'
An Autumn Evening
by Lucy Maud Montgomery
Dark hills against a hollow crocus sky
Scarfed with its crimson pennons, and below
The dome of sunset long, hushed valleys lie
Cradling the twilight, where the lone winds blow
And wake among the harps of leafless trees
Fantastic runes and mournful melodies.
The chilly purple air is threaded through
With silver from the rising moon afar,
And from a gulf of clear, unfathomed blue
In the southwest glimmers a great gold star
Above the darkening druid glens of fir
Where beckoning boughs and elfin voices stir.
And so I wander through the shadows still,
And look and listen with a rapt delight,
Pausing again and yet again at will
To drink the elusive beauty of the night,
Until my soul is filled, as some deep cup,
That with divine enchantment is brimmed up.
-
Enchanting poems - even the title is a delight "When to Her Lute Corinna Sings" and then Babi you featured just the right line in the Lucy Maud Montgomery Autumn Evening poem - both are poems I had to linger over.
And then any poem committed to memory is such a joy isn't it bellemere - I must say I had not heard of this one - did you learn it in school or just because... an expression my Mom would use if she made something that was not for a certain holiday or occasion - it was 'just because' - and sometimes we memorize things 'just because'...
I had to look her up because the name was familiar but I could not place Lucy Maud Montgomery - aha the author of Anna of Green Gables - and a host of other books not as popular - saw one about Golden something I thought Pond but not so and now I forgot but the whole story is available to read on the internet.
Here is another Lucy Maud Montgomery Autumn poem
By an Autumn Fire
Now at our casement the wind is shrilling,
Poignant and keen
And all the great boughs of the pines between
It is harping a lone and hungering strain
To the eldritch weeping of the rain;
And then to the wild, wet valley flying
It is seeking, sighing,
Something lost in the summer olden.
When night was silver and day was golden;
But out on the shore the waves are moaning
With ancient and never fulfilled desire,
And the spirits of all the empty spaces,
Of all the dark and haunted places,
With the rain and the wind on their death-white faces,
Come to the lure of our leaping fire.
But we bar them out with this rose-red splendor
From our blithe domain,
And drown the whimper of wind and rain
With undaunted laughter, echoing long,
Cheery old tale and gay old song;
Ours is the joyance of ripe fruition,
Attained ambition.
Ours is the treasure of tested loving,
Friendship that needs no further proving;
No more of springtime hopes, sweet and uncertain,
Here we have largess of summer in fee
Pile high the logs till the flame be leaping,
At bay the chill of the autumn keeping,
While pilgrim-wise, we may go a-reaping
In the fairest meadow of memory!
-
I memorized the Hopkins poem just because my name is Margaret, and so is my mother's, and my grandmother's and my daughter's and my granddaughter's. Seemed to hit a chord.
I have always wanted/not wanted to go to Prince
Edward Island to see the countryside, but I know I would be disappointed. Nothing could ever match the description of that first ride for Anne when Matthew picked her up at the train station expecting a boy. She was stuck dumb by the beauty, and she was seldom at a loss for words. Dear Anne, wish I could have shared that ride with you. Bet if I went now therewould be a Walmart or Canadian equivalent on the road.
-
Babi and Barbara - The poetry you have posted of Lucy Maud Montgomery is stunning. Thanks so much for the introduction.
I did a wee search for Lucy Maud and found this quote from her that I liked:
"As a rule, I am very careful to be shallow and conventional where depth and originality are wasted."
-
Eleventh Century Irish poem about Autumn from the four season poem -
"The Guesting of Aithirne"
A good tranquil season is autumn,
there is occupation then for everyone
throughout the very short days.
Dappled fawns from the sides of the hinds,
the red stalks of the bracken shelter them;
stags run from the mounds
at the belling of the deer herd.
Sweet acorns in the high woods,
corn-stalks about cornfields
over the expanse of the brown earth.
Prickly thorn bushes of the bramble
by the midst of the ruined court;
the hard ground is covered with heavy fruit.
Hazelnuts of good crop fall
from the huge old trees of mounds.
R[aithe] fō foiss fogomur
feidm and [for cech] ōenduine
la tóeb na llā lāngarit.
Lóig brecca [a broin]d osseilt
Dītnit rūadgaiss raithnigi.
Ret[h]it daim a dumachaib
[f]ri dorddān na damgaire.
Derccain suba a ssithchailtib
Slatta etha imm ithgurtu
Ós īath domuin duind.
Draigin drissi delgnacha
fri tóeb in lāir leithlessi,
lān do mess trom tairnith[ ].
Tuittit cnōi cuill cāinmessa
do robilib rāth.
(Original early Middle Irish edited by Kuno Meyer, English translation by Kenneth Jackson)
-
Harry Clifton's poem:
TAKING THE WATERS
There are taps that flow, all day and all night,
From the depths of Europe,
Inexhaustible, taken for granted,
Slaking our casual thirsts
At a railway station
Heading south, or here in the Abruzzo
Bursting cold from an iron standpipe
While our blind mouths
Suck at essentials, straight from the water table.
Our health is too good, we are not pilgrims.
And the nineteenth century
Led to disaster. Aix, and Baden Baden -
Where are they now, those ladies with the vapours
Sipping at glasses of hydrogen sulphide
Every morning, while the pump-house piano played
And Russian radicals steamed and stewed
For hours in their sulphur tubs
Plugged in to the cathodes of Revolution?
Real cures, for imaginary ailments -
Diocletian's, or Vespasian's.
History passes, only the waters remain,
Bubbling up, through their carbon sheets,
To the other side of catastrophe
Where we drink, at a forgotten source,
Through the old crust of Europe
Centuries deep, restored by a local merchant
Of poultry and greens, inscribing his name in Latin.
-
I loved the Thomas Campion poem about Corinna's Lute. A real little jewel. I think this is another of his; bear with me, I am doing it from memory.
Never love unless you can
Bear with all the faults of man.
Men will sometimes jealous be
Though but little cause they see.
Beauty must be scorned in none
Tho but truly served in one.
Men when their affairs requre,
Must a while themselves retire,
Sometimes hunt, and sometimes hawk,
And not ever sit and talk.
If these and such like you can bear,
Then like, and love, and never fear
-
Very Good - however, let's get the entire poem so we can enjoy completely the gift you brought to us bellemere.
Never Love Unless
~ by Thomas Campion
Never love unless you can
Bear with all the faults of man:
Men sometimes will jealous be
Though but little cause they see;
And hang the head, as discontent,
And speak what straight they will repent.
Men that but one saint adore
Make a show of love to more.
Beauty must be scorned in none,
Though but truly served in one:
For what is courtship but disguise?
True hearts may have dissembling eyes.
Men, when their affairs require,
Must awhile themselves retire;
Sometimes hunt, and sometimes hawk,
And not ever sit and talk.
If these and such-like you can bear,
Then like, and love, and never fear!
-
Here is another of his poems - he has a lovely way of writing about women doesn't he - many of his poems are centered in his relationship with God which are noble sounding and full of yearning and awe but his poems about women are filled with wonderful words and phrases that fit so easily in our mouths and still are filled with unexpected thoughts and sounds.
LAURA
~ by: Thomas Campion (1567?-1619)
ROSE-CHEEK'D Laura, come;
Sing thou smoothly with thy beauty's
Silent music, either other
Sweetly gracing.
Lovely forms do flow
From concent divinely framèd:
Heaven is music, and thy beauty's
Birth is heavenly.
These dull notes we sing
Discords need for helps to grace them;
Only beauty purely loving
Knows no discord;
But still moves delight,
Like clear springs renew'd by flowing,
Ever perfect, ever in them-
selves eternal.
-
The second Montgomery autumn poem is every bit as good as the first. I'm going to see
if I can find an inexpensive copy of her poems on the net. I want to read all of them.
I had to smile, reading the last lines of "Taking the Waters". '..Centuries deep,
restored by a local merchant of poultry and greens, inscribing his name in Latin."
Such a mundane, sly ending to the poem. And the second Campion poem is so true; I'm
surprised a male had such insights.
-
A HUGE THANK YOU LADIES I have just spent 30 min reading the poems posted ..The one about the Indians really touched me because I cannot believe how cruel the English were to them and later immigrants as well Watched a film last night on PBS about the tribe that helped the early English when they first arrived but later arrivals felt it was okay to slaughter them and take thier lands,,,reminds me people have not improved and the poems everyone posted were just so special Barbara the links were great although I could not hear ..so sad because I love sounds and mine are getting fewer as I age...I can remember my mother ...because she could not hear us on the phone or even when we were with her and she missed all the sounds of nature ..the birds, the wind,.. crunching rocks beneath her feet ..since it is genetic that will most likely be me.....sadly I have great nieces and nephews under 20 who are already wearing hearing aids and some just starting school are having problems since they are affected as well My brothers and I did not lose our hearing until we were in our 60's Have a great day I HAVE TO GET BUSY BUT____you gave my day a very good start..anna
-
Ghost House
~ Robert Frost (1915)
I dwell in a lonely house I know
That vanished many a summer ago,
And left no trace but the cellar walls,
And a cellar in which the daylight falls,
And the purple-stemmed wild raspberries grow.
O’er ruined fences the grape-vines shield
The woods come back to the mowing field;
The orchard tree has grown one copse
Of new wood and old where the woodpecker chops;
The footpath down to the well is healed.
I dwell with a strangely aching heart
In that vanished abode there far apart
On that disused and forgotten road
That has no dust-bath now for the toad.
Night comes; the black bats tumble and dart;
The whippoorwill is coming to shout
And hush and cluck and flutter about:
I hear him begin far enough away
Full many a time to say his say
Before he arrives to say it out.
It is under the small, dim, summer star.
I know not who these mute folk are
Who share the unlit place with me—
Those stones out under the low-limbed tree
Doubtless bear names that the mosses mar.
They are tireless folk, but slow and sad,
Though two, close-keeping, are lass and lad,—
With none among them that ever sings,
And yet, in view of how many things,
As sweet companions as might be had.
-
Haunted Houses
~ Henry Wadsworth Longfellow (1858)
All houses wherein men have lived and died
Are haunted houses. Through the open doors
The harmless phantoms on their errands glide,
With feet that make no sound upon the floors.
We meet them at the door-way, on the stair,
Along the passages they come and go,
Impalpable impressions on the air,
A sense of something moving to and fro.
There are more guests at table than the hosts
Invited; the illuminated hall
Is thronged with quiet, inoffensive ghosts,
As silent as the pictures on the wall.
The stranger at my fireside cannot see
The forms I see, nor hear the sounds I hear;
He but perceives what is; while unto me
All that has been is visible and clear.
We have no title-deeds to house or lands;
Owners and occupants of earlier dates
From graves forgotten stretch their dusty hands,
And hold in mortmain still their old estates.
The spirit-world around this world of sense
Floats like an atmosphere, and everywhere
Wafts through these earthly mists and vapours dense
A vital breath of more ethereal air.
Our little lives are kept in equipoise
By opposite attractions and desires;
The struggle of the instinct that enjoys,
And the more noble instinct that aspires.
These perturbations, this perpetual jar
Of earthly wants and aspirations high,
Come from the influence of an unseen star
An undiscovered planet in our sky.
And as the moon from some dark gate of cloud
Throws o’er the sea a floating bridge of light,
Across whose trembling planks our fancies crowd
Into the realm of mystery and night,—
So from the world of spirits there descends
A bridge of light, connecting it with this,
O’er whose unsteady floor, that sways and bends,
Wander our thoughts above the dark abyss.
-
The Apparition
~ John Donne (1633)
When by thy scorn, O murd’reuses, I am dead
And that thou think’st thee free
From all solicitation from me,
Then shall my ghost come to thy bed,
And thee, feign’d vestal, in worse arms shall see;
Then thy sick taper will begin to wink,
And he, whose thou art then, being tir’d before,
Will, if thou stir, or pinch to wake him, think
Thou call’st for more,
And in false sleep will from thee shrink;
And then, poor aspen wretch, neglected thou
Bath’d in a cold quicksilver sweat wilt lie
A verier ghost than I.
What I will say, I will not tell thee now,
Lest that preserve thee; and since my love is spent,
I’had rather thou shouldst painfully repent,
Than by my threat’nings rest still innocent.
-
The Hag
~ Robert Herrick (1648)
The Hag is astride,
This night for to ride;
The Devill and shee together:
Through thick, and through thin,
Now out, and then in,
Though ne’r so foule be the weather.
A Thorn or a Burr
She takes for a Spurre:
With a lash of a Bramble she rides now,
Through Brakes and through Bryars,
O’re Ditches, and Mires,
She followes the Spirit that guides now.
No Beast, for his food,
Dares now range the wood;
But husht in his laire he lies lurking:
While mischiefs, by these,
On Land and on Seas,
At noone of Night are working,
The storme will arise,
And trouble the skies;
This night, and more for the wonder,
The ghost from the Tomb
Affrighted shall come,
Cal’d out by the clap of the Thunder
-
I find it comforting to think that when an old place is abandoned, the wild raspberries
burgeon, the woods come back, an orchard tree continues to reproduce, and grass grows
back over the road. We can be so thoughtless about nature, but it continues to outlast
us.
Owners and occupants of earlier dates
From graves forgotten stretch their dusty hands,
And hold in mortmain still their old estates.
I can't agree with Longfellow on this one. The dead have no interest in their old estates; they have a new estate.
Let me guess! Given the current selection, BARB, you have Halloween on your mind. :o ;D
-
This time of year the holidays have me by the heals Babi
Election Day
~ by William Carlos Williams, 1939-1962)
Warm sun, quiet air
an old man sits
in the doorway of
a broken house--
boards for windows
plaster falling
from between the stones
and strokes the head
of a spotted dog
-
The Approaching Hour
~ by William Carlos Williams, (1939-1962)
You Communists and Republicans!
all you Germans and Frenchmen!
you corpses and quickeners!
The stars are about to melt
and fall on you in tears.
Get ready! Get ready!
you Papists and Protestants!
you whores and you virtuous!
The moon will be bread
and drop presently into your baskets.
Friends and those who despise
and detest us!
Adventists and those who believe
nothing!
Get ready for the awakening.
-
The Poor Voter on Election Day
~ by John Greenleaf Whittier (1852)
The proudest now is but my peer,
The highest not more high;
To-day, of all the weary year,
A king of men am I.
To-day alike are great and small,
The nameless and the known
My palace is the people’s hall,
The ballot-box my throne!
Who serves to-day upon the list
Beside the served shall stand;
Alike the brown and wrinkled fist,
The gloved and dainty hand!
The rich is level with the poor,
The weak is strong to-day;
And sleekest broadcloth counts no more
Than homespun frock of gray.
To-day let pomp and vain pretence
My stubborn right abide;
I set a plain man’s common sense
Against the pedant’s pride.
To-day shall simple manhood try
The strength of gold and land
The wide world has not wealth to buy
The power in my right hand!
While there’s a grief to seek redress,
Or balance to adjust,
Where weighs our living manhood less
Than Mammon’s vilest dust, —
While there’s a right to need my vote
A wrong to sweep away,
Up! clouted knee and ragged coat!
A man’s a man to-day!
-
Mr. Williams does show an impartial approach; he chastises everybody. He sounds like
some of the people one might find standing on a box in the park, shouting and stomping.
Mr Whittier is much more pleasing. "Alike the brown and wrinkled fist, the gloved and
dainty hand!"
-
Babi I see both poets being 'right-on' as they speak from their perspective on the process of voting - Reading how every member of Congress within two years of their election are millionaires and many because of their longevity are millionaires many times over I can see that one of the outcomes of this tug of war we call elections is who will be the next millionaire.
I also see once they are in D.C. their business turns to the war fought within the House and Senate and they use whatever the public is upset enough about that it has hit the media as their platform for their in-house tug of war. Therefore, the idea they are elected to represent our views and take care of our needs or wants is a slim maybe. They have other fish to fry. So the lines -
"The moon will be bread
and drop presently into your baskets."
Says it perfectly.
Where as Whittier is focused on the process that makes us all realize in this country we are supposed to be equal. Voting, one man, one Vote is the equalizer. It is the dream of equal opportunity for all that we strive towards. And so all that money and all that vamping by Congressmen to obtain that money to influence the tug of war called elections can determine who will be the next millionaire but also, the very act of voting symbolizes for each of us the concepts that allow us to stand up and if we can get others to stand up and shout and yell as loud as these potential representatives do the weeks before election we can cause enough havoc that they will take our concern and feature it during their next in-house tug of war.
Not a perfect situation and not as idealistic as we were taught it was supposed to be when we were in school however, it is better than many have it on this world and better than it was before and right after this country won its Independence. Like all power, it can roll over us or we can have a set of laws that allows us to collectively fight back when the power fiddles around with what we see as our rights.
And so with that line of thinking to me the idea of Carpe Diem is crucial to using my time and energy in order to protect ourselves from indifferent power that does not include the needs of the public but rather is all about creating a bigger basket to influence those who will drop the bread into their baskets.
A Psalm of Life
~ Henry Wadsworth Longfellow (1838)
What the heart of the young man
Said to the Psalmist
Tell me not, in mournful numbers,
Life is but an empty dream! —
For the soul is dead that slumbers,
And things are not what they seem.
Life is real! Life is earnest!
And the grave is not its goal;
Dust thou art, to dust returnest,
Was not spoken of the soul.
Not enjoyment, and not sorrow,
Is our destined end or way;
But to act, that each to-morrow
Find us farther than to-day.
Art is long, and Time is fleeting,
And our hearts, though stout and brave,
Still, like muffled drums, are beating
Funeral marches to the grave.
In the world’s broad field of battle,
In the bivouac of Life,
Be not like dumb, driven cattle!
Be a hero in the strife!
Trust no Future, howe’er pleasant!
Let the dead Past bury its dead!
Act,— act in the living Present!
Heart within, and God o’erhead!
Lives of great men all remind us
We can make our lives sublime,
And, departing, leave behind us
Footprints on the sands of time;
Footprints, that perhaps another,
Sailing o’er life’s solemn main,
A forlorn and shipwrecked brother,
Seeing, shall take heart again.
Let us, then, be up and doing,
With a heart for any fate;
Still achieving, still pursuing,
Learn to labor and to wait.
-
November
~ Walter de la Mare
There is wind where the rose was,
Cold rain where sweet grass was,
And clouds like sheep
Stream o'er the steep
Grey skies where the lark was.
Nought warm where your hand was,
Nought gold where your hair was,
But phantom, forlorn,
Beneath the thorn,
Your ghost where your face was.
Cold wind where your voice was,
Tears, tears where my heart was,
And ever with me,
Child, ever with me,
Silence where hope was.
-
Difficult for us who live South or below the Equator to imagine that November means snow in some parts of the country.
November Snow
~ by Joseph Pacheco
The first to fall is the first to go.
Earth wears its mantle damp and chill —
Patina of November snow.
Leaves raged with fire just days ago —
Now grays, ash browns, pale yellows tell
The first to fall are the first to go.
Remains of harvest in desolate row
Brace for the final winter kill
Beneath their shroud of November snow.
The rakes now dry, the plow and hoe
Await Spring’s promise to fulfill —
The first to fall are the first to go.
Lit by the sky’s anemic glow
The pines are standing stiff and still,
Defiant of November snow.
In barns of silence wait those who know
What lies beneath the fields they till —
The first to fall are the first to go,
Together with November snow.
-
I am remembering that Canada celebrates T hanksgiving in October but I do not think I ever heard when Australia celebrates their Thanksgiving. For us it is always the 4th Thursday in November and all ready folks are preparing -
Thanksgiving Feasting
~ By Joanna Fuchs
When the Halloween pumpkins are gone,
And the leaves have all fallen to ground,
When the air has turned windy and cold,
Then Thanksgiving will soon be around.
Thoughts of loved ones all feasting together,
Pleasant pictures from past times appear
To dwell in each heart and each mind--
Then Thanksgiving is finally here!
The kitchen has scrumptious aromas,
The dining room looks oh, so fine,
Decorations with pilgrims and turkeys,
And now we are ready to dine!
First the napkins are placed on our laps;
Now the prayer for the meal to be blessed,
Then we stuff the good food in our tummies,
And we hope for it all to digest!
-
(http://seniorlearn.org/bookclubs/poetry/poetryfall10.jpg)
|
The Apple Orchard
~ by Shawn Bailey
The dew-softened blades
of fescue wet my feet,
small brushstrokes of icy wetness
on my way to the orchard.
The sunlight scatters
the morning mist
that shelters the trees from
the horizon.
I spy the juicy red apples
lounging in the trees,
moist with dawn
and there are thousands of them.
Fruitful, edible decor.
|
Autumn Poetry
In this Discussion we share what stirs our heart -
Bring us a gift of a poem
Yours, or the work of another poet. - Famous Poets and Poems about Autumn (http://famouspoetsandpoems.com/thematic_poems/autumn_poems.html)
- Fall Season Poems (http://poetry.about.com/od/ourpoemcollections/a/autumnpoems.htm)
Discussion Leaders: Barb (augere@ix.netcom.com) & fairanna (fairanna@cox.net)
-
Australians don't actually celebrate Thanksgiving. Although I was lucky enough to be married to an American ( he was raised in Australia) and his parents always had Thanksgiving and his mother would serve up the whole deal - turkey; spoonbread; cornbread; cranberry sauce etc. Up 'til then I had never really understood what it all meant. I suppose I still don't. What does Thanksgiving actually mean?
In the past ten years or so Australians have also celebrated Halloween. It seems odd to me and many others. Although, of course, we have the same date. it seems to me the that the night seems more like Walpurgis night, which is definitely European. We do celebrate Christmas, of course. We tend to have Christmas lunch rather than dinner, and the lunch will often consist of cold chicken; ham; cold seafood (prawns and oysters); pavlova and a little alcohol. Gumtree will probably list different foods. A swim in the pool is a necessity and then the long drive home, keeping a watchful eye out for the police who delight in booking people for DUI, and a nap when we arrive safely home.
I have always wanted to have a White Christmas, but this seems to be increasingly unlikely as I have no disposable income, and thus no chance to travel the long distance into the Northern Hemisphere. It always seems ironic when we send Christmas cards to our friends that depict snowy scenes with Christmas trees laden with snow; and snowmen. There is a trend for Australians to send cards with Santas wearing board shorts and riding surfboards which is kind of cute, if you like that sort of thing. Many Australians take their tents and kids and camp at the beach. It is a tradition for many families to do this and they have the same camp sites booked ad infinitum. So often Christmas in Australia is celebrated wearing bikinis and boardies and surfing all day. Incidentally, his is not the way I spend Christmas Day. I spend mine staying overnight with my daughter and her family and eating Christmas dinner and waking up to a big bacon and egg breakfast. Then we go for a swim in her pool and the kids open their presents. Very different to Christmas in the States, but still enjoyable.
-
Thanks roshanarose for the info on how the upcoming holidays are celebrated in Australia - here are two links that say it better then I can what the holiday is all about - one explains what Thanksgiving means and the other explains how it is traditionally celebrated -
http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Thanksgiving
http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Thanksgiving_dinner
Every family has their contributions just as Christmas is not exactly the same in every family however, for a long time Thanksgiving ushered in Christmas preparations - the various Thanksgiving day parades featured Santa arriving at the end of the Parade - Thanksgiving is about a week before Advent so that it was the beginning of all sorts of Christmas preparations.
Here in Texas it was usually a week or so into Deer Hunting season and for many families the men were out on the deer blind while the women used the long weekend to start their holiday sewing, and list making etc. In those families often the fare was Chili or Venison stew rather than a traditional Thanksgiving dinner. It is also the day when the school rivalries schedule their football game - American Football - from High Schools to Colleges and so Teens onward are at the late morning to early afternoon game and in some areas the tailgate parties are the big Thanksgiving bash with friends and class mates part of the fun.
Another set of changes to the Holiday have taken over in the past 25 or 30 years with Stores getting the Christmas Holiday season started Immediately after Halloween and now I have seen stores ready with Christmas merchandise before Halloween. Christmas is the season that makes or breaks a store from being in the red to finally being in the black and so they strive for every sale.
As to snow or not on Christmas, it is according to where in the States you live - for us some years are quite warm and we start the day with coffee on the patio - Even when my children were young frankly, I preferred the years we could start out-of-doors - there was a relaxed feel to the day - maybe because the children's excitement and energy could be spent in all the space of the yard rather than contained in the house.
I think snow for Christmas is one of those nostalgic experiences for many of the northern European immigrants that flooded this nation in the nineteenth century - by the twentieth century more immigrants were coming from Southern Europe and other southern climes but the first group set the tone that is still with us because, if we are really celebrating the Birth of Christ, that took place in a warm climate. Most Northern Europeans from my reading have combined the traditions of celebrating the Winter Solstice with Christmas and we have the left overs of that co-mingling today with scenes of snowflakes and Snowmen as part of our decoration.
I wonder where you would go for the snowbound Christmas roshanarose - back in the early 1990s for 5 years in a row when my kids were first establishing married life and I did not want to be a 15 minute obligation on their list so I went to London for a week - Usually got there around the 20th and stayed till the 28th to be out of there for New Year's - I would see the plays, always the Ballet on Boxing day and on Christmas Day there was a company that arranged a bus full of folks that could choose from one of four locations from the Cotswells to Brighten where along the way there was a Restaurant waiting for us with a Traditional English Christmas Dinner including paper hats in crackers and then on to the destination where folks usually ordered a drink or two and then back to London around 6: where the bus dropped you at your hotel - The whole week long trip used to cost me only about $1200 -
Recently I looked it up - Airlines run these specials that include a hotel but you have to make reservations by September - it looks like it could still be done for about $2000 - which for me included theatre tickets, meals, the whole thing... I often only ate one meal a day out - the hotel served a wonderful breakfast that an extra roll and orange was enough to tide me over till an early dinner - often dessert after the theatre at Fortnums since they are opened till 1: in the morning.
Have no idea what the cost of flying from Australia to London runs but it may be worth looking into if you have a year to have a monthly goal of saving and earning a bit of extra - for me I would need to earn and save about 200 a month - shaving any off my monthly expenses could not earn me 200 so the amount needed each month would have to chopped up and I would have to figure out small ways to earn here and there. For me to earn $50 a week I think I could do it. In the past I have started flats of flower seeds and sold them from my driveway and I baked bread and sold loaves during December when folks who are working cannot spend time in their kitchens so I would take a basket of fresh baked to the small shops nearby and within the most, an hour or two, all were sold.
Why not look into it - So it takes two years to have enough - it is still possible.
-
You tell on yourself by the friends you seek,
By the very manner in which you speak,
By the way you employ your leisure time,
By the use you make of dollar and dime.
You tell on yourself by the things you wear,
By the spirit in which your burdens you bear,
By the type of things at which you laugh,
By the records you play on your phonograph.
You tell what you are by the way you walk,
By the things of which you delight to talk,
By the manner in which you can bear defeat,
By so simple a thing as how you eat.
By the books you choose from the library shelf,
By these things and more, you tell on yourself.
Author Unknown
-
The de la Mare poem is truly sad. It got sadder as soon as I saw the word "Child".
I've never read this poem before, but it strikes a warmer autumn chord than most I find.
The name -- of it -- is "Autumn" -- by Emily Dickinson
The name -- of it -- is "Autumn" --
The hue -- of it -- is Blood --
An Artery -- upon the Hill --
A Vein -- along the Road --
Great Globules -- in the Alleys --
And Oh, the Shower of Stain --
When Winds -- upset the Basin --
And spill the Scarlet Rain --
It sprinkles Bonnets -- far below --
It gathers ruddy Pools --
Then -- eddies like a Rose -- away --
Upon Vermilion Wheels --
-
Babi - Love that poem. Emily Dickinson, remarkable.
Barbara - It brought me so much pleasure checking out those two sites, one of which made me extremely hungry. But, in truth, I enjoyed your telling of the experience of Thanksgiving in US, both new and old.
As for me going to UK to see snow, that just seems to be a dream. Thank you for your encouragement and you have indeed planted a seed. My father was born in England and I still have relations there. There was some kind of family feud which decided my grandfather to bring his family to Australia. I wonder if my English relatives would be willing to kiss and make up. :)
-
Roshanarose : Of course they'd kiss and make up - it just takes someone to make the first gesture towards peace - maybe that could be you.
And you can see plenty of snow in Australia if you want to - just head for the high country in the Snowy Mountains -Perisher, Mt Thredbo, Mt Buller - wonderful scenery, wildernesses and resort style comfort. Don't forget to take your skis.
-
The difficulty of keeping separate the chatter in various discussions however this fits for anyoen reading the Barbara Pym book.
Spinster
` Sylvia Plath
Now this particular girl
During a ceremonious april walk
With her latest suitor
Found herself, of a sudden, intolerably struck
By the birds' irregular babel
And the leaves' litter.
By this tumult afflicted, she
Observed her lover's gestures unbalance the air,
His gait stray uneven
Through a rank wilderness of fern and flower;
She judged petals in disarray,
The whole season, sloven.
How she longed for winter then! --
Scrupulously austere in its order
Of white and black
Ice and rock; each sentiment within border,
And heart's frosty discipline
Exact as a snowflake.
But here -- a burgeoning
Unruly enough to pitch her five queenly wits
Into vulgar motley --
A treason not to be borne; let idiots
Reel giddy in bedlam spring:
She withdrew neatly.
And round her house she set
Such a barricade of barb and check
Against mutinous weather
As no mere insurgent man could hope to break
With curse, fist, threat
Or love, either.
-
Not poetry, but another wee story about Thanksgiving.
Even the Ancient Greeks had Thanksgiving.
"Most societies, even today, rely on an agricultural sector to provide their food and, therefore, survival. If the harvest is adequate, most people will survive; otherwise, there will be famine. Whatever power provides the bounty deserves praise. While many of us have stopped thanking "God" for the bounty, that was why we celebrated Thanksgiving, originally. Even today, many people who ordinarily chow down without saying "grace" add this prayer to the fall feast.
Around the same time of year a festival used to be held in about 50 cities or villages of Ancient Greece in honor of the goddess who taught mankind to tend the soil. Then there was no question but that the festival was part of the goddess' worship. The festival, Thesmophoria, was held during a month known as Pyanopsion (Puanepsion), in the lunisolar calendar of the Athenians. Since our calendar is solar, the month doesn't exactly match, but Pyanopsion would be, more or less, October into November, the same months as the Canadian and U.S. Thanksgivings. In ancient Greece this was the time of the fall planting of crops like barley and winter wheat."
Source: About.com Ancient History
-
Fabulous - thanks Rosemary - I have a book of Sophia poems that are bits and pieces since the papyrus was tattered when found anyhow I need to look now and see if there is any poetry in thanksgiving for a harvest - what a great door of curiosity you have opened.
-
Oh, poor spinster,..rank coward!
May I introduce you to Don Blanding, the vagabond poet. I love his poems, and had a oopy of
them until it became warped and worn and had to be discarded.
Some Lines Scrawled on the Door of Vagabond's House . . .
West of the sunset stands my house,
There . . and east of the dawn;
North to the Arctic runs my yard;
South to the Pole, my lawn;
Seven seas are to sail my ships
To the ends of the earth . . . beyond;
Drifter's gold is for me to spend -
For I am a vagabond.
Fabulous cities are mine to loot;
Queens of the earth to wed;
Fruits of the world are mine to eat;
The couch of a king, my bed;
All that I see is mine to keep;
Foolish the fancy seems,
But I am rich with the wealth of Sight,
The coin of the realm of dreams . . .
-
Wow Don Blanding sure makes living on the road sound romantic and enticing - I wonder how many of the homeless see themselves as vagabonds as opposed to societies left overs.
My uncle by marriage to my mother's sister had a father who was a vagabond - they called him a Hobo - he just could not stay home - my uncle's mother raised them on a small piece of land in a stone cottage living just as she did in the French part of Switzerland with garden, fruit trees, chickens - they lived off the earth and not only did they make it but all the children played a musical instrument quite well - my uncle a violin, his brother an accordion, another brother a flute. Come to think of it their sister did not play - she sang with gusto and was a crack housekeeper. And so it appears the father came home periodically, left a package with his wife and soon after was back on the road again.
I've had some fun looking up Don Blanding - thanks for the intro Babi - so he is from Hawaii - here is another of his poems
Gingers Poem
~ By Don Blanding
White Ginger is like scented wings of moths
Shell Ginger is a mermaid's dainty chain
Torch Ginger is a staff of petal flame
Burning, defiant of the quenching rain
The Yellow Ginger yields a sweet perfume
To catch and hold the heart in woven leis
Red ginger is the warm blood of Hawaii
Spilling its laughter through the tropic days
-
Ah, you see why I like him. There are lines from "Vagabond's House"
that I memorized and can still recall. I doubt if he could be called a hobo.
He saw a lot of the world, but it was as a worker or student. He originally studied art. One description of him reads:
Artist by Nature
Actor by Instinct
Poet by Accident
Vagabond by Choice
I saw a picture of him that reminded me very much of a well-known
actor, but I can't think who it was. Take a look at this site, and tell me
who you think he resembles. http://www.don-blanding.com/
-
He has a look doesn't he reminds me of a couple of the 1930s actors - like Errol Flynn or Tyrone Powell and for that matter there is something about him that even reminds me of Orson Wells.
OK next Tuesday morning I go in for eye surgery - typically it would be an easy no brainer with a couple of days recoup however, I have this inherited condition (psuedoexfoliation) that is making the whole thing very risky and we will not know till the surgery is under way how it will all end up.
Because of this condition two things - when they break up the lens it may shatter and parts float to the back of my eye which means more surgery in two weeks to get all that out - that is the easy one although, awful sounding how it is done - the second is the web like or hammock like structure that holds the lens in place is weak but more the bars holding the hammock like structure are very weak and so I could loose -
All to say that I will be off for about 2 weeks starting Tuesday and if there is anything to worry about that could affect my future sight or that I have a second surgery to schedule I will get someone to let y'all know.
Fair Anna I have used the last email address you sent which is the one that is in this heading but the email comes back saying no such address - I wanted to let you especially know what is going on. For now I am believing that all will be well - it is really all I can do - and if it does not turn out well we can cross that bridge when it comes step by step.
-
Two German poets writing about Autumn.
Autumn Day
~ Rainer Maria Rilke - translation is by Guntram Deichsel:
Lord, it is time. Let the great summer go,
Lay your long shadows on the sundials,
And over harvest piles let the winds blow.
Command the last fruits to be ripe;
Grant them some other southern hour,
Urge them to completion, and with power
Drive final sweetness to the heavy grape.
Who's homeless now, will for long stay alone.
No home will build his weary hands,
He'll wake, read, write letters long to friends
And will the alleys up and down
Walk restlessly, when falling leaves dance.
Autumn Feelings
~ Johann Wolfgang von Goethe
FLOURISH greener, as ye clamber,
Oh ye leaves, to seek my chamber,
Up the trellis'd vine on high!
May ye swell, twin-berries tender,
Juicier far,--and with more splendour
Ripen, and more speedily!
O'er ye broods the sun at even
As he sinks to rest, and heaven
Softly breathes into your ear
All its fertilising fullness,
While the moon's refreshing coolness,
Magic-laden, hovers near;
And, alas! ye're watered ever
By a stream of tears that rill
From mine eyes--tears ceasing never,
Tears of love that nought can still!
-
Here is another of the English poets...I had not heard of Walter Savage Landor - here is a link explaining who he was and what he accomplished http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Walter_Savage_Landor
Autumn
~ Walter Savage Landor. 1775–1864
MILD is the parting year, and sweet
The odour of the falling spray;
Life passes on more rudely fleet,
And balmless is its closing day.
I wait its close, I court its gloom,
But mourn that never must there fall
Or on my breast or on my tomb
The tear that would have soothed it all.
-
Barbara - I can empathise with you regarding eye problems. I have just had a bout of something very nasty called "haemorrhagic conjunctivitis", where the conjunctiva became so congested with blood that I was unable to see and my eyes felt as though they contained stones, quite painful. Nearly a month later I still have it, but to a much lesser extent.
As ghastly as the above condition may seem, it would seem as just an itch compared to what you have. I will be thinking of you next week and sending my best wishes for a successful outcome. I, for one, will miss you and your beautiful poetry selections for two weeks. Come back soon happy and well.
Love
Roshanarose
-
BARB, we're going to be believing with you, and praying, that your
eye surgery is 100% successful. I know you wouldn't be taking the risk
if it wasn't necessary, so I won't even go there. Just know we'll be
supporting you all the way.
I have heard the name of Walter Savage Landor, but I can't remember in
what context. I'm certainly not familiar with his work.
-
BARB: we will be thinking of you on Tuesday.
-
Before I say another word BARBARA I have a prayer list added you...our church offers prayers for anyone we would like to have lifted in prayer and tomorrow I will ask them to add you to the list. My oldest daughter is legally blind because as a child she was exposed to histoplasmois ---a fungus that occurs naturally in the soil. SHe has managed by using special equipment and has a web site and leads a very active life..She lives in a small country town Stanardsville about 3 hours north of ,me if anyone would like to check out her web site it is called Greene County I will post the exact link for I think we should know WHAT WE CAN DO when everything seems going the wrong way..she has to use a magnyfying glass to read menus and prices on things I do a lot of shoping for her and sewing for her as well >Her husband has been a blessing The reason I will give you the correct address because she inspires everyone she knows She did not say WHY ME? but instead why not me?
Ah my heart is with you Barbara JUST in case my new email address is
fairanna@cox.net I suppose I should beware of posting it but I will tell you I DO NOT OPEN MAIL FROM EVERYONE and add those to my junk mail and it is never opened....
God love you all ....I have been so busy Every since I had that viral bronchitis in early July I tire so easy and just cant understand why..of course one of my dogs is eating all the weeds in my back yard which I will get rid of asap I need cool weather with dry earth and a nice day not hot or cold
My other computer doesnt seem to be working well and this laptop is a MAC and all I can say they are smarter than me..so I dont have access to my poems and am writing new ones ...I dont think I am in touch with my poet part but will share this one ....
November arrived and left
Warm autumn behind-
Cold rain hastened -
It's arrival-----cooled the air
Chilling the nights.
Oaks and pines and dogwood
Speak to me--tell me
Winter is on the way.
The yard, the streets and
Every vacant patch is now -
A varied-colored piece of ground.
The trees aflame with vibrant fire!
Winter storms ..like firemen-
Will douse the fire-
Leaving dark bleak branches-
Curling up. Sap retreats
'Til spring warms it's sleep!
New days will begin-
Marking the eternal cycle of Life-----
anna alexander
11/6/2010©
-
Barbara: My thoughts will be with you on Tuesday and I really do hope all will be well. I also have an eye problem which is as yet unresolved so truly sympathise with you. We don't know how precious our sight is until it is seriously threatened. God bless.
-
Thanks for sharing your concerns, kind thoughts and prayers - some moments are fine and then other moments I'm planning the next task to see me through the couple of weeks of limited body movement and still other moments are filled with 'what if' which I quickly try to sing out loud or something to change my head tape.
Doing nothing but trusting leaves me feeling I am without an anchor - I prefer to have a plan of what can be done to avoid or lesson the affects of whatever it is that I am supposed to trust will be well. Ah so... A lesson in Faith and trust in the unknown which is really Hope.
I must say with as many folks who have had difficulties and care for their eyes I depend less and less on the unknown feeling more confident that what ever is will be something I can handle. Thanks for sharing...
Strange morning - here I thought I was being decadent sleeping in and because of the clock change last night it was still a very respectable time to be up on a Sunday morning. Where it did get cold here again last night the wind must not have been blowing because the house was not chilled - and thank goodness that heat did not come on - hate the heat blowing during the night - it dries me out, raises dust so my nose clogs and I hear it so I end up waking up grrrr - I have a small electric space heater than I must pull out of the storage in the garage to place in the hallway near my bedroom - it is just enough to take the chill off the bedroom and bath so I can set the thermostat at night to 60.
Well Sunday or not it is a beautiful sunshinny day and I need to wash the quilt on my bed - I need to clean the washline first - so I am off finishing up the list preparing the house so I have everything for the 2 weeks. And I will hold close your thoughts and encouragement. Thanks...
Here are a couple of Mary Oliver poems...
Morning Poem
Every morning
the world
is created.
Under the orange
sticks of the sun
the heaped
ashes of the night
turn into leaves again
and fasten themselves to the high branches ---
and the ponds appear
like black cloth
on which are painted islands
of summer lilies.
If it is your nature
to be happy
you will swim away along the soft trails
for hours, your imagination
alighting everywhere.
And if your spirit
carries within it
the thorn
that is heavier than lead ---
if it's all you can do
to keep on trudging ---
there is still
somewhere deep within you
a beast shouting that the earth
is exactly what it wanted ---
each pond with its blazing lilies
is a prayer heard and answered
lavishly,
every morning,
whether or not
you have ever dared to be happy,
whether or not
you have ever dared to pray.
Where Does the Dance Begin, Where Does It End?
Don't call this world adorable, or useful, that's not it.
It's frisky, and a theater for more than fair winds.
The eyelash of lightning is neither good nor evil.
The struck tree burns like a pillar of gold.
But the blue rain sinks, straight to the white
feet of the trees
whose mouths open.
Doesn't the wind, turning in circles, invent the dance?
Haven't the flowers moved, slowly, across Asia, then Europe,
until at last, now, they shine
in your own yard?
Don't call this world an explanation, or even an education.
When the Sufi poet whirled, was he looking
outward, to the mountains so solidly there
in a white-capped ring, or was he looking
to the center of everything: the seed, the egg, the idea
that was also there,
beautiful as a thumb
curved and touching the finger, tenderly,
little love-ring,
as he whirled,
oh jug of breath,
in the garden of dust?
- Mary Oliver from Why I Wake Early (2004)
-
Reading Mary Oliver it struck me - what did dear Emily have to say about mornings... Here are a couple of Emily Dickinson morning poems.
Angels, in the early morning
May be seen the Dews among,
Stooping -- plucking -- smiling -- flying --
Do the Buds to them belong?
Angels, when the sun is hottest
May be seen the sands among,
Stooping -- plucking -- sighing -- flying --
Parched the flowers they bear along
Will there really be a "Morning"?
Is there such a thing as "Day"?
Could I see it from the mountains
If I were as tall as they?
Has it feet like Water lilies?
Has it feathers like a Bird?
Is it brought from famous countries
Of which I have never heard?
Oh some Scholar! Oh some Sailor!
Oh some Wise Men from the skies!
Please to tell a little Pilgrim
Where the place called "Morning" lies!
Good Morning -- Midnight --
I'm coming Home --
Day -- got tired of Me --
How could I -- of Him?
Sunshine was a sweet place --
I liked to stay --
But Morn -- didn't want me -- now --
So -- Goodnight -- Day!
I can look -- can't I --
When the East is Red?
The Hills -- have a way -- then --
That puts the Heart -- abroad --
You -- are not so fair -- Midnight --
I chose -- Day --
But -- please take a little Girl --
He turned away!
-
Mary Oliver, Emily Dickinson and our own Anna fair. Poets of great distinction.. Let's hear it for the girls!
-
A very sensible and realistic approach, BARB. Do whatever you can to
anticipate possible needs, but at the same time hold on to your faith
that they will not be necessary. I totally understand the reponse of
Anna's daughter..."Why not me?" I am not exempt from all the world's
woes, and do not think it a lapse of faith to recognize that.
I liked "Where Does the Dance Begin" best, I think. "Doesn't the wind,
turning in circles, invent the dance?"
-
Below is my daughter's web site her pen name is ALEX CARRIER
http://www.vgreene.com/[/b
-
Barb's eye surgery is this morning. We'll want to keep her in our thoughts and prayers.
-
Everysince Barbara shared her possible problems I have lifted her in prayer and today as well God treasures her and I know whatever happens it will what HE thinks it best.. and whatever Barbara will know what she must do ...Take heart Barbara you are loved by many and today as every day good thoughts are coming to you....always my friend in poetry which prepares us for whatever life brings to us ..GOD BLESS love always anna
-
Mom is doing well. She had an emergency this afternoon when her eye clouded up. Doctors had to take care of a spike in pressure. No other suregery is scheduled. Mom is healing and she said she will be back in another week or so. Barbara's daugheter, Kathamarie
-
Thank you, KATHAMARIE, for letting us know. I'm praying the rest of her recovery will be
uneventful and swift. We'll look forward to having her back.
-
Cathamarie gee I have checked your name twice and I think I am mispelling it And I need to post this message and get ready for an early am Drs appointment So Kathamarie THANK you so much for the information It sounds so positive and gives us hope that your mother will be up and well and back here SOON I am sure you will relate love and concern and happiness at the good news...GOD BLESS ALL anna
-
Ianthe
by Walter Savage Landor
From you, Ianthe, little troubles pass
Like little ripples down a sunny river;
Your pleasures spring like daisies in the grass,
Cut down, and up again as blithe as ever.
For Barb, whom we look forward to seeing up again soon, 'as blithe as ever'.
-
I remember this from when I was a youngster and had little lead farmers and farm animals rather than lead soldiers. I too made hills with my knees and rivers by folding over the sheet.
I'm getting there - still on a host of meds - but the scary is over where I was seeing as if through a fog - that med was a horror - it made me so unsteady on my feet and the headache from it was not fun - but better days are ahead - over to the Doctor tomorrow - just a few more days and I can post regularly again - here is my childhood memory poem...
The Land of Counterpane
by Robert Louis Stevenson
When I was sick and lay a-bed,
I had two pillows at my head,
And all my toys beside me lay,
To keep me happy all the day.
And sometimes for an hour or so
I watched my leaden soldiers go,
With different uniforms and drills,
Among the bed-clothes, through the hills;
And sometimes sent my ships in fleets
All up and down among the sheets;
Or brought my trees and houses out,
And planted cities all about.
I was the giant great and still
That sits upon the pillow-hill,
And sees before him, dale and plain,
The pleasant land of counterpane
-
BARB, how great to hear from you! I'm so glad to hear you are getting better. Sorry to hear
your medication is causing problems. That seems to be more and more the case as medicines
grow more complex. At least it's working.
I haven't read that Stevenson poem since I was a child; I still enjoy it. I don't really remember
any long sessions in bed with illness. Either I've forgotten, or I pretty much slept through them.
I tried to find a poem about 'recovering', but found most of them were for recovering alcoholics!
No doubt something will come to mind, eventually.
-
I posted these last year and since I am going back to Smith tomorrow, I'd like to slip them in again. From the Smith College chrysanthemum show.
Remembering the Chrysanthemums
By Lady Allspice
The autumn wind that through the knotgrass blows
Blurs the sad gazer’s eye with unshed tears;
But autumn’s guest, who last year graced this plot
Only, as yet, in dreams of night appears.
The wild geese from the North are now returning;
The dhobi’s thump at evening fills my ears.
Those golden flowers for which you see me pine
I’ll meet again at this year’s double nine.
Seeking the Chrysanthemum
By Green Boy
The crisp day bids us go on an excursion
Resistant to the wineshop door’s temptation.
Some garden, where, before the frosts, was planted
The glory of autumn, being our destination:
Which after weary walk having found, we’ll sing
An autumn song with unsubdued elation.
And you, gold flowers, if all the poet told
You understood,would not refuse his gold!
Admiring the Chrysanthemums
By Cloud Maiden
Transplanted treasures, dear to me as gold-
Both the pale clumps and those of darker hue!
Bare-headed by your wintry bed I sit
And, musing, hug my knees and sing to you.
None more than you the villain world disdains;
None understands your proud heart as I do
The precious hours of autumn I’ll not waste,
But bide with you and savour their full taste.
Arranging the Chrysanthemums
By Cloud Maiden
What greater pleasure than the lute to strum
Or sip wine by your delicate display?
To hold the garden’s fragrance in one vase,
And see all autumn in a single spray?
On frosty nights I’ll dream you back again
Brave in your garden bed at close of day.
Since with your shy disdain I sympathize,
Tis you,not summer’s gaudy blooms I prize.
Celebrating the Chrysanthemums
By River Queen
Down garden walks, in search of inspiration,
A restless demon drives me all the time
Then brush blooms into praises and the mouth
Grows acrid-sweet , hymning those scents sublime. .
Yet easier ‘twere a world of grief to tell
Than to lock autumn’s secret in one rhyme.
That miracle old Tao did once attain;
Since when a thousand bards have tried in vain.
Questioning the Chrysanthemums
By River Queen
Since none else autumn’s mystery can explain,
I come with the murmured questions to your gate:
Who, world disdainer, shares your hiding place?
Of all the flowers why do you bloom so late?
The garden silent lies in frosty dew,
The geese return, the cricket mourns his fate
Let not speech from your silent world be banished:
Converse with me, since me you understand.
The Dream of the Chrysanthemums
By River Queen
Light-hearted in my bed I lie
And seem to chase the moon across the sky.
Well, if immortal, I‘ll go seek old Tao,
Not imitate Zhuang’s flittering butterfly!
Following the wild goose, into sleep I slid;
From which now, startled by the cricket’s cry,
Midst cold and fog and dying leaves I wake,
With no one by to tell of my heart’s ache.
‘
The Decay of the Chrysanthemums
By Plaintain Lover
The feasting over and the first snow fallen, ‘
The flowers frost-stricken lie or sideways lean
Their perfume lingering, but their gold hue dimmed.
And few poor, tattered leaves bereft of green,
Now under moonlit bench the cricket shrills,
And weary goose-files in the cold sky are seen.
Yet of your passing let me not complain:
Next autumn equinox we’ll meet again!
‘.
-
Ah the chrysanthemum - I can almost nose that musky scent that reminds me of dead leaves and a spent garden waiting for a blanket of frost.
Had to shop - I was out of everything - stopped at Whole Foods and they had prepared parsnips and carrots in an apple glaze - couldn't pass it up they were so lovely to look at along with some roasted veggies added to the plate it was a satisfying fall color combo on my plate - I was surprised eating the parsnips that I have often used in stews or mashed with sweet potatoes and even with white potatoes - this was the first I just ate them sliced, buttered and with a breath of apple - now I am thinking of other combonations to prepare using parsnips.
Well of course I had to find a poem about Parsnips - no author shown for this one...
Parsnips
I am still bitter.
I don't think anybody has noticed
I grow into the ground
purposefully moving into from out of
I am not planted
I am rooted
I am so glad folks are gardening again - when I was a youngster nearly everyone had a vegetable garden and we ate meals and back porch treats based on what was ready to pick - we knew when it was June or August by the food we ate and where the sun was in the sky when we woke up - we didn't need a calender to tell us or even a watch to know if we were coming home late ready with our excuse that we hoped was good enough to keep us out of trouble.
Memory of knowing what vegetables were rooted and what fruits grew near the ground or on trees makes me feel a part of something bigger and I keep wondering how youngsters today relate to the world from their Ipod and food wrapped in cellophane all cut up and cooked so they never have to know if it grows in or on the ground.
-
Do you know I've never cooked nor eaten a parsnip? My mother never served them, so they
didn't appear in my food selection, either. I do trust the country kids still know what's what...
the city kids haven't known since towns got big enough that the countryside was far away.
This young poet is obviously prejudiced: :)
The City Vs. The Country
In the city where the colours run dry,
Or in the country where the farmers grow rye.
In the city where there are fees,
Or in the country where beauty is free.
In the city where there are loud crowds,
Or in the country where you can watch clouds.
In the city where you camp out in your room,
Or in the country where you have fun dancing with a broom.
In the city where there are polluting cars,
Or in the county where you can see stars.
In the city where you seal the deal,
Or in the country where you can heal.
In the city where you say later,
Or in the country where you can see the water.
In the city where space is tight,
Or in the country where you hold their hand in the moonlight.
Written by Haley McRae,14.
-
Root vegetables! there is an extensive article about them in this weeks's New Yorker. They were the sustenance of New Englanders, with their short growing season. My mother often served rutabega and I still like it, but not hacking it into pieces. Carrots, of course, beets, white turnips, she always "boiled, buttered, and served" Now the fad is to "roast" them and do some kind of glaze, like balsamic vinegar. Parsnips? No way. But maybe I will try some again.
-
Barbara - so good to see you back again and to know that the healing is taking place.
Parsnips : love them - pulled from the ground and steamed, served with butter whilst they are still very white. Or roasted with other roasted vegies. My grandmother always made a parsnip wine - it was very potent and could only be drunk in moderation.
-
:D :D I love the teenage version of the city versus the country - oh so true - I think many of us who live in cities take mental vacations of freedom by either remembering or imagining time in the country. Although, I guess there is city and then there is city - I never lived in a high-rise and that would really be city. Many of the sit-coms take place in a high-rise apartment and like lots of movie and TV stories we think we know because it seems so real and right there in our living room. However, I am thinking there is a world of difference in knowing about and actually knowing how to successfully live in a high-rise apartment. All in all the last line is precious. It is hard to imagine young love in a crowded city.
bellemere, I guess you are no longer gathering fresh veggies from your gardens - I bet you already have had a frost and now before snow collects it is the root veggies that are the daily fare before the summer foods canned last July and August start coming off the shelves. I notice more restaurants and take-outs including rutabaga cut up and included in a harvest mixture of veggies. They seem to cook up softer quicker than carrots so that these mixtures are a source of all sorts of chewing or not packed into one forkfull.
Gumtree, your post prompted me to go on the hunt for some parsnip recipes - parsnip wine hay - I did find one in an old 1920s insurance company give-a-way cookbook that sounds worthy of a try - I love the amounts and directions - so easy to remember - 2 cups Julianne cut parsnips and then each ingredient is half the amount of the preceding so that next it is a cup of Julianne cut celery - a half a cup of Julianne cut red bell peppers and a quarter of a cup of cut green onions - saute - dress with a mustard vinaigrette and serve on a bed of lettuce - enough for 3 servings.
Then all of a sudden the old English Ballad made popular again in the 60s with a few modern changes to the words popped into my head - remember...
Are you going to Scarborough Fair?
Parsley, sage, rosemary and thyme,
Remember me to one who lives there,
She once was a true love of mine.
Tell her to make me a cambric shirt,
Parsley, sage, rosemary and thyme,
Without no seam nor needle work,
Then she'll be a true love of mine.
Tell her to find me an acre of land,
Parsley, sage, rosemary and thyme,
Between the salt water and the sea strand,
Then she'll be a true love of mine.
Tell her to reap it with a sickle of leather,
Parsley, sage, rosemary and thyme,
And to gather it all in a bunch of heather,
Then she'll be a true love of mine.
Are you going to Scarborough fair?
Parsley, sage, rosemary and thyme,
Remember me to one who lives there,
She once was a true love of mine
Here I plant lots of rosemary and thyme because the deer won't eat them - I noticed some commercial buildings like the front of the movie theatre are actually making a hedge with the rosemary - I thought cleaver - but alas no Parsley or sage since both are candy for the deer. Noticed when I shopped Whole Foods out front where the growing things are sold they had pots and hanging baskets for Thanksgiving with all four above mentioned herbs and stuck in the earth on a long florist spike was a dried cornhusk Turkey or lady Pilgrim. How much fun to bring the scent of herbs into the house.
-
(http://seniorlearn.org/bookclubs/poetry/poetryfall10.jpg)
|
The Apple Orchard
~ by Shawn Bailey
The dew-softened blades
of fescue wet my feet,
small brushstrokes of icy wetness
on my way to the orchard.
The sunlight scatters
the morning mist
that shelters the trees from
the horizon.
I spy the juicy red apples
lounging in the trees,
moist with dawn
and there are thousands of them.
Fruitful, edible decor.
|
Autumn Poetry
In this Discussion we share what stirs our heart -
Bring us a gift of a poem
Yours, or the work of another poet. - Famous Poets and Poems about Autumn (http://famouspoetsandpoems.com/thematic_poems/autumn_poems.html)
- Fall Season Poems (http://poetry.about.com/od/ourpoemcollections/a/autumnpoems.htm)
Discussion Leaders: Barb (augere@ix.netcom.com) & fairanna (fairanna@cox.net)
-
Recently read about Robert Frost the man - sounds like he was not an easy man to live with - ah so, many of the most creative and successful in their field seem to be difficult personalities. But then we know there are a few Grisham's and McMurty's that say you can be creative, successful in your field as well as, with you friends and loved ones.
Well we needed a bona-fide poem and this is a Robert Frost I do not remember ever reading - it was one of his early words first published in the Atlantic Monthly.
The Sound of Trees
I wonder about the trees:
Why do we wish to bear
Forever the noise of these
More than another noise
So close to our dwelling place?
We suffer them by the day
Till we lose all measure of pace
And fixity in our joys,
And acquire a listening air.
They are that that talks of going
But never gets away;
And that talks no less for knowing,
As it grows wiser and older,
That now it means to stay.
My feet tug at the floor
And my head sways to my shoulder
Sometimes when I watch trees sway
From the window or the door.
I shall set forth for somewhere,
I shall make the reckless choice,
Some day when they are in voice
And tossing so as to scare
The white clouds over them on.
I shall have less to say,
But I shall be gone.
-
You know, I'd never actually seen all the words to Scarborough Fair. I thought it
was a lovely tune, but the lyrics....well, it's not a love song, is it? Fellow has a
high opinion of himself, I must say. If I owned an acre of land and could sew a shirt
without a seam, I could very well do without this fellow.
You know, I do believe those long walks the trees lured Frost to early on, are where the rest
of his poems came from. Another bow and curtsey to the trees!
In response to Scarborough Fair's high-handed ex-boyfriend, I recall the old song, ;Reuben, Reuben'. You'll find some lyrics have been added to this version.
Reuben, Reuben I've been thinkin'
What a glad world this would be
If the boys were all transported
Far across the Northern sea!
Rachael, Rachael I've been thinkin'
What a glad world this would be
If the girls were all transported
Far across the Northern sea!
Oh my goodness gracious Reuben,
what a weird world this would be,
If the girls were all transported
Far across the Northern sea!
Oh my goodness gracious Rachael,
what a weird world this would be,
If the boys were all transported
Far across the Northern sea!
Reuben, Reuben I've been thinkin'
Girls would lead a life of ease
If they had no boys to taunt them,
Nor be tickled, pestered, teased!
Rachael, Rachael I've been thinkin'
What a great life boys would lead,
If we had no girls interrupting,
Reminding of manners when we feed!
Reuben, Rachael I've been thinkin'
What a weird world this must be.
If across the sea I were transported,
You'd be swimming after me
-
Funny - here you are seeing the man/woman relationship in a poem and I am all about the food - well my harvest mind continues with Pablo Neruda.
Ode To The Onion
by Pablo Neruda
Onion,
luminous flask,
your beauty formed
petal by petal,
crystal scales expanded you
and in the secrecy of the dark earth
your belly grew round with dew.
Under the earth
the miracle
happened
and when your clumsy
green stem appeared,
and your leaves were born
like swords
in the garden,
the earth heaped up her power
showing your naked transparency,
and as the remote sea
in lifting the breasts of Aphrodite
duplicating the magnolia,
so did the earth
make you,
onion
clear as a planet
and destined
to shine,
constant constellation,
round rose of water,
upon
the table
of the poor.
You make us cry without hurting us.
I have praised everything that exists,
but to me, onion, you are
more beautiful than a bird
of dazzling feathers,
heavenly globe, platinum goblet,
unmoving dance
of the snowy anemone
and the fragrance of the earth lives
in your crystalline nature.
-
Sweet Potato
by Shinkichi Takahashi
Of all things living
I'd be a sweet potato,
fresh dug up.
Squash in Blossom
~ Robert Francis
How lush, how loose, the uninhibited squash is.
If ever hearts (and these immoderate leaves
Are vegetable hearts) were worn on sleeves,
The squash's are. In green the squash vine gushes.
The flowers are cornucopias of summer,
Briefly exuberant and cheaply golden.
And if they make a show of being hidden,
Are open promiscuously to every comer.
Let the squash be what it was doomed to be
By the old Gardener with the shrewd green thumb.
Let it expand and sprawl, defenceless, dumb.
But let me be the fiber-disciplined tree
Whose leaf (with something to say in wind) is small,
Reduced to the ingenuity of a green splinter
Sharp to defy or fraternize with winter,
Or if not that, prepared in fall to fall.
~William Shakespeare
O Lord that lends me life,
Lend me a heart replete with thankfulness.
-
~William Blake
If the doors of perception were cleansed
every thing would appear
to man as it is, infinite.
For man has closed himself up, till
he sees all things through
narrow chinks of his cavern.
~Leonard Cohen
Ring the bells that still can ring.
Forget your perfect offering.
There is a crack in everything.
That's how the light gets in.
-
William Blake is a legend, but no less Leonard Cohen. Thanks Barbara - sincerely hope your eyes are mending.
-
Inspired by Barb and Leonard I can't resist adding the last verse of one of LC's songs.
The Tower of Song
Now I bid you farewell, I don't know when I'll be back
There moving us tomorrow to that tower down the track
But you'll be hearing from me baby, long after I'm gone
I'll be speaking to you sweetly
From a window in the Tower of Song
Yeah my friends are gone and my hair is grey
I ache in the places where I used to play
And I'm crazy for love but I'm not coming on
I'm just paying my rent every day
Oh in the Tower of Song
-
LC is wonderful, of course, and I love his mournful voice.
However, I thought I would just share these few lines from a very good friend who had to flee the Taliban. His father was shot in the foot and his supporters sent him off to UK. Rohullah was sent from Ghazni in Afghanistan to Quetta in Pakistan. No less dangerous. Rohullah was forced into carrying out menial tasks in order to support his step-mother and three siblings. Rohullah is a member of the Hazara tribe. If the word Hazara seems familiar you probably remember it from "The Kite Runner" which was a load of ****in its representation of Hazaras. They are very proud people and were mortified as an ethnic group in being "used" in such a humiliating manner, to sell a book Anyway, Roh's word sum up a lifetime, albeit short, of struggle in order to achieve a life of comparative normalcy in Wolverhampton, UK. If you want to learn more about Rohullah you can find him on Facebook or to acquaint yourselves with Hazaras, merely do a search. You will find their story fascinating, I promise you. Thank you.
This is Me Rohullah Yakobi.. Born in War , Raised in Disaster and Living in peace.....
-
Yes, I did not like that book at all - don't know that much about the various tribes but the whole thing reminded me of a writer finding the most distasteful aspects of a people - rolling them up in some description of exotic scenery just to titillate the reader.
LOST DELIGHT AFTER THE HAZARA WAR
~ translated into English by: Laurence Hope (1865-1904)
LIE alone, beneath the Almond blossoms,
Where we two lay together in the spring,
And now, as then, the mountain snows are melting,
This year, as last, the water-courses sing.
That was another spring, and other flowers,
Hung, pink and fragile, on the leafless tree,
The land rejoiced in other running water,
And I rejoiced, because you were with me.
You, with your soft eyes, darkly lashed and shaded,
Your red lips like a living, laughing rose,
Your restless, amber limbs so lithe and slender
Now lost to me. Gone whither no man knows.
You lay beside me singing in the sunshine;
The rough, white fur, unloosened at the neck,
Showed the smooth skin, fair as the Almond blossoms,
On which the sun could find no flaw or fleck.
I lie alone, beneath the Almond flowers,
I hated them to touch you as they fell.
And now, who killed you? worse, Ah, worse, who loves you?
(My soul is burning as men burn in Hell.)
How I have sought you in the crowded cities!
I have been mad, they say, for many days.
I know not how I came here, to the valley,
What fate has led me, through what doubtful ways.
Somewhere I see my sword has done good service,
Some one I killed, who, smiling, used your name,
But in what country? Nay, I have forgotten,
All thought is shrivelled in my heart's hot flame.
Where are you now, Delight, and where your beauty,
Your subtle curls, and laughing, changeful face?
Bound, bruised and naked (dear God, grant me patience),
And sold in Cabul in the market-place.
I asked of you of all men. Who could tell me?
Among so many captured, sold, or slain,
What fate was yours? (Ah, dear God, grant me patience,
My heart is burnt, is burnt, with fire and pain.)
Oh, lost Delight! my heart is almost breaking,
My sword is broken and my feet are sore,
The people look at me and say in passing,
"He will not leave the village any more."
For as the evening falls, the fever rises,
With frantic thoughts careering through the brain,
Wild thoughts of you. (Ah, dear God, grant me patience,
My soul is hurt beyond all men call pain.)
I lie alone, beneath the Almond blossoms,
And see the white snow melting on the hills
Till Khorassan is gay with water-courses,
Glad with the tinkling sound of running rills,
And well I know that when the fragile petals
Fall softly, ere the first green leaves appear,
(Ah, for these last few days, God grant me patience,)
Since Delight is not, I shall not be, here!
-
Blake does give us something to think about, doesn't he?
This is Me Rohullah Yakobi.. Born in War , Raised in Disaster and Living in peace
...
That's a great opening line, ROSE. Like Barb, I wasn't too pleased with 'The Kite
Runner', either. It made me uncomfortable, for reasons I couldn't quite identify.
The poem by the unknown Hazzara writer is so moving and tragic, so full of pain.
I wish it was known who wrote it.
-
That Hazara poem is more like a song to me, and almond trees grow wild in Afghanistan. Thanks Barb. All we need is Love.
BabiYour instincts served you well regarding that book. He exploited other people's tragedy while safely writing from his American study. The impression he gives me is utter contempt for those he depicts. Makes me very angry..
If you appreciate excellent photography take a look at Barat Batoor's work, especially of the buzkashi. I was chatting with Barat online two nights ago, he lives in Kabul, and he told me that in Quetta, Pakistan, Hazaras are being kidnapped by the Taliban, and held to ransom that they know the Hazara families can't afford, and then murdered when no money is forthcoming. This is the reality of Afghanistan and Pakistan.
-
I found a lot of links on Batoor, but only one that showed any photos. I copied the link , but
then lost it trying to get back here. For some reason my computer is not doing it's usual thing
in that respect.
I found one Hazzara poem, but it was in the original language. No translation. A number of
sites about different poets, but not their poems.
-
Babi you are right - there is very little Hazara poetry translated into English on the Internet. I found another - long and I am not sure what it is saying but the phrases sound beautiful and the images seem exotic. I do not get the feelings of the poet in this one as I did the other poem.
A BRONZED FACE AND TINY PURPLE VEINS
~ Kamran Mir Hazar
A bronzed face and tiny purple veins,
A smooth face of Mayan mould,
The colors of saffron and pasture,
Hunched in a bright overcoat
And woolen hat,
The long coat’s tassels wary of the slashing winds of mountain land,
On the invisible flag: whiteness and the antlers of a stag
With a heart dispersed and diffused;
Ferried by a gramophone’s sound waves,
Sensation is channelled in the air,
The command, the book and the empire of catapults, and way before
A sensation is in the air, expanding
In the arm, and the disintegrating arm,
In the solitude of darkness
And when someone’s death is announced in the hour of divination,
Hiding from life,
And escaping between the clear and the blurred faces,
A desire for the pulse to drop,
In the cleft of a ruby; the fruit of Badakhshan ; and a crying face;
In the birth of eyelashes and the soft fabric of shivering dew,
To appear and to nestle between tresses,
The burning of intense fever, lubricious more than ever, magnetic more than ever;
Swinging in the direction of in-opportunity, the wheel of fortune, turning
And standing;
In a curling clock destined to melt,
Slippery on the cheeks, the annihilator of the restless cloak, endlessly turning;
You stand,
You watch,
You drink tea;
Like a rainbow, you slip on the chair;
You pick up a cigarette,
And light it;
The flickering lantern awakens,
Swirls around the cloak,
Rising from the margins, coloured blue,
And stands on your heart,
Evaporates through your eyes;
Creeping to a corner is an emerald ring stone,
The slippery past of a faraway destiny,
And you reach the curved line,
Entering a geography of latitudes and longitudes,
The composition quickens;
In the middle of the open field, again and again,
A church turns into ruins,
Recomposing in the breaking of light and the unique path of your voice,
And passes through latitudes and longitudes;
The heat lifts the cloak,
Settling on the crucifix of your ribcage,
On the chair, shivering,
With the fluttering fabric of dew
You drink tea,
You light up the rainbow lamp,
You drown,
And the pen turns round and round,
And you write your own death;
It moves up your fingers,
Pursuing the path to your mouth,
You collapse within your pulse,
You write this,
And you disintegrate between the seconds;
You go to the post office,
You ask for a letter of the perished,
Searching for an omen;
You take the by-way,
You look for an epiphany,
In a rainbow shawl,
And shake crimson-coloured medals,
You say hello, peace be upon you,
And then goodbye;
You are dispersed between the sound waves of a gramophone,
Your heart diffused and ferried by the sound waves of a gramophone,
You stay at home
And seek prophecy,
Searching for an omen in the hours;
The bronzed face heats up,
You wrap yourself around my body;
Looking for where the breaths join up,
You’re released in my throat;
You move up,
Become tears
And flow down my cheeks;
You go to the post office,
Seeking a letter from the dead;
A longing to let go,
A date with the unsung heroes of time,
And empires beyond the age when writing was invented;
The ones that were never put in ink,
Embarking on the saddle, taming the lines,
Abandoning time, leaving the five senses behind;
That bronzed face, a prototype found when iron was discovered
A one that never, ever found reflection in ink.
Photos from Badakhshan Province - http://tinyurl.com/2g3a4o8
-
What a feast for the senses! Thanks Barbara, I am referring to the poetry and images. One line of the poem struck a chord for me, you probably noticed it too. "In a curling clock destined to melt" may be a reference to Dali's "Persistence of Memory". The poem seems to be fairly recent. The Hazaras have a most fascinating history and are said to be the offspring of Genghis Khan's whose soldiers had a garrison in Bamiyan. Bamiyan is Hazara territory. It is possible, though hard to prove, that they were Buddhists before being converted to Islam by the Persians, hence the huge Buddha statues of Bamiyan. The Hazaras are very artistic and love poetry, music and painting and they are descended from the best horse riders in the world. Now a talent for photography is also prevalent. Having been forced out of their homeland, Afghanistan, they now reside all over the world.
Perhaps, with Barbara's approval, I may be allowed to post a true story of just one young Hazara man and his adventures (and misadventures) getting from Afghanistan to the UK. The story is not very long. I just put it together from a phone call I had from Ali, when his English was good enough to tell me his story.
I have included a link of Barat Batoor's depicting life in Hazarijat. Right in the centre of Afghanistan and I noticed that there are also photos of Bamiyan included in the slide show. Enjoy!
http://www.lightstalkers.org/batoor
-
Go for it - off the subject but sometimes subjects dear to our heart are more important - - we will just follow you up with lots and lots of poetry ;) :-*
-
Thanks Barbara - Ali is worth it. Reading the poems you post is a delight rather than a punishment.
-
This is Ali's story. I haven't dramatised it or attempted to make it lyrical. The events speak for themselves.
ALI’S STORY
Ali’s father had been killed by the Taliban in Afghanistan. Ali is of the Hazara tribe.
Ali, his mother, his older brother, two young sisters and one younger brother all moved to Quetta, Pakistan.
Ali was threatened by the Taliban in Quetta and had to flee.
With a large group of people (on foot) Ali moved first into Iran. It was necessary for them to walk across the snow capped mountains to get into Turkey. Another student I had here, in Australia, told me a similar story. She told me that she had not expected to live through the journey. She said that the events and trip across the mountains of Iran still haunt her.
Many people died in the snow. The group was also shot at by bandits who wanted to rob them. The group had very little food and water.
The group arrived in Turkey and then travelled to Greece.
(Ali needs to fill in this part about his travels between Greece and France). At Ali's requestI sent this story to his ESL teacher in the UK.
Ali was forced to live on the streets in Paris. He was very unhappy. I spoke to him during this time. Even though he had no money he still managed to ‘phone me. I offered to call him, but he refused. He had no food, no clothes, and no money. Ali only had a sleeping bag to protect him from the elements. He told me that it rained a lot and he was always cold and hungry.
Ali then went to “The Jungle” in Calais, a kind of camp for other Hazaras like himself who wished to get to England for a better life.
Ali told me today that one day he and some friends were walking along the waterfront in Calais. They noticed that there was a traffic jam and the traffic had stopped. Ali decided to risk getting into the spare tyre compartment of a lorry, which I think is actually under the lorry, hoping he could finally get across to England. He had tried several times before but had always been caught. When the lorry finally got to the checking gate at Calais the officers there were trying very hard to clear the traffic and did not have time to search the lorries, as they usually did, for refugees.
The trip from Calais to Dover took about 45 minutes. At Dover the lorry stopped for a while and then drove off. The driver stopped again to fill up with petrol and Ali left his hiding place. Ali told me that he was covered in dirt and oil. He went to a police station where they helped him find a family to accommodate him organised through various charities. Ali stayed with them until he got a job and then got his own flat.
Ali lives alone now in Southampton. His English is much improved from when I last spoke to him in France. This is the reason he was able to give me more detail about what had happened this time. He was so happy to hear my voice that despite my concerns for the cost he spoke to me for an hour and a half. He seems very happy, and is working seven days a week. He supports his family back in Quetta. Ali has maturity well beyond his years. He is just 22.
I can honestly say that Ali is one of the most remarkable people I have ever met.
A picture of Ali
http://www.facebook.com/album.php?aid=16772&id=100000320854458#!/photo.php?fbid=105603996126962&set=a.148730931814268.21113.100000320854458
-
Thanks for sharing Ali's story - here are the poems of others with a story that has a different twist or ending but the poems are all about desperate people who had to leave all they knew. In the states tomorrow Thursday, November 25, always the 4th Thursday of November is our day of Thanksgiving - a story like Ali's reminds us how much we have to be thankful for and it also reminds some of us of our own family's history running in desperation from horrific events. Our prayers are with him and his family.
Immigrant
~ unknown author
I am blessed, with eternal life,
I have lived through war and strife,
Every month i drink the potion,
The God-given gift, that sets in motion,
The process that, keeps me young,
Keeps age halted, like a jar by a bung,
My wife and i have lived forever,
All family ties we had to sever,
And so we travel, travel the world,
We have seen nations, civilisation unfurled,
We have lived for many years,
Over dead friends, shed many tears,
In a way it is a curse,
For every year it just gets worse.
ORIGINS
~ by James B. Johnston
I go back to the place of my birth,
To the one who conceived me.
As the casket is opened, one last time,
I look on the face of infinite love,
I experience the pain of parting.
I know you are ready to go.
You told me so, four years ago,
When pain first marked the fragility of time,
And, with words crafted on labored breath,
You longed for the breath of God
To push away the clouds
And reveal the Son.
I wish I had spent more time with you,
Building memories, capturing and cultivating
Your gentleness and strength;
The tolerance that built bridges,
The warmth that made our friends your friends,
The courage to let your children grow,
The simplicity of your faith.
It is too late to talk about how you met Dad,
Having children in your forties,
Your successful business venture,
So I close the casket. The sun has set.
There are no clouds
-
"Exile"
~ by James B. Johnston
When advancing years slow my steps
And my mind turns increasingly
To the contemplation of past years,
Will I, in exile, fondly remember
The land of my birth? The land
I left when fear shrouded
The serenity of family life;
When bullets and bombs
Overshadowed the beauty of the mountains
And the music of the streams, and
My search for true freedom found fulfillment
In a new life in a strange land.
"Not Just A Refugee"
~ by Bri Mark
I had to leave my homeland, my children and my wife,
to find a safer place to live and to save my life.
This wasn't taken lightly, so try to be aware,
I only want security and you to show you care.
What you take for granted, we are not allowed,
we must say things quietly, while you can shout out loud.
You can walk for miles on end, without the need for fear,
I just want to do the same and to bring my family here.
I miss my wife and children, I know you'd be the same,
humans need their families, they're worth much more than fame.
I want to work and pay my way, to be the same as you,
all I ask for in return, is respect from just a few.
I don't want your handouts, I need to be employed,
that way I'll feel valued, my life can be enjoyed.
You can choose where you go,I've never had that choice,
all I want is liberty and to have a voice.
You all have a dream in life, to be really wealthy,
where I come from our only dream,is just remaining healthy.
So please don't treat me differently, I do not ask for favors,
I only seek acceptance, that's what a human savors.
If you were beaten every day, you'd say, ''that can't be right'',
that is why I had to move, I'd lost the will to fight.
If you were told, '' your life is ours and you don't have a say'',
would you not do the same as me, get up and run away.
I did what any human would, I want to stay alive,
while I'm still here there's hope, my family will survive.
Until you get to know me, don't make a song and dance,
try to learn who I am, just give me a chance.
Before you make a judgment, try to understand,
I come for your democracy, not to steal your land.
You've always fought injustice, a cause you're fighting still,
I was doing just the same, I'd really had my fill.
That is why I moved here, on freedom you're renowned,
help me through to be as you and equality we'll have found.
I do not ask for sympathy, just a friendly ear,
to listen to my troubles and help bring me some cheer.
If you think for just a moment, I really could be you,
would you accept brutality, if not, what would you do.
If you've listened to all I've told you, you should now clearly see,
First I am a human being , ''Not Just A Refugee''
-
Here we are with more poetry - however today is Thanksgiving Day - most of us start the day by turning on the TV and watching the Macy's Thanksgiving Day Parade - schools from all over the nation perform on the streets of New York - this year I understand they march with sleet and cold rain - the end of the parade is always a glorious float with Santa arriving - there are a few other Cities with their parades featured on TV now but it is this old and traditional Macy parade that most folks watch while Mom continues filling the house with wonderful scents of food cooking in the kitchen.
Guests and Family arrive late morning and some who stay over arrived the night before - Some areas have the big rival high school or collage football game that the young attend and are back for afternoon dinner - most folks sit down to eat early afternoon around make-shift tables to accommodate everyone - a snooze in the chair after dinner is usual for the older folks - the women start the clean-up - some of the little ones take a nap - we always went to a special movie at about 5: but that was because we only went to a movie about 5 times a year. The evening is usually turkey sandwiches with more of the pie and watching football -
As the Turkey is brought to the table for carving usually each family has its way of calling a blessing - some a formal prayer - some a round the table telling the best thing that happened this year - some simply a raise of the glass to a better life or a good year.
Not very frosty around here - the temp has been in the high 80s all week - but this evening we are promised a norther and we will feel late Autumn and Winter cold - it would have been nice if it arrived earlier to take some of the heat out of the house with all the cooking - but at least a change is coming and I can shut off my AC.
Well here we go with some Thanksgiving day poems...
-
~ Emily Dickinson
One Day is there of the Series
Termed Thanksgiving Day.
Celebrated part at Table
Part in Memory.
Neither Patriarch nor Pussy
I dissect the Play
Seems it to my Hooded thinking
Reflex Holiday.
Had there been no sharp Subtraction
From the early Sum —
Not an Acre or a Caption
Where was once a Room —
Not a Mention, whose small Pebble
Wrinkled any Sea,
Unto Such, were such Assembly
’Twere Thanksgiving Day.
Thanksgiving
~ by Ella Wheeler Wilcox (1896)
We walk on starry fields of white
And do not see the daisies;
For blessings common in our sight
We rarely offer praises.
We sigh for some supreme delight
To crown our lives with splendor,
And quite ignore our daily store
Of pleasures sweet and tender.
Our cares are bold and push their way
Upon our thought and feeling.
They hang about us all the day,
Our time from pleasure stealing.
So unobtrusive many a joy
We pass by and forget it,
But worry strives to own our lives
And conquers if we let it.
There’s not a day in all the year
But holds some hidden pleasure,
And looking back, joys oft appear
To brim the past’s wide measure.
But blessings are like friends, I hold,
Who love and labor near us.
We ought to raise our notes of praise
While living hearts can hear us.
Full many a blessing wears the guise
Of worry or of trouble.
Farseeing is the soul and wise
Who knows the mask is double.
But he who has the faith and strength
To thank his God for sorrow
Has found a joy without alloy
To gladden every morrow.
We ought to make the moments notes
Of happy, glad Thanksgiving;
The hours and days a silent phrase
Of music we are living.
And so the theme should swell and grow
As weeks and months pass o’er us,
And rise sublime at this good time,
A grand Thanksgiving chorus.
-
The Thanksgivings
~ translated from a traditional Iroquois song by Harriet Maxwell Converse (1908)
We who are here present thank the Great Spirit that we are here to praise Him.
We thank Him that He has created men and women, and ordered that these beings shall always be living to multiply the earth.
We thank Him for making the earth and giving these beings its products to live on.
We thank Him for the water that comes out of the earth and runs for our lands.
We thank Him for all the animals on the earth.
We thank Him for certain timbers that grow and have fluids coming from them for us all.
We thank Him for the branches of the trees that grow shadows for our shelter.
We thank Him for the beings that come from the west, the thunder and lightning that water the earth.
We thank Him for the light which we call our oldest brother, the sun that works for our good.
We thank Him for all the fruits that grow on the trees and vines.
We thank Him for his goodness in making the forests, and thank all its trees.
We thank Him for the darkness that gives us rest, and for the kind Being of the darkness that gives us light, the moon.
We thank Him for the bright spots in the skies that give us signs, the stars.
We give Him thanks for our supporters, who had charge of our harvests.
We give thanks that the voice of the Great Spirit can still be heard through the words of Ga-ne-o-di-o.
We thank the Great Spirit that we have the privilege of this pleasant occasion.
We give thanks for the persons who can sing the Great Spirit's music, and hope they will be privileged to continue in his faith.
We thank the Great Spirit for all the persons who perform the ceremonies on this occasion.
-
"Dull November brings the blast,
Then the leaves are whirling fast."
- Sara Coleridge
"O wild West Wind, thou breath of Autumn's being.
Thou, from whose unseen presence the leaves dead
Are driven, like ghosts from an enchanter fleeing."
- Percy Bysshe Shelley
-
That's a moving story, ROSE. So much for such a young man to take on, but 'needs must'.
I would have liked to see his picture, but the link just took me to a sign-in sheet
for the site. Next time you speak with Ali, do tell him he has the respect and admiration
of your friends.
I found the poem "Origins" especially poignant. I had another short Emily Dickinson poem, but
I lost it. For some reason, I can no longer go searching for something and then come back here
as I used to do. If I go to the web now, Seniorlearn is lost and I have to re-enter.
-
Babi sorry you are having difficulties utilizing the web - I do not know enough about how the internet works to make a suggestion - but please bring it up in a discussion where there are a few folks who know more about the process.
Ali reminds us of so many desperate people's circumstances and how often families have become a cornerstone to the success of another nation because one fleeing terror risked - hid and made it into another country. It is a very difficult subject - to hear one person's story is heart rendering - to hear of nations trying to handle the flood of humanity brings up all sorts of thoughts. We are reminded of this conflict since we live so close to the border where others fleeing from war in Central American and fleeing poverty in Mexico have been coming in for years. There is no simple answer and the confusion is easy to think of in terms of a family opening their doors and hearts to a few and then many, more than the family can care for continue to come. And yet, those looking for a small corner of safety are in as desperate situation as the first who arrived.
Well it is definitely autumn here now and bordering on winter - in the last week or so the few deciduous trees lost their leaves and the cold front promised came through yesterday late afternoon - a bitter cold front - before I shut down and cover up the AC compressor etc. I am going to wait another week or so to see if it stays cold or goes back up into the 80s again like the week before Thanksgiving.
Nice feeling today - the sun is out - I really do not have shopping so I do not have to brave the crowds looking for a bargin and I have left overs that should last today and tomorrow - I think it is a perfect day for a long walk followed by a nap and snuggle with a book. May not build a fire but this poem reminds me of a fire that makes a room cozy.
The Fire
~ by Peter Thomas
The blazing fire
Is like a conjuror, a lion
And the hole
Where the Wordsworth's kept their coal
Is dark as dark can be.
In the grinder there was coffee
Then I noticed that
The beams looked dark as if
They were toffee.
-
Thanks for your thoughts about Ali, Barbara and Babi. I shall pass on your good wishes to him. I will continue trying to post a pic of him. He is on Facebook as Ali Jan. It is not good to be ashamed of your countrymen and women but since the influx of refugees from countries in turmoil I have had many occasions to feel shame.
-
I'm used to our Texas weather being weird, but for November this is a bit much. The 80's one
week and down to the 40's the next. We don't usually expect to see 40's weather until January! What it the rest of the season going to be like?
But here's a quote that soothes and calms me:
It is a glorious privilege to live, to know, to act, to listen,
to behold, to love. To look up at the blue summer sky;
to see the sun sink slowly beyond the line of the horizon;
to watch the worlds come twinkling into view, first one
by one, and the myriads that no man can count, and lo!
the universe is white with them; and you and I are here.- Marco Morrow
-
Roshanarose - I have been away and have only just read your story about Ali. It is very touching and really does make one feel lucky to have a home, live in a relatively stable country, and not really want for anything much. The resilience that people like Ali have puts us all to shame.
I agree with you too, about attitudes to asylum seekers and immigrants. Here in Aberdeen we have had a huge influx of Polish people over the past few years (as Poland joined the EU) - they work like slaves in jobs that most people here wouldn't want to do, and they speak excellent English (I can imagine that I could count on the fingers of one hand the Aberdonians who can speak Polish) yet there are still many people who moan on about them "taking our jobs", "getting our council flats" (I believe they are only housed in flats that local people refuse to live in) - an acquaintance of mine even complained about the Polish foods section in our supermarket.
The Catholic cathedral in town has had a huge boost, as most Poles seem to be devout Catholics, and the congregation has rocketed - particularly interesting because many Poles stayed here after the Second World War, and were stalwarts of the RC church, but of course many of them have now died, and the congregations had dwindled until the new wave of immigration began. Now the Polish mass has been reinstated, and if you are in the area on a Sunday afternoon it is amazing to see how many people come out of the building.
Rosemary
-
A new month - the season is upon us
"The holly and the ivy,
When they are both full grown,
Of all trees that are in the wood,
The holly bears the crown:
O, the rising of the sun,
And the running of the deer
The playing of the merry organ,
Sweet singing in the choir."
- Christmas Carol
-
"From December to March, there are for many of us three gardens -
the garden outdoors,
the garden of pots and bowls in the house,
and the garden of the mind's eye."
- Katherine S. White
-
I Heard a Bird Sing
- Oliver Herford
I heard a bird sing
In the dark of December
A magical thing
And sweet to remember.
'We are nearer to Spring
Than we were in September,'
I heard a bird sing
In the dark of December.
-
Fragment 3
- Samuel Taylor Coleridge, 1772-1834
Come, come thou bleak December wind,
And blow the dry leaves from the tree!
Flash, like a Love-thought, thro'me, Death
And take a Life that wearies me.
-
Stone Thoughts
~ - Robert Pack
"I speak cold silent words a stone might speak
If it had words or consciousness,
Watching December moonlight on the mountain peak,
Relieved of mortal hungers, the whole mess
Of needs, desires, ambitions, wishes, hopes.
This stillness in me knows the sky's abyss,
Reflected by blank snow along bare slopes,
If it had words or consciousness,
Would echo what a thinking stone might say
To praise oblivion words can't possess
As inorganic muteness goes its way.
There's no serenity without the thought serene,
Owl-flight without spread wings, honed eyes, hooked beak,
Absence without the meaning absence means.
To rescue bleakness from the bleak,
I speak cold silent words a stone might speak."
-
"A thousand hills, but no birds in flight,
Ten thousand paths, with no person's tracks.
A lonely boat, a straw-hatted old man,
Fishing alone in the cold river snow."
- Liu Zhongyuan, River Snow
-
"Holly and mistletoe
Candles and bells,
I know the message
That each of you tells."
- Leland B. Jacobs
-
A December Day
"That's no December sky!
Surely 'tis June
Holds now her state on high
Queen of the noon.
Only the tree-tops bare
Crowning the hill,
Clear-cut in perfect air,
Warn us that still
Winter, the aged chief,
Mighty in power,
Exiles the tender leaf,
Exiles the flower."
- Robert Fuller Murray (1863-1894)
-
"A full moon hangs high in the chilly sky,
All say it's the same everywhere, round and bright.
But how can one be sure thousands of li away
Wind and perhaps rain may not be marring the night?"
- Li Qiao
-
In ancient times, both Druids and Romans hung sprigs of mistletoe in their homes and places
of celebration to bring good fortune, peace and love. If mistletoe will bring us good fortune, peace and love I will climb the trees, piling it in my car and pack my house full this year...we could all use a bit of good fortune, peace and love.
As you can tell I am trying to fill the boards so I can enter the heading for the new season on top of a new page - nearly there...
-
This is one of our Fairanna's favorite poets and the poem is not as wintery cold - hoping it is more in keeping with the weather in Australia...
- Ted Kooser, from Winter Morning Walks
"Just as a dancer, turning and turning,
may fill the dusty light with the soft swirl
of her flying skirts, our weeping willow ---
now old and broken , creaking in the breeze ---
turns slowly, slowly in the winter sun,
sweeping the rusty roof of the barn
with the pale blue lacework of her shadow."
-
(http://seniorlearn.org/bookclubs/poetry/wintermyths430x274.jpg) A Winter Myth Join Us! It's the Season for Winter Poetry- Famous Poets and Poems about Winter (http://famouspoetsandpoems.com/thematic_poems/winter_poems.html)
- Link to: Winter Poems (http://poetry.about.com/od/ourpoemcollections/a/winterpoems.htm)
Discussion Leaders: Barb (augere@ix.netcom.com) & fairanna (fairanna@verizon.net) | High From The Earth I Heard A Bird
~ Emily Dickinson ~
High from the earth I heard a bird;
He trod upon the trees
As he esteemed them trifles,
And then he spied a breeze,
And situated softly
Upon a pile of wind
Which in a perturbation
Nature had left behind.
A joyous-going fellow
I gathered from his talk,
Which both of benediction
And badinage partook,
Without apparent burden,
I learned, in leafy wood
He was the faithful father
Of a dependent brood;
And this untoward transport
His remedy for care, --
A contrast to our respites.
How different we are!
|
-
Hurray - Did it!!!
We are into our new season with holidays blowing at our door...enjoy!
-
I had that Murray poem, also, as I thought it reflected a Texas December better than
the frost and ice poems. But there it is, already.
The December heading is gorgeous, BARB. Thanks for finding it
for us.
-
Barbara - That soupcon of poetry was sublime. (Me trying to be poetic but not being able to find the enclitic for soupcon). I was singing along to the Holly and the Ivy - I remember it from school in the year 350BCE. Thanks for the Australian flavoured poem. Actually, it is not hot yet. Has been nice and cool and drizzly. The heat will be upon us all too soon, and Gum and I will be dancing under the hose at midnight. Not together I must stress. :o
I don't think that that thingimummy under the "c" is an enclitic. I am happy to be corrected.
-
Thanks for the Australian flavoured poem. Actually, it is not hot yet. Has been nice and cool and drizzly
It may be like that where you are Roshanarose but Perth has been sizzling up around 37 -38C for the past week - happily it has cooled today and the coming week looks OK. We've also had bushfire driven by high winds on the outskirts of the metro area - housing threatened and people and livestock evacuated - and summer is only a day or two old....
Barbara Love the poems you post - I don't post much but often come in to read and appreciate. Thanks for all you do.
-
Gum Time to get the hose out. Just tell the neighbours it is an ancient Wiccan ceremony. They won't know any different.
Bushfires are such terrifying things - they do total damage and people and wildlife lose their homes. One problem is the Australian love of the bush. It is very desirable for us to have big trees all around us. They are great for shade and a feeling of general well-being. Come bushfire time your life may be at risk. It's all a gamble. Similar to living beachside - I have visited beaches that go from having yards and yards of sand to walk across to the surf, to being only as wide as 1.5 metres. It is not unusual for houses to lose their land to the sea. Nature is unpredictable, of course, but you would think that we should have learned a thing or two over the generations.
-
Bushfire (The Australian Spirit)
~ by Paul Buttigieg
My last saucepan
Amid the ashes
A last possession
Bent
But never enough to stop me
Boiling the water
Whilst
I lost everything
We’re not losing our cup of tea
We’re not giving up
Still
There is hope
Even if my house has gone
Others
Are hanging on
And I must help
I’ll build again
There is no time for feeling sorry
Only for pouring the tea
For heroes
-
Early Australian bush poem
SUMMER
~ Louis Lavater 1867 - 1953
I am weary,
Weary of bracing myself against the sun’s hot hand;
I am weary, and I dream of cool places . . . .
I see a grassy couch
Under a canopy of leaves;
A reedy river murmers by,
Crooning an old, old melody
Tuned to a long-forgotten scale,
Made when the world was young.
Rolled to the river’s edge the hills lie fast asleep;
Pale stars slip o’er their ledge and sink into the deep:
Down in the deep they sink to slumbrous peace,
Down in the deep they drink the water of peace;
In the quiet deep they quench their fires in sleep
And drown in a cool green dream.
The sun insists his burning hand upon my head;
I am weary, and I dream of cool places.
-
The Darkling Thrush
~ by Thomas Hardy
I leant upon a coppice gate
When Frost was spectre-grey,
And Winter's dregs made desolate
The weakening eye of day.
The tangled bine-stems scored the sky
Like strings of broken lyres,
And all mankind that haunted nigh
Had sought their household fires.
The land's sharp features seemed to be
The Century's corpse outleant,
His crypt the cloudy canopy,
The wind his death-lament.
The ancient pulse of germ and birth
Was shrunken hard and dry,
And every spirit upon earth
Seemed fervourless as I.
At once a voice arose among
The bleak twigs overhead
In a full-hearted evensong
Of joy illimited;
An aged thrush, frail, gaunt and small,
In blast-beruffled plume,
Had chosen thus to fling his soul
Upon the growing gloom.
So little cause for carolings
Of such ecstatic sound
Was written on terrestrial things
Afar or nigh around,
That I could think there trembled through
His happy good-night air
Some blessed Hope, whereof he knew
And I was unaware.
-
Some find poetry there. It's nice to find a Hardy that closes on a more hopeful note. And those
of us who live in Texas can empathize with Mr. Lavater. Even now, when others are writing of
cold weather, we have days when we must open the windows and turn on the fans.
-
December
~ John Clare
While snow the window-panes bedim,
The fire curls up a sunny charm,
Where, creaming o'er the pitcher's rim,
The flowering ale is set to warm;
Mirth, full of joy as summer bees,
Sits there, its pleasures to impart,
And children, 'tween their parent's knees,
Sing scraps of carols o'er by heart.
And some, to view the winter weathers,
Climb up the window-seat with glee,
Likening the snow to falling feathers,
In fancy infant ecstasy;
Laughing, with superstitious love,
O'er visions wild that youth supplies,
Of people pulling geese above,
And keeping Christmas in the skies.
As tho' the homestead trees were drest,
In lieu of snow, with dancing leaves,
As tho' the sun-dried martin's nest,
Instead of ickles, hung the eaves,
The children hail the happy day -
As if the snow were April's grass,
And pleas'd, as 'neath the warmth of May,
Sport o'er the water froze as glass.
-
Remember Don Blanding and "Vagabond House"? Here is a section of that poem that's one of
my favorites.
Pictures . . . I think I’ll have but three:
One, in oil, of a windswept sea
With the flying scud and the waves whipped white . . .
(I know the chap who can paint it right)
In lapis blue and deep jade green . . .
A great big smashing fine marine
That’ll make you feel the spray in your face.
I’ll hang it over my fireplace.
The second picture . . . a freakish thing . . .
Is gaudy and bright as a macaw’s wing,
An impressionist smear called “Sin”,
A nude on a striped zebra skin
By a Danish girl I knew in France.
My respectable friends will look askance
At the purple eyes and the scarlet hair,
At the pallid face and the evil stare
Of the sinister, beautiful vampire face.
I shouldn’t have it about the place,
But I like . . . while I loathe . . . the beastly thing,
And that’s the way that one feels about sin.
The picture I love the best of all
Will hang alone on my study wall
Where the sunset’s glow and the moon’s cold gleam
Will fall on the face, and make it seem
That the eyes in the picture are meeting mine,
That the lips are curved in the fine sweet line
Of that wistful, tender, provocative smile
That has stirred my heart for a wondrous while.
It’s a sketch of the girl who loved too well
To tie me down to that bit of Hell
That a drifter knows when he know’s he’s held
By the soft, strong chains that passions weld.
It was best for her and for me, I know,
That she measured my love and bade me go _
For we both have our great illusion yet
Unsoiled, unspoiled by vain regret.
-
Cannot believe!!??!! I lost my whole post - and now it is too late to start over - shoot...catch y'all tomorrow
-
Tomorrow is, as Franklin Delano Roosevelt said, December 7, "the day that will live in infamy..." here is a tribute...
My generation roughly is those whose fathers fought in that war. The poet, James Tate, makes emotion about World War II personal and specific in his poem, �The Lost Pilot,� about a father who did not return from war to his child.
The Lost Pilot
~ by James Tate - For my Father, 1992-1994.
Your face did not rot
like the others-- the co-pilot,
for example, I saw him
yesterday. His face is corn-
mush: his wife and daughter,
the poor ignorant people, stare
as if you will compose soon.
He was more wronged than Job.
But your face did not rot
like the others--it grew dark,
and hard like ebony;
the features progressed in their
distinction. If I could cajole
you to come back for an evening,
down from your compulsive
orbiting, I would touch you,
read your face as Dallas,
your hoodlum gunner, now
with the blistered eyes, reads
his braille editions. I would
touch your face as a disinterested
scholar touches an original page.
However frightening, I would
discover you, and I would not
turn you in; I would not make
you face your wife, or Dallas,
or the co-pilot, Jim. You
could return to your crazy
orbiting, and I would not try
to fully understand what
it means to you. All I know
is this: when I see you,
as I have seen you at least
once every year of my life,
spin across the wilds of the sky
like a tiny, African god,
I feel dead. I feel as if I were
the residue of a stranger's life,
that I should pursue you.
My head cocked toward the sky,
I cannot get off the ground,
and you, passing over again,
fast, perfect, and unwilling
to tell me that you are doing
well, or that it was a mistake
that placed you in that world,
and me in this; or that misfortune
placed these worlds in us.
As James Tate says in those last lines of "The Lost Pilot," the worlds of the past do live in us -- sometimes in their unknown effects and sometimes in memory.
-
Brilliant poem! So easy to visualise; so painful yet poignant to experience. I was thinking about the universality of poetry as I read "The Lost Pilot". Sometimes I read poetry by American poets and there is no recognition there for me. "The Lost Pilot" could be Pakistani, English, Indian. Only the English names Dallas and Jim give an idea of its origin. Therein lies it appeal and, unfortunately, the horror of war.
-
So many of the films of that time tended to be very patriotic, intended
to encourage people in supporting the war. I think it was the last war that
we, as Americans, felt to be a necessary and righteous battle. Hitler had
to be stopped. We were not so certain of our motives and purposes in many of the later conflicts. Looking at the poems written at that time,
tho', it seems most of them are mourning those lost in the battle.
Here's one, by Willam Butler Yeats, that shows a different viewpoint.
AN IRISH AIRMAN FORESEES HIS DEATH
--------------------------------------------------------------------------------
I know that I shall meet my fate
Somewhere among the clouds above;
Those that I fight I do not hate,
Those that I guard I do not love;
My county is Kiltartan Cross,
My countrymen Kiltartan's poor,
No likely end could bring them loss
Or leave them happier than before.
Nor law, nor duty bade me fight,
Nor public men, nor cheering crowds,
A lonely impulse of delight
Drove to this tumult in the clouds;
The years to come seemed waste of breath,
A waste of breath the years behind
In balance with this life, this death.
-
Oh my!
-
A Christmas Hymn
~ by Richard Wilber
A stable-lamp is lighted
Whose glow shall wake the sky;
The stars shall bend their voices,
And every stone shall cry.
And every stone shall cry,
And straw like gold shall shine;
A barn shall harbor heaven,
A stall become a shrine.
This child through David's city
Shall ride in triumph by;
The palm shall strew its branches,
And every stone shall cry.
And every stone shall cry,
Though heavy, dull, and dumb,
And lie within the roadway
To pave his kingdom come.
Yet he shall be forsaken,
And yielded up to die;
The sky shall groan and darken,
And every stone shall cry.
And every stone shall cry
For stony hearts of men:
God's blood upon the spearhead,
God's love refused again.
But now, as at the ending,
The low is lifted high;
The stars shall bend their voices,
And every stone shall cry.
And every stone shall cry,
In praises of the child,
By whose descent among us,
The worlds are reconciled.
-
A lovely hymn, BARB. It's not one I've every heard sung. One of my favorites is "Do You Hear
What I Hear?"
Do You Hear What I Hear?
Said the night wind to the little lamb
Do you see what I see?
'Way up in the sky, little lamb
Do you see what I see?
A star, a star
Dancing in the night
With a tail as big as a kite
With a tail as big as a kite
Said the little lamb to the shepherd boy
Do you hear what I hear?
Ringing thru the sky, shepherd boy
Do you hear what I hear?
A song, a song
High above the tree
With a voice as big as the sea
With a voice as big as the sea
Said the shepherd boy to the mighty king
Do you know what I know?
In your palace warm, mighty king
Do you know what I know?
A Child, a Child
Shivers in the cold
Let us bring Him silver and gold
Let us bring Him silver and gold
Said the king to the people ev'rywhere
Listen to what I say!
Pray for peace, people ev'rywhere
Listen to what I say!
The Child, the Child
Sleeping in the night
He will bring us goodness and light
He will bring us goodness and light.
-
Oh yes, I can hear it in my head as I read -
-
Don't know if I should bring this to our poetry page or over to the Christmas discussion but I found this youtube of A Visit from St. Nick that is a copy of a 1883 illustrated book - just wonderful - and the carol with it is one of my favorites that I remember sung as the last hymn of Midnight Mass - about 20 or 25 years ago the last hymn was changed and I seldom here Gesu Bambino sung any longer.
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=TodxK2SJ8Tk
I didn't know that Clement Moore was a professor of Oriental and Greek Lit at Columbia University.
-
News to me, too. I would never have expected a professor or Greek and
Oriental literature to be so playful. I'm sure he never expected his fanciful
Christmas poem to be the most famous thing he ever wrote.
Did you already post Wordsworth's "I Heard the Bells on Christmas Day"? I started to post it but then thought you already had.
-
Babi I did not post the Wadsworth Christmas Bell Carol - go for it - I will leave you to do the honors - and Babi never worry if something is posted twice - it is such a treat to say even in our heads the sounds of poems that saying them more than once is also a treat.
Here is another poignant poem about Christmas bells -
Ring out, Wild Bells - A Christmas Poem
by Alfred, Lord Tennyson
Make it Snow !
Ring out, wild bells, to the wild sky,
The flying cloud, the frosty light;
The year is dying in the night;
Ring out, wild bells, and let him die.
Ring out the old, ring in the new,
Ring, happy bells, across the snow:
The year is going, let him go;
Ring out the false, ring in the true.
Ring out the grief that saps the mind,
For those that here we see no more,
Ring out the feud of rich and poor,
Ring in redress to all mankind.
Ring out a slowly dying cause,
And ancient forms of party strife;
Ring in the nobler modes of life,
With sweeter manners, purer laws.
Ring out the want, the care the sin,
The faithless coldness of the times;
Ring out, ring out my mournful rhymes,
But ring the fuller minstrel in.
Ring out false pride in place and blood,
The civic slander and the spite;
Ring in the love of truth and right,
Ring in the common love of good.
Ring out old shapes of foul disease,
Ring out the narrowing lust of gold;
Ring out the thousand wars of old,
Ring in the thousand years of peace.
Ring in the valiant man and free,
The larger heart, the kindlier hand;
Ring out the darkness of the land,
Ring in the Christ that is to be.
-
Oops! I typed 'Wordswrth' instead of Longfellow, but here it is.
Christmas Bells
By Henry Wadsworth Longfellow
I heard the bells on Christmas Day
Their old, familiar carols play,
And wild and sweet
The words repeat
Of peace on earth, good-will to men!
And thought how, as the day had come,
The belfries of all Christendom
Had rolled along
The unbroken song
Of peace on earth, good-will to men!
Till, ringing, singing on its way
The world revolved from night to day,
A voice, a chime,
A chant sublime
Of peace on earth, good-will to men!
Then from each black, accursed mouth
The cannon thundered in the South,
And with the sound
The Carols drowned
Of peace on earth, good-will to men!
And in despair I bowed my head;
‘There is no peace on earth,’ I said;
‘For hate is strong,
And mocks the song
Of peace on earth, good-will to men!’
Then pealed the bells more loud and deep:
‘God is not dead; nor doth he sleep!
The Wrong shall fail,
The Right prevail,
With peace on earth, good-will to men!’
-
Just to let you know I have enjoyed the posts and I sang along with the songs...remembered all my life from the days when we all were young,,,,,Here in Virginia we have had some VERY cold days , cold rains and each morning when I let my dog out I note the sky and here is what I wrote just a few minutes ago..
A Winter Morn
Funny how different
winter morns are --
no golden rays at dawn-
just a faint light
against a silver grey sky...
trees vibrant just weeks ago--
shiver in pale morning light--
huddle together
sharing whatever warmth
they can produce--
squirrels ,hidden in summers
bountiful leafy bowers--
are now exposed --
racing up the dark bark---
seeking shelter in nests
hidden in summer's growth--
now exposed to winters cold.
for me---like the squirrels
I seek shelter in the covers of my bed--
sleep and dream-of Spring--
it's warmth and charm!
anna alexander
this morning 12/12/2010
GOD BLESS ALL
-
Oh yes, Anna to sleep and dream of Spring on a day like this - it turned cold after some lovely warm days - it is hard to get going and accomplish anything when the cold seeps under your shirt.
Great Babi - a wonderful addition to the month - those early American poets are so satisfying to read aren't they.
Pressed for time today - tons to do and drinking too much coffee - I need to get some music going to get in the mood - I have all this packing - what I am sending ahead to my daughters as well as Christmas and Christams for my son who I am visiting tomorrow -
Found this poem - a bit long but filled with magic
Elf Poem
~ Tony Wraight
As I walked soft, in Ravenswood,
through light and dappled shade.
A tall old oak, in sunlight stood,
within this forest glade.
And taking time, to sit and watch,
beside the rattling stream.
A sight so wondrous did I catch,
I feared it was a dream.
For there within the clearing round,
beneath the guardian tree,
danced Elfin children o’er the ground,
in laughter, wild and free.
In awe and wonder, did I stay,
transfixed upon this sight,
till sunlight slowly ebbed away,
fading into night.
Then at once the laughter stopped,
and in the children’s ring.
In moonlight bathed, with crown atop.
There sat the Elfin King.
His robes of silk, were spider-spun,
his crown was burnished gold.
His emerald eyes, so clear and young,
at once so wise and old.
As the children pranced around.
He watched them at their play,
their laughter as a wind-bell sound,
as though heard far away.
My time had come to leave this place,
and quiet did I rise,
but Elfin ears had heard my pace.
I was caught by Elfin eyes.
Again at once the laughter ceased.
The glade in silence, fell.
My guilt, unbound was now released,
in shame, I’d broke this spell.
The King in silence held my stare,
and fixed me where I stood.
His eyes, with anger, did not glare.
In sadness, now leaked tears of blood.
He rose, I fell down to the ground.
At his feet to kneel.
He came to me without a sound.
His wrath I knew I’d feel.
My hands he took, and had me rise,
to look into his face.
He smiled at me with his emerald eyes,
as tears of blood ran down apace.
A single tear fell to my palm.
My hand then, he did fold,
and from his finger gave me a charm,
a ring of purest gold.
He pointed then, the path to take,
to leave this forest dell.
I promised him a vow I’d make,
about this place I’d never tell.
My hand I opened, I stared in awe,
my heart began to sing.
For there upon my palm I saw,
a Gold and Ruby ring
-
Is there more to the elfin poem, BARB. It seems to end unfinished.
I was delighted the other day to leaf through, in my library, a selection
of Emily Dickinson poems for children. I hadn't thought about it, but so
many of her poems are perfect for children, aren't they? Light and whimsical; they can't help but give children a perfect introduction to the
love of poetry.
-
Yes, Babi I agree Emily is a delight - her poetry is magical with a lightness that I cannot think of a poet from another nations that writes with such sparkle combined with clarity and noble thoughts.
That last line of the Elfin poem is so full of symbolic meaning that there really is not much that could top it -
The Ruby is the symbol for zeal, power, love, beauty, dignity and longevity -
Gold symbolizes the incorruptible, nobility, honor, truth, wealth, immortality, a life-giving force, the purity of human nature.
The ring is symbolic of eternity, divinity, the transfer of power, to plight a troth, to join into completeness, the cosmic cycle of creation and destruction.
All that in the palm of his hand is powerful stuff - The hand is considered the most symbolically expressive part of our body. Aristotle said the hand is 'the tool of tools' - an open hand represents benediction, hospitality, truth, the helping hand of compassion - this hand holds the symbols of creation to destruction - from God to human nature - along with the powers of our better nature as humans.
-
~Christmas Elves ~
Little Elves sneak out to play
on this snowy Christmas Day,
They worked all night on
Santa's sleigh,
Bringing lots of special toys
to all the good little girls
and boys,
Now here they are under
fluffy sky,
Building a snowman with
what ever they find,
Except for yellow who is fast
asleep,
As Redkin stops to take a peek,
Greenbean works to make it
complete,
Snowflakes falling all around
Having fun the Elfin way.
-
here you go - have some fun and get your own elf name - http://www.slacknhash.net/elf_name_generator.php
and here is a site that shows girls names and what they would be as an elf name
http://www.arwen-undomiel.com/elvish/girlnames.html
-
So, Tony Wraight's imagery is symbolic, BARB? That would make a difference. Without that knowledge, it would seem a very materialistic ending, centering on a ruby and gold ring when the memory of the elfin children would be so much more wondrous.
What fun! I wonder who has created this 'Elfin' language. You and I
or course share the same name. Haeronwen, since we Americans are
so keen on shortening names, would no doubt become 'Hey'. ;D
-
hehehaha - 'Hey' - I love it - hahaha
-
Please, please whoever set up the Elf names, I don't want to be the exalted bride "Hallnis". I don't want to marry again.
I prefer the Elf Girls' site. Much truer to what I am : Caroline means beautiful woman "Vanadesse". OK - just in my dreams!
Fun Barb! In Australia I would be called Hallie and Vannie :o Having fun the elfin way.
-
Had fun checking my elfin names but they are on a paper I took with me today for some tests so will have to find the paper and share with you...sometimes when I am offered a chance to buy a book of poems very cheap I do ...often I find they are poems I can relate to ...but one book has just a two line poem that for some reason spoke to me Do I know what it said I dont think so it just made me thinK---------
the poet is Robert Hass and here is the poem
IOWA, JANUARY
In the long winter night's , a farmer's dreams are narrow,
Over and Over, he enters the farrow.
In my winter dreams ---over and over I step out doors and inhale the perfume emanating from my apple tree which was not there yesterday....
-
I don't think I could live through a Northern winter. I've spent too much
of my life in the 'heatland'. Even north Texas might give me pause.
"Where the Texas norther comes sudden and soon
In the dead of night or the heat of noon."
Those are two lines from an old 'poem that tells a story' called "Lasca",
I believe. I wonder if I could find it. It was quite long, tho'; it would have
to be to tell a story, wouldn't it?
-
OK Vanadesse - :D - I must say though that is so much better than Babi and my 'Hey' :P
Anna took me a couple of reads to get it - the memory of the apple tree in particular the memory of the scent from the apple tree - ah so...
Oh Babi it would be grand if you could find the Texas Norther poem - just those two lines you shared sounds like the poet has it nailed. If the poem is excessively long just break it into a couple of posts
Must run - too much to do today - and my postponed trip to my son is tomorrow - so I may not be back in here till tomorrow night -
-
Sorry I didnt make it clear but the apple tree was my thought the rest was Hass's poem It was just inspired I cant wait until the day in May when I step out the front door and inhale the special perfume from my apple tree...
-
I love Robert Hass, not for his poetry, but because his book "The Essential Haiku" started me reading Japanese haiku. His are still among the best trandlations IMO.
Also, when he was poet laureate, he started a poetry column in the Washington Post. I believe he was the one who started the poetry readings in local Washington DC parks. Anyone can go there and read their poems. I know several young people, from modest backgrounds, who do so regularly.
One of the basketball players on the Washington Wizards basketball team participated regularly (he's been traded since). He would sponser days when those going to the game could read their poems before the game.
The idea is to make poetry a part of everyday life.
-
I'll see if I can find 'Lasca'. Meanwhile, I found this poem that seems much more suited to
the Texas version of December.
"That's no December sky!
Surely 'tis June
Holds now her state on high
Queen of the noon.
Only the tree-tops bare
Crowning the hill,
Clear-cut in perfect air,
Warn us that still
Winter, the aged chief,
Mighty in power,
Exiles the tender leaf,
Exiles the flower."
- Robert Fuller Murray (1863-1894), A December Day
Actually, December here doesn't even exile the flowers.
-
Joan I am not surprised that Hass was supportive of poetry and trying to see that all who enjoy it, write it or... just listen to it woud have an opportunity to do so..reading his poetry requires the reader to be where he is ...........and for me it makes me think differently can I explain it ? No it just means for a moment I think differently anna
-
(http://seniorlearn.org/bookclubs/poetry/wintermyths430x274.jpg) A Winter Myth Join Us! It's the Season for Winter Poetry- Famous Poets and Poems about Winter (http://famouspoetsandpoems.com/thematic_poems/winter_poems.html)
- Link to: Winter Poems (http://poetry.about.com/od/ourpoemcollections/a/winterpoems.htm)
Discussion Leaders: Barb (augere@ix.netcom.com) & fairanna (fairanna@verizon.net) | High From The Earth I Heard A Bird
~ Emily Dickinson ~
High from the earth I heard a bird;
He trod upon the trees
As he esteemed them trifles,
And then he spied a breeze,
And situated softly
Upon a pile of wind
Which in a perturbation
Nature had left behind.
A joyous-going fellow
I gathered from his talk,
Which both of benediction
And badinage partook,
Without apparent burden,
I learned, in leafy wood
He was the faithful father
Of a dependent brood;
And this untoward transport
His remedy for care, --
A contrast to our respites.
How different we are!
|
-
I found "Lasca", and I think it is well worth presenting. It is long, but I think you'll find it well
worth the time.
LASCA, by Frank Desprez
I want free life and I want fresh air;
And I sigh for the canter after the cattle,
The crack of the whips like shots in a battle,
The medley of horns and hoofs and heads
That wars and wrangles and scatters and spreads;
The green beneath and the blue above,
And dash and danger, and life and love —
And Lasca!
Lasca used to ride
On a mouse-gray mustang close by my side,
With blue serape and bright-belled spur;
I laughed with joy as I looked at her!
Little knew she of books or of creeds;
An Ave Maria sufficed her needs;
Little she cared, save to be by my side,
To ride with me, and ever to ride,
From San Saba's shore to LaVaca's tide.
She was as bold as the billows that beat,
She was as wild as the breezes that blow;
From her little head to her little feet
She was swayed in her suppleness to and fro
By each gust of passion; a sapling pine
That grows on the edge of a Kansas bluff
And wars with the wind when the weather is rough
Is like this Lasca, this love of mine.
She would hunger that I might eat,
Would take the bitter and leave me the sweet;
But once, when I made her jealous for fun,
At something I'd whispered, or looked, or done,
One Sunday, in San Antonio,
To a glorious girl in the Alamo,
She drew from her garter a dear little dagger,
And — sting of a wasp! — it made me stagger!
An inch to the left, or an inch to the right,
And I shouldn't be maundering here tonight;
But she sobbed, and, sobbing, so swiftly bound
Her torn reboso about the wound,
That I quite forgave her. Scratches don't count
In Texas, down by the Rio Grande.
Her eye was brown — a deep, deep brown;
Her hair was darker than her eye;
And something in her smile and frown,
Curled crimson lip and instep high,
Showed that there ran in each blue vein,
Mixed with the milder Aztec strain,
The vigorous vintage of Old Spain.
She was alive in every limb
With feeling to the finger tips;
And when the sun is like a fire,
And sky one shining, soft sapphire,
One does not drink in little sips.
The air was heavy, and the night was hot,
I sat by her side, and forgot - forgot;
Forgot the herd that were taking their rest,
Forgot that the air was close opprest,
That the Texas norther comes sudden and soon,
In the dead of night or the blaze of noon;
That, once let the herd at its breath take fright,
Nothing on earth can stop the flight;
And woe to the rider, and woe to the steed,
Who falls in front of their mad stampede!
Was that thunder? I grasped the cord
Of my swift mustang without a word.
I sprang to the saddle, and she clung behind.
Away! On a hot chase down the wind!
But never was fox hunt half so hard,
And never was steed so little spared,
For we rode for our lives, You shall hear how we fared
In Texas, down by the Rio Grande.
The mustang flew, and we urged him on;
There was one chance left, and you have but one;
Halt, jump to ground, and shoot your horse;
Crouch under his carcass and take your chance;
And, if the steers in their frantic course
Don't batter you both to pieces at once,
You may thank your star; if not, goodby
To the quickening kiss and the long-drawn sigh,
And the open air and the open sky,
In Texas, down by the Rio Grande.
The cattle gained on us, and just as I felt
For my old six-shooter behind in my belt,
Down came the mustang, and down came we,
Clinging together — and, what was the rest?
A body that spread itself on my brest,
Two arms that shielded my dizzy head,
Two lips that hard on my lips were prest;
Then came thunder in my ears,
As over us surged the sea of steers,
Blows that beat blood into my eyes,
And when I could rise—
Lasca was dead!
I gouged out a grave a few feet deep,
And there in Earth's arms I laid her to sleep;
And there she is lying, and no one knows;
And the summer shines and the winter snows;
For many a day the flowers have spread
A pall of petals over her head;
And the little gray hawk hangs aloft in the air,
And the sly coyote trots here and there,
And the black snake glides and glitters and slides
Into a rift in a cottonwood tree;
And the buzzard sails on,
And comes and is gone,
Stately and still like a ship at sea.
And I wonder why I do not care
For the things that are like the things that were.
Does half my heart lie buried there
In Texas, down by the Rio Grande?
-
Oh, oh, oh Babi wonderful - how did you know about this poem? The last stanza sums up the animals that are so much a part of every day - the buzzards circling overhead - the cottonwood trees in a draw where a dry creek flows in Spring - and his girl, Lasco captures the personality of so many of the TexMex women.
We do not have many poets that speak to the land, describing it as a good friend. There are a couple of Australian poet whose work we have included in the past that write about the land - I need to find them again. This poet is of the same genera.
Thanks Babi for bringing us this poet. You know, the comments on our weather by those posting in the Holiday discussion suggests to me everyone is proud of where they live and the specialness of their area - I think those who are snowbound are sharing as if 'me oh my' but are really saying look how intrepid we are and how creative with our lives since the weather has stopped us in our tracks.
OH I just remembered - our Robert Service is another who writes of the raw land and about those who live off the land - yes, here is one of his winter weather poems that is about his typical love, Alaska.
The Call of the Wild
~ Robert William Service
Have you gazed on naked grandeur where there's nothing else to gaze on,
Set pieces and drop-curtain scenes galore,
Big mountains heaved to heaven, which the blinding sunsets blazon,
Black canyons where the rapids rip and roar?
Have you swept the visioned valley with the green stream streaking through it,
Searched the Vastness for a something you have lost?
Have you strung your soul to silence? Then for God's sake go and do it;
Hear the challenge, learn the lesson, pay the cost.
Have you wandered in the wilderness, the sagebrush desolation,
The bunch-grass levels where the cattle graze?
Have you whistled bits of rag-time at the end of all creation,
And learned to know the desert's little ways?
Have you camped upon the foothills, have you galloped o'er the ranges,
Have you roamed the arid sun-lands through and through?
Have you chummed up with the mesa? Do you know its moods and changes?
Then listen to the Wild -- it's calling you.
Have you known the Great White Silence, not a snow-gemmed twig aquiver?
(Eternal truths that shame our soothing lies).
Have you broken trail on snowshoes? mushed your huskies up the river,
Dared the unknown, led the way, and clutched the prize?
Have you marked the map's void spaces, mingled with the mongrel races,
Felt the savage strength of brute in every thew?
And though grim as hell the worst is, can you round it off with curses?
Then hearken to the Wild -- it's wanting you.
Have you suffered, starved and triumphed, groveled down, yet grasped at glory,
Grown bigger in the bigness of the whole?
"Done things" just for the doing, letting babblers tell the story,
Seeing through the nice veneer the naked soul?
Have you seen God in His splendors, heard the text that nature renders?
(You'll never hear it in the family pew).
The simple things, the true things, the silent men who do things --
Then listen to the Wild -- it's calling you.
They have cradled you in custom, they have primed you with their preaching,
They have soaked you in convention through and through;
They have put you in a showcase; you're a credit to their teaching --
But can't you hear the Wild? -- it's calling you.
Let us probe the silent places, let us seek what luck betide us;
Let us journey to a lonely land I know.
There's a whisper on the night-wind, there's a star agleam to guide us,
And the Wild is calling, calling. . .let us go.
-
Lasca I AM SO GLAD you found it because a very long time ago I read it and loved it Any young girl or an imaginative person would feel the same so it was so special to find it here ...Robert Service I read a very long time ago and loved his poems My husband and I planned a trip to Alaska but he didnt live long enough for us to take it..I suppose I have could have gone later but I knew I would never enjoy as much as if he had been with me,,,,,We did read Service for a month when we were doing a poet a month and there are times when I need to read it again Each time I enjoy as much as the first ////
Merry Christmas everyone ....anna
-
I enjoy Robert Service too, BARB, and he was a favorite of my Dad's. I love his line: " (Eternal truths that shame our soothing lies)." He does reveal an attitude that wouldn't be acceptable today, tho', when he refers to 'mongrel races'.
MERRY CHRISTMAS to you both.
-
The Snow Fairy
~ by Claude McKay
I
Throughout the afternoon I watched them there,
Snow-fairies falling, falling from the sky,
Whirling fantastic in the misty air,
Contending fierce for space supremacy.
And they flew down a mightier force at night,
As though in heaven there was revolt and riot,
And they, frail things had taken panic flight
Down to the calm earth seeking peace and quiet.
I went to bed and rose at early dawn
To see them huddled together in a heap,
Each merged into the other upon the lawn,
Worn out by the sharp struggle, fast asleep.
The sun shone brightly on them half the day,
By night they stealthily had stol'n away.
II
And suddenly my thoughts then turned to you
Who came to me upon a winter's night,
When snow-sprites round my attic window flew,
Your hair disheveled, eyes aglow with light.
My heart was like the weather when you came,
The wanton winds were blowing loud and long;
But you, with joy and passion all aflame,
You danced and sang a lilting summer song.
I made room for you in my little bed,
Took covers from the closet fresh and warm,
A downful pillow for your scented head,
And lay down with you resting in my arm.
You went with Dawn. You left me ere the day,
The lonely actor of a dreamy play.
-
A little Snow was here and there
~ by Emily Dickinson
A little Snow was here and there
Disseminated in her Hair --
Since she and I had met and played
Decade had gathered to Decade --
But Time had added not obtained
Impregnable the Rose
For summer too indelible
Too obdurate for Snows --
-
Not a poem, but a song to match my melancholy mood this morning.
THE ROSE (Bette Midler)
Some say love, it is a river that drowns the tender reed.
Some say love, it is a razor that leaves your soul to bleed.
Some say love, it is a hunger, an endless aching need.
I say love, it is a flower, and you it's only seed.
It's the heart, afraid of breaking, that never learns to dance.
It's the dream, afraid of waking, that never takes a chance.
It's the one who won't be taken, who cannot seem to give.
And the soul, afraid of dyin', that never learns to live.
When the night has been too lonely, and the road has been too long,
And you think that love is only for the lucky and the strong,
Just remember in the winter far beneath the bitter snows,
Lies the seed, that with the sun's love, in the spring becomes The Rose
-
All three of those are new to me. I try to imagine what the melody must
be for the song, but without much success.
Here's one:
Minstrels a Christmas Poem
by William Wordsworth
The minstrels played their Christmas tune
To-night beneath my cottage-eaves;
While, smitten by a lofty moon,
The encircling laurels, thick with leaves,
Gave back a rich and dazzling sheen,
That overpowered their natural green.
Through hill and valley every breeze
Had sunk to rest with folded wings:
Keen was the air, but could not freeze,
Nor check, the music of the strings;
So stout and hardy were the band
That scraped the chords with strenuous hand.
And who but listened?--till was paid
Respect to every inmate's claim,
The greeting given, the music played
In honour of each household name,
Duly pronounced with lusty call,
And "Merry Christmas" wished to all.
-
Babi I especially love the first 5 lines
The minstrels played their Christmas tune
To-night beneath my cottage-eaves;
While, smitten by a lofty moon,
The encircling laurels, thick with leaves,
Gave back a rich and dazzling sheen,
Oh dear Rosemary - I hope your melancholy mood has passed or at least you found a comfort that allows it to be OK. The holiday season is funny that way - isn't it - there are so many memories, hopes and dreams attached to the special days throughout the year with the Christmas and New Year's season culminating them all. Auld Lang Syne may be hackneyed to many but it really runs true doesn't it.
Here is an 11th century Irish poem that the photos accompanying the poetry are just too perfect and so best is to view the page - here is the link...
http://permaculturecottage.wordpress.com/2010/11/16/notes-from-a-cottage-celtic-poetry-winter-cold/
-
Christmas Trees
~ Robert Frost (1920)
(A Christmas Circular Letter)
The city had withdrawn into itself
And left at last the country to the country;
When between whirls of snow not come to lie
And whirls of foliage not yet laid, there drove
A stranger to our yard, who looked the city,
Yet did in country fashion in that there
He sat and waited till he drew us out
A-buttoning coats to ask him who he was.
He proved to be the city come again
To look for something it had left behind
And could not do without and keep its Christmas.
He asked if I would sell my Christmas trees;
My woods—the young fir balsams like a place
Where houses all are churches and have spires.
I hadn’t thought of them as Christmas Trees.
I doubt if I was tempted for a moment
To sell them off their feet to go in cars
And leave the slope behind the house all bare,
Where the sun shines now no warmer than the moon.
I’d hate to have them know it if I was.
Yet more I’d hate to hold my trees except
As others hold theirs or refuse for them,
Beyond the time of profitable growth,
The trial by market everything must come to.
I dallied so much with the thought of selling.
Then whether from mistaken courtesy
And fear of seeming short of speech, or whether
From hope of hearing good of what was mine, I said,
“There aren’t enough to be worth while.”
“I could soon tell how many they would cut,
You let me look them over.”
“You could look.
But don’t expect I’m going to let you have them.”
Pasture they spring in, some in clumps too close
That lop each other of boughs, but not a few
Quite solitary and having equal boughs
All round and round. The latter he nodded “Yes” to,
Or paused to say beneath some lovelier one,
With a buyer’s moderation, “That would do.”
I thought so too, but wasn’t there to say so.
We climbed the pasture on the south, crossed over,
And came down on the north. He said, “A thousand.”
“A thousand Christmas trees!—at what apiece?”
He felt some need of softening that to me:
“A thousand trees would come to thirty dollars.”
Then I was certain I had never meant
To let him have them. Never show surprise!
But thirty dollars seemed so small beside
The extent of pasture I should strip, three cents
(For that was all they figured out apiece),
Three cents so small beside the dollar friends
I should be writing to within the hour
Would pay in cities for good trees like those,
Regular vestry-trees whole Sunday Schools
Could hang enough on to pick off enough.
A thousand Christmas trees I didn’t know I had!
Worth three cents more to give away than sell,
As may be shown by a simple calculation.
Too bad I couldn’t lay one in a letter.
I can’t help wishing I could send you one,
In wishing you herewith a Merry Christmas.
-
A letter from Robert Frost! He makes even a letter sound like poetry.
But $30. offered for a thousand trees?! Did the man really expect him to
accept that? But if one tree could sell for a dollar this must have been
during the depression, don't you think? Amazing what a dollar would buy
back then.
-
Christmas came and went but left a foot of snow to be spent
It covered the ground and covered the trees
Changed everything into white magic toys
A nothern breeze really had an imense sneeze
Hope tomorrow the snow will have a huge HICCUP
And give us a NEW YEAR a warmer, snowless place to cheer
So hope you had a great CHRISTMAS
And a wonderful NEW YEAR!
Meant to just say I hope everyone had a wonderful Christmas ( I did when family and friends gathered here and were able to get home BEFORE the snow appeared!
Can hardly believe the temperture is supposed to be 54 this weekend !
LOVE AND GOD BLESS YOU EVERYONE anna
-
My memory of the 1930s is that a dollar would buy ten trees and if you waited till Christmas eve late the lots would be stripped bare by the guy selling the trees as he would throw them at the kids hanging around just waiting for a free tree.
Glad you had a good family Christmas Anna - we are still snowed in here at my daughter's and it looks like it will be a trick to get out of here tomorrow however, by Wednesday we are expecting it to warm up enough to allow us to drive out onto the paved road.
We have another house full again tonight as the older grandson was towed out late this afternoon and drove to Hendersonville to meet some of his friends who all came back here and they cannot get out so 5 guys and one girl are camping out downstairs.
The weather played a trick on us this year so that many a holiday plan was affected - good for you that your Christmas was on schedule and I bet Babi your Christmas was maybe wet but you were able to go forward.
Snow Fall
~ Brady McCrary
Snow snow wonderful snow. Snowman, snow forts, snow igloos, snow mobiles, snow boarding. All my favorite in the snow, all right, and all white. I hope it snows all night.
-
Christmas Eve and Christmas were both jut fine. I got to spend Christmas Eve with a sister-in-law that I haven't seen for a couple of years. Went a bit early so we could have time to visit.
All my nieces, nephews and their kids were there. Met 5-yr. old Tyler, whom I had not seen since
he was a baby, and immediately fell in love. A smart, curly-headed little dynamo. Every one was
doing well, and it was such a pleasure.
Christmas morning was just me and my daughters, with a traditional Christmas dinner, movie
and games.
-
I recall not long ago, I think it was Gum who added "My Country" to these hallowed halls of verse. Dorothea McKellar was a woman who knew and loved the extremes of our beautiful country, Australia.
I love a sunburnt country,
A land of sweeping plains,
Of ragged mountain ranges,
Of droughts and flooding rains.
I love her far horizons,
I love her jewel-sea,
Her beauty and her terror -
The wide brown land for me!
"Of droughts and flooding rains" has particular relevance just now. Queensland, my state, is vast and varied in its geography. The North west has been having record floods. People are being evacuated from their homes, knowing that when they return they will return to heartbreak and destruction. Deadly snakes are seeking shelter, and the occasional crocodile swims by, perhaps looking for her eggs. The people - well they have lost everything. One town, called Theodore, has been completely evacuated. An unusual event. A city, Bundaberg, has been cut in two by a swollen river; the old-timers say the flood is the worst they have seen for at least 45 years. Even the children are concerned, and cease their play, they can see the pain and anxiety in their parents' eyes.
I know you are a long way away and have experienced many natural and unnatural events in your own lives. But, please spare those here a thought, or if so inclined, a prayer. McKellar's poem IS Australia.
-
Of course, ROSHANA. Consider it done. We have had so many people
lose their homes due to hurricanes over here. We can understand the
loss and the needs.
-
roshanarose the flood was on the news here last night with a camera panning the region - when the said Queensland it did not hit till they said close to the coast then I wondered and worried about you - it sounds like though you are OK for now and it is hitting hard further north than where your house is located.
And yes, I too will remember them in my prayers - it is devastating to have all you own destroyed by any disaster - it is like loosing a part of your identity - they will have a long climb back.
-
Roshanarose - glad to see you posting here and presumably not in the flooded area. Like others I have been worried about you and whether you are in the path of the water but if my memory still works I think you are in Brisbane - yes?
The flood is truly immense - the area under water is at least as large as all of France and Germany combined - and in some parts the water is up to the eaves of the houses. It's a horrible thing to be in a flood. I was in Wagga Wagga in 1951 or 52? when the Murrumbidgee River broke its banks for the worst flood then in living memory - the 1956 flood there was even worse. Heartbreaking for my parents.
Do take care Roshanarose - I worry also about Octavia who hasn't been on SL for some time but who lives in Rockhampton which is in the flooded zone.
The only good thing I can think of about the flooding is that the rivers and dams are well and truly filled and the long long drought is truly at an end. It also ensures the health of the land once again - hopefully much of it can now recover from the ravages of drought and with that so will the people.
-
Couldn't resist posting this one - it's rather long but in the light of the current flooding in Queensland I think it's justified.
SAID HANRAHAN by John O'Brien
"We'll all be rooned," said Hanrahan,
In accents most forlorn,
Outside the church, ere Mass began,
One frosty Sunday morn.
The congregation stood about,
Coat-collars to the ears,
And talked of stock, and crops, and drought,
As it had done for years.
"It's looking crook," said Daniel Croke;
"Bedad, it's cruke, me lad,
For never since the banks went broke
Has seasons been so bad."
"It's dry, all right," said young O'Neil,
With which astute remark
He squatted down upon his heel
And chewed a piece of bark.
And so around the chorus ran
"It's keepin' dry, no doubt."
"We'll all be rooned," said Hanrahan,
"Before the year is out."
"The crops are done; ye'll have your work
To save one bag of grain;
From here way out to Back-o'-Bourke
They're singin' out for rain.
"They're singin' out for rain," he said,
"And all the tanks are dry."
The congregation scratched its head,
And gazed around the sky.
"There won't be grass, in any case,
Enough to feed an ass;
There's not a blade on Casey's place
As I came down to Mass."
"If rain don't come this month," said Dan,
And cleared his throat to speak -
"We'll all be rooned," said Hanrahan,
"If rain don't come this week."
A heavy silence seemed to steal
On all at this remark;
And each man squatted on his heel,
And chewed a piece of bark.
"We want an inch of rain, we do,"
O'Neil observed at last;
But Croke "maintained" we wanted two
To put the danger past.
"If we don't get three inches, man,
Or four to break this drought,
We'll all be rooned," said Hanrahan,
"Before the year is out."
In God's good time down came the rain;
And all the afternoon
On iron roof and window-pane
It drummed a homely tune.
And through the night it pattered still,
And lightsome, gladsome elves
On dripping spout and window-sill
Kept talking to themselves.
It pelted, pelted all day long,
A-singing at its work,
Till every heart took up the song
Way out to Back-o'-Bourke.
And every creek a banker ran,
And dams filled overtop;
"We'll all be rooned," said Hanrahan,
"If this rain doesn't stop."
And stop it did, in God's good time;
And spring came in to fold
A mantle o'er the hills sublime
Of green and pink and gold.
And days went by on dancing feet,
With harvest-hopes immense,
And laughing eyes beheld the wheat
Nid-nodding o'er the fence.
And, oh, the smiles on every face,
As happy lad and lass
Through grass knee-deep on Casey's place
Went riding down to Mass.
While round the church in clothes genteel
Discoursed the men of mark,
And each man squatted on his heel,
And chewed his piece of bark.
"There'll be bush-fires for sure, me man,
There will, without a doubt;
We'll all be rooned," said Hanrahan,
"Before the year is out."
From - Around the Boree Log and Other Verses, 1921
John O'Brien was the pseudonym of Rev Patrick Hartigan. Said Hanrahan is legendary.
-
Whoops just saw your contribution - yes, a good one Gumtree especially considering the flooding.
New Year: A Dialogue
~ Ella Wheeler Wilcox (1909)
MORTAL:
“The night is cold, the hour is late, the world is bleak and drear;
Who is it knocking at my door?”
THE NEW YEAR:
“I am Good Cheer.”
MORTAL:
“Your voice is strange; I know you not; in shadows dark I grope.
What seek you here?”
THE NEW YEAR:
“Friend, let me in; my name is Hope.”
MORTAL:
“And mine is Failure; you but mock the life you seek to bless. Pass on.”
THE NEW YEAR:
“Nay, open wide the door; I am Success.”
MORTAL:
“But I am ill and spent with pain; too late has come your wealth. I cannot use it.”
THE NEW YEAR:
“Listen, friend; I am Good Health.”
MORTAL:
“Now, wide I fling my door. Come in, and your fair statements prove.”
THE NEW YEAR:
“But you must open, too, your heart, for I am Love.”
-
Ring Out, Wild Bells
From In Memoriam A.H.H.
~ by Alfred, Lord Tennyson (1849)
Ring out, wild bells, to the wild sky,
The flying cloud, the frosty light;
The year is dying in the night;
Ring out, wild bells, and let him die.
Ring out the old, ring in the new,
Ring, happy bells, across the snow:
The year is going, let him go;
Ring out the false, ring in the true.
Ring out the grief that saps the mind,
For those that here we see no more,
Ring out the feud of rich and poor,
Ring in redress to all mankind.
Ring out a slowly dying cause,
And ancient forms of party strife;
Ring in the nobler modes of life,
With sweeter manners, purer laws.
Ring out the want, the care the sin,
The faithless coldness of the times;
Ring out, ring out my mournful rhymes,
But ring the fuller minstrel in.
Ring out false pride in place and blood,
The civic slander and the spite;
Ring in the love of truth and right,
Ring in the common love of good.
Ring out old shapes of foul disease,
Ring out the narrowing lust of gold;
Ring out the thousand wars of old,
Ring in the thousand years of peace.
Ring in the valiant man and free,
The larger heart, the kindlier hand;
Ring out the darkenss of the land,
Ring in the Christ that is to be.
-
Emily Dickinson
One Year ago — jots what?
God — spell the word! I — can’t —
Was’t Grace? Not that —
Was’t Glory? That — will do —
Spell slower — Glory —
Such Anniversary shall be —
Sometimes — not often — in Eternity —
When farther Parted, than the Common Woe —
Look — feed upon each other’s faces — so —
In doubtful meal, if it be possible
Their Banquet’s true —
I tasted — careless — then —
I did not know the Wine
Came once a World — Did you?
Oh, had you told me so —
This Thirst would blister — easier — now —
You said it hurt you — most —
Mine — was an Acorn’s Breast —
And could not know how fondness grew
In Shaggier Vest —
Perhaps — I couldn’t —
But, had you looked in —
A Giant — eye to eye with you, had been —
No Acorn — then —
So — Twelve months ago —
We breathed —
Then dropped the Air —
Which bore it best?
Was this — the patientest —
Because it was a Child, you know —
And could not value — Air?
If to be “Elder” — mean most pain —
I’m old enough, today, I’m certain — then —
As old as thee — how soon?
One — Birthday more — or Ten?
Let me — choose!
Ah, Sir, None!
-
Thank you for your concern about me, but I am well out of the danger zone. I live in Brisbane on a slope. I am afraid to say that Rockhampton has had considerable flooding - I hope your friend Octavia is OK. Also thanks for your kind thoughts and prayers to those who are suffering. I remember "We'll all be rooned, said Hanrahan". I heard it in the dim dark past and my parents had a copy of "Around the Boree Log". Thanks for the memory, Gum.
-
I know this is a silly remark to make at such a time, but I have always
loved to read such names as 'Murrumbidgee River'. I always want to know more about such places, how they got their names and what they mean.
I love the poem, GUM. Poor Hanrahan. Niver a day's joy could he find
in anything.
-
I know it's off topic but it is New Year's Eve - for another few minutes ...
Babi - I love the odd names we have for places in Australia - they're generally full of meaning and are usually of aboriginal origin eg Murrumbidgee simply means 'big water' in the language of the Waradjuri tribe who have always lived in the area.
The Murrumbidgee is a major river and drains all of the Aust Capital Territory and southern New South Wales' Riverina districts - it's about 600 miles long and joins the confluence of the Murray River so it's really part of the Murray Darling Basin which is the major river system in the country. The upper reaches are nothing to what they were before the Snowy Hydro was built which takes the snow melt as well as several major dams.
The river systems have been under enormous stress due to years and years of drought - the flood will help rejuvenate the river and the land as well.
Murrumbidgee is a big river and flows very strongly and in parts is quite wide ... not to brag or anything but I have swum across it and back many times -but must say I was always glad to reach one shore or the other before being swept away by the current or being caught in a snag. It was something of a dare for young players....
It's now 12.01am on the 1st January 2011 and I can hear the fireworks....
Happy New Year to all.
-
Back home this afternoon - Picked up my car - repaired while I was visiting my daughter - shopped for groceries, visited my neighbor and paid their 14 year old son who kept things going in my house including watering plants and bringing in mail and packages while I was gone - showered, and slept till now - just in time to wish everyone a Happy New Year.
Of course we need Robbie Burns to let out the old and bring in the new... hope all of you have a prosperous year in 2011.
Auld Lang Syne
~ New year poem by Robert Burns
Should auld acquaintance be forgot,
And never brought to mind?
Should auld acquaintance be forgot,
And auld lang syne?
For auld lang syne, my dear,
For auld lang syne,
We'll tak a cup o' kindness yet,
For auld lang syne.
And surely ye'll be your pint-stowp,
And surely I'll be mine!
And we'll tak a cup o' kindness yet,
For auld lang syne.
For auld lang syne, my dear,
For auld lang syne,
We'll tak a cup o' kindness yet,
For auld lang syne.
We twa hae run about the braes,
And pu'd the gowans fine;
But we've wandered mony a weary fit
Sin' auld lang syne.
For auld lang syne, my dear,
For auld lang syne,
We'll tak a cup o' kindness yet,
For auld lang syne.
We twa hae paidled i' the burn,
Frae morning sun till dine;
But seas between us braid hae roared
Sin' auld lang syne.
For auld lang syne, my dear,
For auld lang syne,
We'll tak a cup o' kindness yet,
For auld lang syne.
And there's a hand, my trusty fiere,
And gie's a hand o' thine!
And we'll tak a right guid-willie waught
For auld lang syne.
For auld lang syne, my dear,
For auld lang syne,
We'll tak a cup o' kindness yet,
For auld lang syne.
-
Babi - this is pretty silly too, but I thoughtthatyou might like it.
"Thesong"I've Been Everywhere" was written by Geoff Mack in 1959 and made popular by the singer Lucky Starr in 1962. It listed Australian towns. It was later adapted for North American (primarily United States) place names and by John Hore (later known as John Grenell) with New Zealand place names (1966). The song was a number 1 hit in Country Music in November 1962 in the United States for the recording artist Hank Snow. The song was also recorded by Lynn Anderson (USA 1970); Asleep At The Wheel (USA 1973); Johnny Cash (USA 1996); the Countdown Singers; Chip Dockery; Ted Egan; the Farrelly Brothers; from the television series The Aunty Jack Show (Australia 1974 (parody)); John Grenell (NZ 1966); Mike Ford (Canada, 2005); Rolf Harris (UK 1963); Clifton Jansky; Willie Nelson; and The Statler Brothers. Original singer Lucky Starr released an EP called "Lucky's Been Everywhere," which contained 4 different versions: Great Britain, U.S.A., New Zealand, and Australia (Festival Records FX-10.485 (Australia)).
"I've Been Everywhere" the Australian version :
Well, I was humpin' my bluey on the dusty Oodnadatta road,
When along came a semi with a high and canvas-covered load.
(Spoken) "If you’re goin’ to Oodnadatta, mate, um, with me you can ride."
So I climbed in the cabin and I settled down inside.
He asked me if I’d seen a road with so much dust and sand, I said
"Listen, mate, I’ve travelled ev’ry road in this here land."
Chorus:
Cos “I’ve been everywhere, man,
I’ve been everywhere, man.
‘Cross the deserts bare, man;
I’ve breathed the mountain air, man.
Of travel I’ve had my share, man.
I’ve been ev’rywhere.
Been to:
Tullamore, Seymour, Lismore, Mooloolaba, Nambour, Maroochydore, Kilmore, Murwillumbah, Birdsville, Emmaville, Wallaville, Cunnamulla, Condamine, Strathpine, Proserpine, Ulladulla, Darwin, Gin Gin, Deniliquin, Muckadilla, Wallumbilla, Boggabilla, Kumbarilla I’m a killer.
Chorus
(Spoken) "Yeah but listen here, mate, have you been to…"
I’ve been to Moree, Taree, Jerilderie, Bambaroo, Toowoomba, Gunnedah, Caringbah, Woolloomooloo, Dalveen, Tamborine, Engadine, Jindabyne, Lithgow, Casino, Brigalow and Narromine, Megalong, Wyong, Tuggerawong, Wanganella, Morella, Augathella, Brindabella I’m the feller.
Chorus
(Spoken) "Yeah, I know that, but have you been to.."
I’ve been to Wollongong, Geelong, Kurrajong, Mullumbimby, Mittagong, Molong, Grong Grong, Goondiwindi, Yarra Yarra, Bouindarra, Wallangarra, Turramurra, Boggabri, Gundagai, Narrabri, Tibooburra, Gulgong, Adelong, Billabong, Cabramatta, Parramatta, Wangaratta, Coolangatta, what’s it matter?
Chorus
(Spoken) "Yeah, look that’s fine, but how about…"
I’ve been to Ettalong, Dandenong, Woodenbong, Ballarat, Canberra, Milperra, Unanderra, Captains Flat, Cloncurry, River Murray, Kurri Kurri, Girraween, Terrigal, Fingal, Stockinbingal, Collaroy and Narrabeen, Bendigo, Dorrigo, Bangalow, Indooroopilly, Kirribilli, Yeerongpilly, Wollondilly, don’t be silly.
Chorus
I’ve been here, there, ev’rywhere, I’ve been ev’rywhere."
Most of the town names are Aboriginal.
Auld Lang Syne always makes me want to weep.
-
Yeah Roshanarose - but he aint been to Western Australia. :D :D
-
GUM, that is so much like our 'Rio Grande' on the Texas/Mexico border.
Rio Grande is Spanish for 'big river', of course.
I don't remember hearing a song listing towns, ROSE. Surprising, since
there were so many. It reminds me of Danny Kaye's challenging, and
funny, race to finish a song filled with the names of composers. You
know what a 'mouthful' some of those names can be. How did the singers possibly remember all those names?!!
I found this rather challenging poem...
LIFE I AM THE NEW YEAR
Life I am the new year.
I am an unspoiled page in your book of time.
I am your next chance at the art of living.
I am your opportunity to practice what you have learned about life during the last twelve months.
All that you sought and didn't find is hidden in me,
waiting for you to search it out with more determination.
All the good that you tried for and didn't achieve
is mine to grant when you have fewer conflicting desires.
All that you dreamed but didn't dare to do, all that you hoped but did not will,
all the faith that you claimed but did not have --
these slumber lightly, waiting to be awakened
by the touch of a strong purpose.
I am your opportunity
to renew your allegiance to Him who said, "behold, I make all things new."
I am the new year.
-- Author Unknown--------------------------------------------------------------------------------
-
Hank Snow - boy that is going back in time isn't it Rosemary - that song is fun - there is something that fills us up hearing the names of obscure towns we know
Babi what a find - I am sending the New Year poem out to all my family and a few friends - wonderful...
The Past The Present The New Year
~ Cynthia Martin
Yesterday's memories fondled the edges of my mind
as I sat in the presence of a new day and trying to
grasp what the coming year may bring.
Some of it will be my own choices I make.
I can't stop the silent dawn as it breaks way from
the darkness of night.
I know I will make some great memories this year.
However, inside me is this selfish fear, that
soon, I may lose someone close, someone dear.
Is this the time? Is this the year?
I remember the past list of things to do
now, it is someone else's newspaper.
The endless war in Irag,
We can't seem to get this monkey off our back.
We can sit and try to plan out our days,
Or we can start laughing and dancing in the sun's rays
-
It is always such a joy to come here and read the poems posted as well as the comments...I feel so alone since an illness is sapping my strength and spending time having varied tests done to see what is wrong.......I have no idea when I read some stories about Australia but I do know the names captured me and made me want to know more....I know Pennslyvania was settled by the Amish and some of thier town names were quite interesting ie Intercourse ...and towns that were named after Indian tribes and sayngs I used to be sad that I was an only girl but now I realize how varied my interests have been because I had no sister to share my room or my life with so I turned to literature and am so much richer for that....And I was fortunater to have 5 brothers who cared about me and a family that made me feel special and encouraged my education...
Of course we had 12 inched of snow here for Christmas and although the days are warm the nights have dropped and kept the ground cold so there are still patches of snow 3-4 inches thick in the shadows of trees and shrubs....I cam across a poem I wrote in Dec 96 ..My husband had passed away in the spring of 94 and winter was always sort of lonely and sad ''so I share with you
Musings in a gray day....
The sky a heavy blanket--
old and dark and grim
pushed against the earth--
suffocating the sun--
brought too soon ,dim
darkness to the land---
headlights pierced the early gloom---
darkness groped across the floor ---
'til with hand I reached,
switched on the lamp.
Warme beams bathed the room---
flowing over boxes abandoned there---
poking fingers of light
into the cornered night--
now backed against the ropes --
gave up without a fight>
A book, a tender fire, some wine
in a crystal goblet-
a snuggley spot and I am
off to sunny climes--
sandy shores---in my mind.
Leave the early darkness
far, far behind---
bask beneath a blue ,blue sky --
and dream of Spring!
anna alexander dec 96
A HAPPY AND BLESSED NEW YEAR TO ALL
love ...anna
-
I'm sorry to hear you are ill, ANNA. I'm sure they'll figure it out soon
and be able to tell you what to do. Meanwhile, turn on a light and send that
darkness back into the corners.
-
Here is a good January poem that sounds like the author is experiencing the gray day of your poem Anna only Kathleen sees it for a whole month...
In January
~ Kathleen M. Tenpas
The house becomes my skin,
I shrug from room to room
a chameleon slipping
one color aside for the next.
Losing track of where I started,
looking for lost notebooks
finding scraps of poems
leggy and straggling like seedlings
yearning for the sun,
I pause for a moment
to consider them
but move on, restless
as a caged cat, hungry
for wilderness and winter stars.
-
FairAnna - You are right, there is so much comfort to be found in the written word. I am looking at one of my bookcases and thinking of you. I can see Cavafy waiting to be translated; Henry VIII and his eight wives; a thick Harry Potter; a small Latin dictionary (to try and keep up with ginny); a whole shelf and a half devoted to Greek books; Vanity Fair's Hollywood; a book of Symbols; The Novels of Thomas Hardy; Surrealism and a particular favourite, "The Lost Treasures of Troy". It is similar to looking back on all the loves of my life, but the books stay with me, tangible and hopeful of being held again. If I were clever enough I could write a poem about them. I will do the next best thing and send you with love a poem from Cavafy. It's called ITHAKA.
Ithaca
As you set out for Ithaka
hope the voyage is a long one,
full of adventure, full of discovery.
Laistrygonians and Cyclops,
angry Poseidon—don’t be afraid of them:
you’ll never find things like that on your way
as long as you keep your thoughts raised high,
as long as a rare excitement
stirs your spirit and your body.
Laistrygonians and Cyclops,
wild Poseidon—you won’t encounter them
unless you bring them along inside your soul,
unless your soul sets them up in front of you.
Hope the voyage is a long one.
May there be many a summer morning when,
with what pleasure, what joy,
you come into harbors seen for the first time;
may you stop at Phoenician trading stations
to buy fine things,
mother of pearl and coral, amber and ebony,
sensual perfume of every kind—
as many sensual perfumes as you can;
and may you visit many Egyptian cities
to gather stores of knowledge from their scholars.
Keep Ithaka always in your mind.
Arriving there is what you are destined for.
But do not hurry the journey at all.
Better if it lasts for years,
so you are old by the time you reach the island,
wealthy with all you have gained on the way,
not expecting Ithaka to make you rich.
Ithaka gave you the marvelous journey.
Without her you would not have set out.
She has nothing left to give you now.
And if you find her poor, Ithaka won’t have fooled you.
Wise as you will have become, so full of experience,
you will have understood by then what these Ithakas mean.
Translated by Edmund Keeley/Philip Sherrard
(C.P. Cavafy, Collected Poems. Translated by Edmund Keeley and Philip Sherrard. Edited by George Savidis. Revised Edition. Princeton University Press, 1992)
-
Have you ever seen live coral in an aquarium. I wish I could remember which one had that display. It was so gorgeous, I could have sat for an hour just watching the shifting colors of the living corals. And amber is such a beautiful stone. Ah, I'm dreaming.
-
ah the romanticized journey of life - thanks roshanarose for bringing Cavafy to our Poetry -
Although this may be how folks in Queensland view the sea as if Poseidon was on a rampage however only lines of the poem I could not come to terms with are:
Laistrygonians and Cyclops,
wild Poseidon—you won’t encounter them
unless you bring them along inside your soul,
Sometimes bad things happen to good people as well as, the lines omit the concept of shock beyond your imagination therefore is so traumatic it can take years and years to move on - but then this poem was written before trauma was explored and books written like "Too Scared to Cry"
Interesting how the bazaars filled with silks and gems are the imagined pleasures on earth as some use the same riches to describe their heavenly kingdom. Is it "Jerusalem My Happy Home" that includes; 'twelve gates of pearl, houses of gold, jeweled pavement'?
Babi there is a wonderful Aquarium in Corpus Christi that has tanks of not only live coral but what fascinated me were the tanks of various kinds of Jelly fish. they really are beautiful to see but oh dear not to meet in the water are they. Thank goodness for meat tenderizer.
Here is short poem by Cavafy where he only sees the loveliness of the seaside...
The Morning Sea
~ C.P.Cavafy
Let me stop here. Let me, too, look at nature awhile.
The brilliant blue of the morning sea, of the cloudless sky,
the yellow shore; all lovely,
all bathed in light.
Let me stand here. And let me pretend I see all this
(I really did see it for a minute when I first stopped)
and not my usual day-dreams here too,
my memories, those images of sensual pleasure.
-
Oh and I love this one by Cavafy called 'Gray' - the poem is such a lovely metaphor describing aging.
Gray
~ C.P.Cavafy
While looking at a half-gray opal
I remembered two lovely gray eyes—
it must be twenty years ago I saw them...
........................................
We were lovers for a month.
Then he went away to work, I think in Smyrna,
and we never met again.
Those gray eyes will have lost their beauty—if he’s still alive;
that lovely face will have spoiled.
Memory, keep them the way they were.
And, memory, whatever of that love you can bring back,
whatever you can, bring back tonight.
-
Here is another where the imagery is so much as we expect from the Middle East and the Mediterranean area of the world
For The Shop
~ C.P.Cavafy
He wrapped them up carefully, neatly,
in expensive green silk.
Roses of rubies, lilies of pearl
violets of amethyst: beautiful according to his taste,
to his desire, his vision—not as he saw them in nature
or studied them. He’ll leave them in the safe,
examples of his bold, his skillful work.
Whenever a customer comes into the shop,
he brings out other things to sell—first class ornaments:
bracelets, chains, necklaces, rings.
-
Ah always to remember to be content with...
The First Step
~ C.P.Cavafy
The young poet Evmenis
complained one day to Theocritos:
“I have been writing for two years now
and I have composed just one idyll.
It’s my only completed work.
I see, sadly, that the ladder of Poetry
is tall, extremely tall;
and from this first step I now stand on
I will never climb any higher.”
Theocritos replied: “Words like that
are improper, blasphemous.
Just to be on the first step
should make you happy and proud.
To have come this far is no small achievement:
what you have done is a glorious thing.
Even this first step
is a long way above the ordinary world.
To stand on this step
you must be in your own right
a member of the city of ideas.
And it is a hard, unusual thing
to be enrolled as a citizen of that city.
Its councils are full of Legislators
no charlatan can fool.
To have come this far is no small achievement:
what you have done already is a glorious thing.”
-
(http://seniorlearn.org/bookclubs/poetry/wintermyths430x274.jpg) A Winter Myth Join Us! It's the Season for Winter Poetry- Famous Poets and Poems about Winter (http://famouspoetsandpoems.com/thematic_poems/winter_poems.html)
- Link to: Winter Poems (http://poetry.about.com/od/ourpoemcollections/a/winterpoems.htm)
Discussion Leaders: Barb (augere@ix.netcom.com) & fairanna (fairanna@verizon.net) |
The Miracle
~ Barbara Winkler
Every gardener knows
that under the cloak of winter
lies a miracle ...
A seed waiting to sprout,
A bulb opening to the light,
A bud straining to unfurl.
And the anticipation
Nurtures our dream.
|
-
What wonderful poems to share ...ah yes books were and still are my friends....what lonely nights and days I would have had except for books They took me to far places , long before I ever saw them...so when I was there if was like I was visiting a friend..and thankfully enjoyed them twice as much........One of the books I purchased this winter was Rainwater by Sandra Brown....I will not tell you one word from it but I have read it 3 times this winter..and each time I have wept...Yes it is sad but also a wonderful reminder of my husband ...knowing the man in the story could have been him.
and poetry aways took me somewhere ,to the past, to the future, to gardens when mine were bleak from cold or too much heat..[joyful, sad , singing , there is no emotion that you cant find in poetry....in brings you snowflakes in summer and bees and flowers in the dark days of winter... writing is one of the best gifts God gave us....God bless and pray this New Year will be one of the best....ever, anna
-
Interesting comments. About Poseidon - I know that he can be an implacable foe when braving the sea and he certainly gave Odysseus a terrible journey back to Ithaca. I wonder if he is also the God of Floods? The extent of the floods in north-west Queensland is, simply, unimaginable. Cavafy would be able to imagine the unimaginable in his verse. For me, and others here, the water that brings life, also brings destruction and heartbreak. The farmers have been waiting many moons for rain to come as the land has been drought-stricken. Ironic that their crops have been ruined by the water they prayed for. Yes. Barbara, Queensland does know about the wrath of gods.
What I have noticed with Cavafy is that he "sticks to his story", so to speak. He writes with the economy of words that I appreciate. The darkest poem of his, imho, is "The City". Η Πόλη. This is not a pretty poem. To me the idea of not being able to escape oneself is dark indeed.
THE CITY
You said: “I’ll go to another country, go to another shore,
find another city better than this one.
Whatever I try to do is fated to turn out wrong
and my heart lies buried as though it were something dead.
How long can I let my mind moulder in this place?
Wherever I turn, wherever I happen to look,
I see the black ruins of my life, here,
where I’ve spent so many years, wasted them, destroyed them totally.”
You won’t find a new country, won’t find another shore.
This city will always pursue you. You will walk
the same streets, grow old in the same neighborhoods,
will turn gray in these same houses.
You will always end up in this city. Don’t hope for things elsewhere:
there is no ship for you, there is no road.
As you’ve wasted your life here, in this small corner,
you’ve destroyed it everywhere else in the world.
Cavafy borrows from "The Classical Tradition". When I read this poem, I always think it is about Alkibiades.
-
You're so right, BARB. It seems like all cultures envision their 'heaven' as being what they value most. I don't think it speaks particularly well of us that the West thinks 'gold' and 'pearls'. The desert peoples ideal of a heaven of fountains and gardens sounds better to me.
"For the Shop" makes me a little sad. I hate to think of beautiful things being locked away where no one can enjoy their beauty.
"..there is no emotion that you cant find in poetry.."
Right there, ANNA, I think you have the reason poetry has so much to offer us.
-
beautiful according to his taste,
to his desire, his vision—
Babi: Isn't the poet saying that it's the craftman's taste and vision and only his - he knows the customers won't appreciate them which is why he brings out more commonplace things for them. He's also reiterating that beauty lies in the eye of the beholder - that one man's meat is another man's poison. Perhaps too there is an implied element of 'art for art's sake'
-
Gumtree and Babi, there are so many ways to imagine a poem aren't there - yes, it could be the act of protecting something precious that he does not believe his clients would understand the intricacies as only a craftsman can - there could also be this concept of personal ownership as many who purchase the paintings of great masters for their own enjoyment rather than to placing them in an art Gallery or Museum for the enjoyment by many - or another, since it is a Shop he may feel he needs to sell whatever he makes available to the viewing and buying public and he does not want to sell this specially crafted work of art - and still another. is it simply his gift to his shop much as store owners will frame the first paper money they bring in when they first opened the front doors to their establishment. The difference - he trades in jewels that have far more value than a tailored suit or a wax candle.
It could also be our way of looking at jewels - there was a receptionest in one of the offices I associated with back in the mid 90s who was Jewish and when there was much hew haw in the press of a small plane crash in which one of the Jewish passangers had a pocket full of diamonds suggesting they were smugglers she tut tut-ed all over the office saying, doesn't anyone know anything - are they all dumber than boards - that many Jewish men buy and sell jewels - and many Jewish men carry around a pocket full of jewels because it is the safest place to keep them so as not to alert the public.
And so, what we think is so valuable and what we would never think is caught among the pennies, ticket stubs and crumbs in pants pockets could be a folded paper holding thousands of dollars worth of jewels. Our jeweler in the poem could be focused only on his achieved craftsmenship and the colored depths of the stones without seeing the dollar value of his raw material as more than the eggs and butter of his creation.
Change - but is it - according to what we value - however, do y'all remember this one from your childhood or versing it aloud to your children...
Hiding
~ by Dorothy Keeley Aldis
I'm hiding, I'm hiding
And no one knows where;
For all they can see is my
Toes and my hair
And I just heard my father
Say to my mother -
"But, darling, he must be
Somewhere or other;
Have you looked in the inkwell?"
And Mother said, "Where?"
"In the INKWEL?"said Father. But
I was not there.
Then "Wait!" cried my mother —
"I think that I see
Him under the carpet." But
It was not me.
"Inside the mirror's
A pretty good place."
Said Father and looked, but saw
Only his face.
"We've hunted," sighed Mother,
"As hard as we could
And I am so afraid that we've
Lost him for good."
Then I laughed out aloud
And I wiggled my toes
And Father said —"Look, dear,
I wonder if those
Toes could be Benny's?
There are ten of them, see?"
And they WERE so surprised to find
Out it was me!
-
I can never really describe Cavafy's work adequately. I studied him for four years in Modern Greek. It was only three years after I had finished my studies that I found him in translation.
I appreciate and agree with what W. H. Auden wrote about Cavafy in his introduction to The Complete Poems of Cavafy - translated by Rae Dalven.
viii Introduction
"...With the free relaxed iambic verse he generally uses, we are already familiar. The most original aspect of his style, the mixture, both in his vocabulary and his syntax, of demotic and purist Greek, is untranslatable. In English there is nothing comparable to the rivalry between demotic and purist, a rivalry that has excited high passions, both literary and political. We have only Standard English on the one side and regional dialects on the other, and it is impossible for a translator to reproduce this stylistic effect or for an English poet to profit from it. "
Note : Purist Greek may be unfamiliar. Do a search for Katharevousa and learn about it, for Purist and Katharevousa are the same. When one learns Modern Greek in a formal setting such as a University, one is expected to become familiar with all forms of Greek from Attic Greek to Koine Greek to Byzantine to Katharevousa to Demotic. When one studies Modern Greek poetry one must be familiar with all these variations. At the risk of sounding snobbish, Cavafy is best appreciated in Demotic, but with a good working knowledge of the other languages (and cultures ) mentioned above.
Some Seferis next?
-
Our jeweler in the poem could be focused only on his achieved craftsmenship and the colored depths of the stones without seeing the dollar value of his raw material as more than the eggs and butter of his creation.
Barb - you hit it on the head - for the jeweller the pieces he treasures are priceless to him.
-
You may be right, GUM. I would hope so.
BARB, you remind me of a time when my older daughter was still in her
teens, working for a retail jewelry chain. They had another store not far
away, within walking distance, actually. Sometimes, when they wanted to
transfer jewels from one store to the other, they would send Sally over
there, strolling along with a small fortune in jewels in her pocket. No
one would even think of such a possibility and it was the safest way to do
it.
I found this poem from Texas that reminds me of some of the Aussie
poets. I like it.
Heart
by Catherine Bowman
Old fang-in-the-boot trick. Five-chambered
asp. Pit organ and puff adder. Can live
in any medium save ice. Charmed by the flute
or the first thunderstorm in spring, drowsy
heart stirs from the cistern, the hibernaculum,
the wintering den of stars. Smells like the cucumber
served chilled on chipped Blue Willow. Her garden
of clings, sugars, snaps, and strings. Her creamy breasts
we called pillows and her bird legs and fat fingers
covered with diamonds from the mines in Africa.
The smell of cucumber.... Her mystery roses....
Heading out Bandera to picnic and pick corn,
the light so expert that for miles
you can tell a turkey vulture
from a hawk by the quiver in the wing.
Born on April Fools’, died on Ground Hog’s,
he pulls over not to piss but to blow away
any diamondback unlucky enough to be
on the road between San Antonio and Cotulla.
Squinting from the back of the pickup
into chrome and sun and shotgun confection,
my five boy cousins who love me more
than all of Texas and drink my spit
from a bottle of Big Red on a regular basis
know what the bejeweled and the gun-loading
have long since forgotten. And that is:
Snakes don’t die. They just play dead. The heart
exposed to so many scrapes, bruises, burns,
and bites sheds its skin, sprouts wings and fl ies,
becomes the two-for-one sparkler on
the Fourth of July, becomes what’s slung between
azure and cornfield: the horizon.
-
Babi - I like it too! As a result of the flood many snakes are seeking refuge in dry (very few) spots in people's houses, in particular their rooves. Evidently these snakes are very cross about losing their homes. One snake, taking objection to a bicycle, decided to attack its rubber tires. We can only be thankful for, in this case, its redirected anger. The snake was described as either an Eastern Brown snake or a taipan. Both of which are deadly.
I was rather intrigued by Old fang-in-the-boot trick. Five-chambered
asp. Pit organ and puff adder I have never heard of a five-chambered asp or a pit organ.
-
OK mystery solved - most of the sites that include Catherine's poem have probably copied from each other and did not include the last two stanzas - I think those additions help us to see that a 5 chambered asp. is a metaphor for the heart although only bees have a heart with 5 chambers - and the pit organ is again another heart metaphor since there are pit vipers that are very poisonous they could be called pit organs but we seldom think of a cold blooded snake like a pit viper labeled as a pit organ.
Any how the poem is the first in her book which is on Amazon
The missing lines...
If you don't believe it
place your right hand on it
for the pledge
like you've taught.
Feel the hearing so deep. Limbless
and near limbless. Prefers the ambush
to the hunt. Sets the trap, picks a spot,
begins the vigil. Resorts at times to bluff
and temper. Swallows victims whole.
Tastes like chicken, Tastes like
hope, memory, forgiveness.
Babi this is a great poem - Catherine Bowman is, would you believe, from New York City!!??!! However unusual, someone from back east captured southwest Texas perfectly using wonderful words that make you want to linger over each phrase. Thanks for finding it for us.
Here is the Amazon link to her book of poems, Notarikon, with a short bio on the back cover. Notarikon (http://www.amazon.com/Notarikon-Catherine-Bowman/dp/188480070X/ref=sr_1_1?ie=UTF8&qid=1294425303&sr=8-1#reader_188480070X)
roshanarose it is easy to read your post and realize just how much you love the Greek language including, it sounds like everything Greek - are there regular excursions to Greece from Australia - and how did you get turned onto Greek - something had to kick you off or you would not have studied the language while in school?
I am imagining you could introduce us to several Greek poets whose work is translated but we would not find since we are not that familiar with the poets from Greece or for that matter from many locations along the Mediterranean. Hope you take up the task for us and broaden our working basket of poems.
-
"roshanarose it is easy to read your post and realize just how much you love the Greek language including, it sounds like everything Greek - are there regular excursions to Greece from Australia - and how did you get turned onto Greek - something had to kick you off or you would not have studied the language while in school?
I am imagining you could introduce us to several Greek poets whose work is translated but we would not find since we are not that familiar with the poets from Greece or for that matter from many locations along the Mediterranean. Hope you take up the task for us and broaden our working basket of poems."
Barb - It is unlikely that I will be able to visit my beloved Greece again. I think that is probably why I talk about it all the time, as I miss it so much. Although the Australian dollar has just reached parity with the US dollar, the same cannot be said regarding the Euro. The cost of the type of trip I would love to take to Greece costs a lot. More than I have on a single pension, and unless I win Lotto, more than I ever will have. This is the reality.
Last time I visited in 2004 I took the same tour as I had in 1982, but added Thessaloniki, Pella and Vergina. The home of Alexander. The trip is entitled "An Archaeological Tour of Greece" and visits all the famous sites. Last time I went I also visited many islands I had not visited during my first trip. So IF (big IF) I travelled to Greece again I would do the archaeological tour again; revisit my favourite islands and add some new ones. The mainland has a lot to offer, but it would take me well over a year to go to the places I have to see. I have Patrick Leigh Fermor's "Roumeli : Travels in Northern Greece" and would use that as one of my guides for the mainland. He also wrote about the Mani, in the Southern Pelopponese, another must see for me. When I first went to Greece in 1982 my parents were still alive, and did not expect to see me return :-) as I prefer to travel solo. They gave me Lawrence Durrell's "The Greek Islands", which I still have. A feast for the greed of the true Hellenophile.
What interested me? Gustav Schwab's "Gods and Heroes". I read it when I was young, and my heart and head belonged to Greece from then on and I swore that I would one day visit the places I read about in Schwab.
Due to a divorce settlement I was able to take off in 1982. When I returned I was a changed woman. I gave up work and became a full-time student at the University of New England in Armidale, New South Wales. It is one of the very few unis in Australia that offers Modern Greek, so I was lucky that it was in my hometown. My goal : to learn Modern Greek and the Classics. I did this for four years and did post grad Masters in Modern Greek as well. To say Greek is my passion is something of an understatement. I suffer constantly from η ξενιτία. A word that roughly translates in English to a combination of longing and exile.
Thank you for your kind offer of broadening your knowledge of Greek poets. It occurred to me that because of the years of intensively studying the Greek language and poetry I had somehow neglected Western poets. I will always remember that you posted some beautiful pre-Raphaelite pix when I posted La Belle Dame san Merci. I am passionate about Keats as well. Seferis is my second favourite Greek poet. I have posted one of his poems on here called "Denial". It is a poem that many Greeks adore.
The snake information you provided was interesting. I never knew that bees had hearts, let alone five chambered ones. Unfortunately, I dreamed about snakes and crocodiles last night. I was attacked by some kind of nasty centipede. I must look up Jung. Thinking about floods too. It is such a tragedy what is happening in our North..
-
I'm so glad you found the rest of the poem, BARB. I didn't realize any was missing. The line "place your right hand on it for the pledge" does let us know she is referring to the heart. But where did a New Yorker learn so much about Texas? Surely she must have spent some summers there growing up.
Isn't it a sad aggravation, ROSE, when there are so many lovely places
we would love to see and so many solid reasons why we can't?
I wouldn't worry about the dream. What you had been reading/hearing
about the emergence of deadly snakes out of the flood was quite enough
to cause that dream. I was your subconscious clearing out the scary
stuff that had buried itself there.
-
Babi - Thanks for your words. I don't remember my dreams last night :)
-
Unfortunately, I can no longer remember my dreams as I once did.
Too many interruptions, I suspect. Back when I could retain and note
down those that made an impression, I found it very helpful. The
subconscious stores away so much that the conscious mind has missed.
-
Dreams
~ by Langston Hughes
Hold fast to dreams
For if dreams die
Life is a broken-winged bird
That cannot fly.
Hold fast to dreams
For when dreams go
Life is a barren field
Frozen with snow.
Dawn Dreams
~ by Rachel Hadas
Dreams draw near at dawn and then recede
even if you beckon them.
They loom like demons
you tug by the tail to examine from up close
and then let fly away.
Their colors at once brighter and less bright
than you remembered, they
hover and insinuate all day
at the corner of your eye.
-
That tendency of dreams to recede is why I used to keep a pad and pen/pencil by my bed. It
was necessary to jot down what details I remembered immediately, before it all began to fade
away. Now, I usually don't get enough unbroken sleep to accommodate the dream cycle and
I have lost the habit of remembering what I do dream. Once upon a time I had trained myself
to recall at least the gist of all three of the usual cycle of dreaming. Pity I lost it; it was alway
helpful.
-
this is not a poem as such but it is just too good not to share - it is an excerpt from the new book by, Simple Truths (http://www.powerofkindnessmovie.com/?cm_mmc=CheetahMail-_-TH-_-01.07.11-_-TPOKmov&utm_source=CheetahMail&utm_medium=01.07.11&utm_campaign=TPOKmov)
-
Barb - How lovely. You have, not for the first time, made my day happier.
-
Roshanarose - good to see you posting today - I thought you may have drowned in the latest downpour in Brisbane. They're reporting 6 inches in 3 hours - Stay safe.
-
Gumtree - Thanks for thinking of us. Things are quite grim here. The bill for damage is expected to be in excess of $11 billion. My daughter's home is in danger as she lives right on the river. Please spare a thought or prayer for her. We won't know what the damage is until Thursday or Friday. This flood has been compared to the 1974 Cyclone Tracy aftermath. We just have to wait and see. I am safe.
-
Roshanarose - I've been watching the ABC coverage of the flooding all evening. It looks like it's not getting any better - as if things aren't bad enough you've got to have a king tide as well! Wonder how Brisbane would be faring without the Wivenhoe Dam - this will be a big test for it. They're saying it's 190% full despite the overflow - that's a lot of water. Good to see salt of the earth Aussies responding to the crisis and helping each other. Anna Bligh seems to be conducting herself well in the crisis - not playing politics but apparently getting on with the job.
Do stay on high ground and keep safe. Hope your daughter's house is OK - you and she will be in my thoughts and prayers until this is over.
-
We are seeing harrowing pictures of the recent evacuation in Brisbane - Am I wrong Roshanarose I was under the impression you lived quite south of Brisbane by at least 50 to 70 miles in a small town not too far from the Coast - but then maybe the entire area is affected.
Gumtree is there any word as to the cause of the flooding - where is all this water coming from? I hadn't heard of a storm and I cannot see landscape evidence of snow covered mountains that experienced an unusual melt...seems to me the flooding in Pakistan was because of unusually persistent rains. Has that part of the world north and south received more than their average rainfall?
Flood
~ James Joyce
Goldbrown upon the sated flood
The rockvine clusters lift and sway;
Vast wings above the lambent waters brood
Of sullen day.
A waste of waters ruthlessly
Sways and uplifts its weedy mane
Where brooding day stares down upon the sea
In dull disdain.
Uplift and sway, O golden vine,
Your clustered fruits to love's full flood,
Lambent and vast and ruthless as is thine
Incertitude!
-
The Flood
~ by Robert Frost
Blood has been harder to dam back than water.
Just when we think we have it impounded safe
Behind new barrier walls (and let it chafe!),
It breaks away in some new kind of slaughter.
We choose to say it is let loose by the devil;
But power of blood itself releases blood.
It goes by might of being such a flood
Held high at so unnatural a level.
It will have outlet, brave and not so brave.
weapons of war and implements of peace
Are but the points at which it finds release.
And now it is once more the tidal wave
That when it has swept by leaves summits stained.
Oh, blood will out. It cannot be contained.
-
Gumtree - I wouldn't have thought that it could get worse but it has. Seeing the pix on the news is heart wrenching. The one I find most disturbing is the concrete slab which is all that is left of a big Queenslander. Neighbours revealed that they had not seen the occupants, and don't know what had happened to them. That big house had literally been "washed away".
My daughter and family had to evacuate this morning. I offered her refuge, but the roads were cut between our respective houses. Another friend came to the rescue and Justine and her family are staying with them. They are safe. The flood peak will be at 4am tomorrow morning as a huge volume of water moves from Wivenhoe Dam (flood gates had to be opened) down the Brisbane River through Ipswich and then onto Brisbane.
Your words and prayers mean a great deal to my family and me. Thank you.
Barb - I live about 11 km from the CBD of Brisbane. Where I live is on high ground and we haven't been threatened at all, but many roads are cut so we are isolated.
The "official" causes of this historic event (biggest flood in 100 years) are
i) Ground saturated due to rain during the months of November and December;
ii) La Nina weather pattern coming from the coast of South America;
and iii) the Monsoon (or the Big Wet) in North Queensland, which is seasonal.
At least we will not be kept in suspense for much longer. But 4am Thursday seems a long way away.
-
I've been watching the BBC news...theirs always seems better. I'm
never sure if our time is ahead of yours, GUM and ROSE, or behind,
but it's nearly 8a.m. now and I'm wondering it the dam has been
opened yet and how Brisbane if faring. Prayerfully, while we wait.
I found this poem, which has 'getting old' markers I recognize all too
well.
A Heart Divided by Pierre Reverdy
He so spares himself
He so fears the coverings
The sky’s blue coverlet
And pillows of cloud
He is ill-clothed by his faith
He is so afraid of steps that go awry
And streets chipped in the ice
He is too tiny for winter
He so fears the cold
He is transparent in his mirror
He is so hazy he loses himself
Time rolls him under its waves
At moments his blood flows the wrong way
And his tears stain the linen
His hand gathers green trees
And nosegays of seaweed from the strand
His faith is a thorn bush
His hands bleed against his heart
His eyes have lost their glow
And his feet trail over the sea
Like the dead arms of devil-fish
He is lost in the universe
He stumbles against cities
Against himself and his own failings
Then pray that the Lord
Erase even the memory
Of this man from His mind
-
Hi Babi - Oh my! Our times are ahead of yours and BBC time too - I am on GMT+8 and Roshanarose is GMT+10 - that makes me exactly 12 hours ahead of US east coast.
The flood gates on Wivenhoe Dam have been systematically releasing water for some time. They say water equivalent to a full Sydney Harbour is being released every day - 500,000 megalitres That's a lot of water.
The water is expected to peak in about 5 hours - in Brisbane at least - there have been horrific scenes and some great resilience and spirit shown by the victims. Brisbane CBD is a ghost town - no power, very little transport and lots of water. They are cutting power for safety reasons.
Smaller country communities have been hard hit - some two or three times in as many weeks - they clean up after one flood, start to settle again and then another flood hits them. There is a worry about mosquito borne diseases and gastro etc. The military are on hand to get food and medical supplies in etc etc. Emergency teams from all over the country have rallied to Queensland to help - recovery will take a long time and will cost the nation billions.
The floods are now extending further southwards into New South Wales and a couple of small towns have been evacuated. Amazing how what is usually a small sandy creek can become a raging killer torrent in a matter of minutes.
I'm guessing that Roshanarose has no power at present - but I could be wrong. It depends on where she is on the grid. Will be good to hear from her again tho' she says she is on high ground and that her family is also safe.
-
Babi the flooding in Australia must be like Katrina - a nightmare for all - not only the ones trying to flee but the areas where folks are going are disrupted - yes, in a good way since everyone chips in but still there is a huge influx of folks who are sorta shell shocked and yet, who have their family to take care of without a home, a job, a change of clothes, medicine, their pets - it goes on and on.
From what we see here Gumtree after Katrina the financial needs for a city and for individuals will go on for years as will the trauma and that is what most tax payers had not thought was a basic need after a catastrophe.
Seems to me all over the world a system of group meetings needs to be organized for those who were affected by a catastrophe to attend much like AA meetings or Grief Counseling meetings - meeting as groups would be the least expensive way if there was some guidelines available since most group meetings are volunteer with small donations to cover the cost of securing a room, usually in a church hall for a couple of hours each week.
-
I'm still here.
Really, the only inconvenience that has been experienced where I live, is that there is no garbage collection until 17th January, and our roads are still cut. The electricity has not been effected at all here.
Barbara - I think the similarities you draw between Katrina and this flood are accurate. As Gum says "there have been horrific scenes and some great resilience and spirit shown by the victims". It is uplifting but still so terribly sad to see their courage when they have lost everything.
My daughter was able to get back to her house earlier this morning. I will give you a brief description of how her property is laid out and that should give you some idea of the scale of this disaster. The family have a beautiful home that is located right on the Brisbane River. They have their own pontoon; next level up is a grassy area for enjoying the river; next level up is the swimming pool which is on the same level as the basement. All these levels are tiered. I expected that the flood water would reach well up into the basement as that was where the water was when they evacuated. The basement, itself is on two levels and is fully equipped as a living space, although it is not being used as such (fortunately). So we are looking at a 3 storey house - including the basement and two levels from the river for the pontoon, the grassy area and the swimming pool. Roughly, I would say about 10 - 11 metres in height from the normal level of the river, possibly more.
My daughter told me she felt somewhat relieved when checking out the scene on their return. If there had been a metre more water the flood would have gone through the living area. The basement has an internal staicase leading to the living area. I guess there would be about 25 steps. As it was the flood waters had reached the third step below the living area. It is hard to comprehend, but that is an astounding amount of water. People in low lying areas had no hope.
The next step is the clean up. Snakes are a real worry and Justine expects to meet a few. The mud and sludge is terrible. I have seen what the flood left behind on its way down to Brisbane. This morning I tried to access volunteers to come and help her clean up. Many people are signing up but the volunteer infrastructure is not bearing up well with all the requests from people who want to help.
There will be another high tide (flood peak) at 4pm today. The good news being that the Brisbane River was one metre lower than expected. That is what saved part of my daughter's property. The flood waters will not subside until Sunday.
Thanks everybody for your good wishes and encouragement. The support here from the community is immense. A disaster is surely what brings people together.
-
Roshanarose So there you are - all safe and sound! Glad to hear it. What a blessing that the river peak was not as high as expected. Your daughter is lucky that the main house was not flooded - I'm sure she'll get help with the cleaning up - I imagine all the services are stretched pretty thin at present.
The stories of courage and heroism are filtering through - how about the tug boat guy...
Barbara - Professional counselling is always offered to disaster victims - and are often ongoing over time - some of those formed after the Black Saturday bushfires are still in operation - and will remain so long as the need is there.
More flooding is expected further south and right into Victoria on the south coast. It's an amazing water event - The little town of Natimuk in Victoria -population 500 - is one of those already hit by floods and more expected. DH has extended family in that district - his forebears took up the first allocation of land there in the 1850s so some descendants are still there - they're OK but not looking forward to more water just at present.
-
Professional counselling is always offered to disaster victims - and are often ongoing over time - some of those formed after the Black Saturday bushfires are still in operation - and will remain so long as the need is there.
Wow I am impressed - the folks of Australia must realize and accept the need that is still looked upon here with wareful eyes and therefore not considered worthy of taxpayer's money.
-
"water equivalent to a full Sydney Harbour is being released every day "
Oh, my Lord! That's staggering! More prayers on their way.
I'm so glad to hear from you, Rosahanarose. I was concerned about your isolation,
whether your supplies were sufficient and whether you had means of communication
if you needed help. The clean up is going to be horrific, as we well remember from
Katrina. Even here, away from the brunt of the storm, it was quite a while before
electrical service was restored. Hot weather, no AC, and ice being in great demand.
Hopefully, your clean-up will be accomplished more quickly and efficiently
than it's proceeding in Haiti. There is a frustrating example of the difference
between poverty and affluence.
-
Barbara - I didn't mean to imply that we had Utopia here - no matter how much help and counselling or money is made available it is never enough and always there are those who fall through the gaps.
Babi - yes, we are very fortunate when compared to countries like Haiti which have no stable government or infrastructure in place to swing into action is times of trouble. Our systems are far from perfect but at least they are in place and after each disastrous event they are assessed as to performance and changes are made to improve matters for the future - but it's never enough.
-
Gum - If interviewed no doubt the tug boat captain would say he was just doing his job. There are many acts of heroism, some small, some great, but all show what we are capable of in the face of great adversity. There have also been looters. I wonder if they still have those pikes available in London?
As for my daughter - today she has started the cleanup with the help of her DH, father in law and a family friend. I am literally champing at the bit, but the roads are still cut and I am unable to get to them. I so want to be with them all. I have about four community volunteers on standby just waiting for my daughter's instructions. The frustrating thing is that she is very hard to reach. Because she is so busy she has her mobile/cell phone switched off. When she gets back to their current refuge (in a friend's house) she takes stock and answers the many calls of concern. Fortunately, her husband, who is a lawyer, has his own partnership and can take time off. Employees are not so lucky. If they are casual they do not get paid for time away, and many businesses have closed due to inundation. Just as with Katrina the aftermath seems right now to be endless. The Federal Government has offered modest amount of money to those who have been seriously effected. One example is that if your power has been off for 48 hours or more you can receive $1000 per adult and $400 per child. One can only imagine how long it will take for these claims to be processed.
I have seen on TV that Brazil has had many lives lost. I ha always thought that 2nd and 3rd world countries do not get the help or attention of 1stworld countries. The flood is continuing to devastate as it goes further south. Goondiwindi (a good Aboriginal name, babi) is on high alert for record flood levels, but evidently they have 11 foot levees. Hopefully they will hold.
Once again, thank you. I feel as though you are all "with" me.
-
Roshanarose - yes, of course we are 'with' you. I truly understand your wish to be with your daughter and her family - it's hard being a mum sometimes when you have to stand aside and wait. Don't worry, she'll be so glad to see you when the time comes and I daresay she is thankful that you were out of harm's way.
-
but it's never enough.
I hear you, GUM. I went looking for some quotes that reflected this
more unforgiving side of nature. Here are a few,
Nature goes her own way and all that to us seems an exception is really according to order.
Johann Wolfgang von Goethe
Adapt or perish, now as ever, is nature's inexorable imperative.
H. G. Wells
Nature's law affirm instead of prohibit. If you violate her laws, you are your own prosecuting attorney, judge, jury, and hangman.
Luther Burbank
Occurrences in this domain are beyond the reach of exact prediction because of the variety of factors in operation, not because of any lack of order in nature.
Albert Einstein
-
Babi I especially like
Occurrences in this domain are beyond the reach of exact prediction because of the variety of factors in operation, not because of any lack of order in nature.
Albert Einstein
We've been trying to control nature's order to our idea of order for hundred's of years - seems to me in the early history of man up until at least the Renaissance, man tried to read nature so we could live successfully within the natural world - although thinking, I guess building walls for protection and aqueducts for water the seeds of man changing nature to fit our needs have put us at odds as if man and nature are on the opposite ends of a continuum.
Man vs Nature
The heavens roared with thunder
as lightning filled the skies
was this God getting angry
or Natures big surprise.
Is Mother Nature telling us
the best way that she can
to stop the interference
and abuse she gets from man.
We marvel at her beauty
each time we look around
then dig up all her treasures
from their natural burial ground.
We forget that Nature gives us
all that keeps us living
we take it all and still want more
but never think of giving.
We build across the countryside
progressing every day
but Mother Nature can't progress
for man is in the way.
-
Yeah, I know. Everytime I hear of more land, more farms, being bought
up so that more homes can be built, I flinch. Of course, the builders
aren't interested...now, at least....in the unpleasant, untillable places.
How long before we find the country filled to the brim with people and
homes, and no way to feed them. There are fewer and fewer farms left.
-
Love Is
~ Robert Green Ingersoll
“Love is the only bow on life's dark cloud.
It is the Morning and the Evening Star.
It shines upon the cradle of the babe, and sheds
its radiance upon the quiet tomb. It is the Mother
of Art, inspirer of poet, patriot, and philosopher.
It is the air and light of every heart,
builder of every home,
kindler of every fire on every hearth.
It was the first dream of immortality.
It fills the world with melody, for music is
the voice of Love. Love is the magician,
the enchanter, that changes
worthless things to joy, and makes right royal kings of common clay.
It is the perfume of the wondrous flower—the heart—and without that sacred passion, ...
we are less than beasts; but with it,
earth and heaven are gods.”
-
From the Irish message board...
The January Thaw
A balmy day for January
As January goes
The schoolkids donned
Their shorts like June
Unseasonable fog
Obscured the moon
To some of us
The warmth a boon
Such bewitchment cast
Nature's spell looms...
The January thaw
Like Indian summer
It arrives on southerly wings
Awakes an urge
An irresistable fling
Makes me long for
An early spring
Spoiled by the promise
The sunshine brings
So welcome makes
Me want to sing...
The January thaw
Tomorrow when it
Turns to snow
Away from it all
I shall want to go
Across the sea
On my dreams I'll flow
To winter on the Isle
Where the green still grows
A fantasy?
Perhaps 'tis so...
The January thaw
-
(http://seniorlearn.org/bookclubs/poetry/wintermyths430x274.jpg) A Winter Myth Join Us! It's the Season for Winter Poetry- Famous Poets and Poems about Winter (http://famouspoetsandpoems.com/thematic_poems/winter_poems.html)
- Link to: Winter Poems (http://poetry.about.com/od/ourpoemcollections/a/winterpoems.htm)
Discussion Leaders: Barb (augere@ix.netcom.com) & fairanna (fairanna@verizon.net) |
The Miracle
~ Barbara Winkler
Every gardener knows
that under the cloak of winter
lies a miracle ...
A seed waiting to sprout,
A bulb opening to the light,
A bud straining to unfurl.
And the anticipation
Nurtures our dream.
|
Since we're speaking o' the Irish, here's one I like:
Padraic Colum. 1881–
An Old Woman of the Roads
O, To have a little house!
To own the hearth and stool and all!
The heaped up sods upon the fire,
The pile of turf against the wall!
To have a clock with weights and chains
And pendulum swinging up and down!
A dresser filled with shining delph,
Speckled and white and blue and brown!
I could be busy all the day
Clearing and sweeping hearth and floor,
And fixing on their shelf again
My white and blue and speckled store!
I could be quiet there at night
Beside the fire and by myself,
Sure of a bed and loth to leave
The ticking clock and the shining delph!
Och! but I'm weary of mist and dark,
And roads where there's never a house nor bush,
And tired I am of bog and road,
And the crying wind and the lonesome hush!
And I am praying to God on high,
And I am praying Him night and day,
For a little house—a house of my own—
Out of the wind's and the rain's way.
-
Babi poignant - reminds me of the song in My Fair Lady - "All I want is a room somewhere far away from the cold night air."
Found it...
t's rather dull in town, I think I'll take me to Paree.
Mmmmmm.
The mistress wants to open up
The castle in Capri.
Me doctor recommends a quiet summer by the sea!
Mmmm, Mmmm, wouldn't it be loverly?
All I want is a room somewhere,
Far away from the cold night air.
With one enormous chair,
Aow, wouldn't it be loverly?
Lots of choc'lates for me to eat,
Lots of coal makin' lots of 'eat.
Warm face, warm 'ands, warm feet,
Aow, wouldn't it be loverly?
Aow, so loverly sittin' abso-bloomin'-lutely still.
I would never budge 'till spring
Crept over me windowsill.
Someone's 'ead restin' on my knee,
Warm an' tender as 'e can be. 'ho takes good care of me,
Aow, wouldn't it be loverly?
Loverly, loverly, loverly, loverly
-
Ah, I did love that song. The whole movie is one of my all-time favorites. I think the thing that
I hate most about losing my hearing is all the fabulous new voices that have come up in the last
few years that I can't enjoy. An interesting thing I've discovered, tho', is that I know when
people are speaking with an accent just from the shape of their lips in forming the words. It
does add to my enjoyment of shows like "Downton Abbey" and "Lark Rise to Candleford". I
can 'hear', so to speak, the British accents.
-
Babi - A useful skill you have. They say that if one "sense" is not so sharpened, another will compensate for it. I am as blind as a bat and have been since age 16, but my sense of smell is more acute than most. This can often be a blessing or a curse.
-
The greatest thing a human soul ever does in this world is
to see something and tell what it saw in a plain way.
Hundreds of people can talk for one who can think,
but thousands can think for one who can see.
To see clearly is poetry, prophecy and religion, all in one.
~ John Ruskin, English critic, essayist, & reformer (1819 - 1900)
The real voyage of discovery consists of not in seeking
new landscapes but in having new eyes.
~ Marcel Proust
-
I didn't know that, ROSHANA. How do you manage to participate
in these on-line conversations? And yes, I can think of a number
of situations where an acute sense of smell could be most
unpleasant. May you be surrounded with fragrant blossoms and the
aromas of roasting coffee and baking bread!
To see clearly is poetry, prophecy and religion, all in one.
The more I think about that line, the more profound it seems.
-
Water so Deep and Profound
Water so sinuous and devious,
And as mystifying as you.
Water is always hiding its true self,
Never in one form.
Water can be the shimmer,
Reflecting off the light of the pond,
Making the pond seem magnificent.
Water can be the rushing sound,
As it escapes the secretive pond,
And runes down into the vast ocean,
Seeking adventure and unfound dreams.
Water can be the feeling of calmness,
As it sits there, overlooking the pond,
With wonder and seeing how it made it what it is.
Water so supple and wondrous,
The pond is born from the water.
Water so deep and profound,
Just like you,
The pond so incomplete without water,
Just like your family.
-
A Dream Within A Dream
~ by Edgar Allan Poe
Take this kiss upon the brow!
And, in parting from you now,
Thus much let me avow-
You are not wrong, who deem
That my days have been a dream;
Yet if hope has flown away
In a night, or in a day,
In a vision, or in none,
Is it therefore the less gone?
All that we see or seem
Is but a dream within a dream.
I stand amid the roar
Of a surf-tormented shore,
And I hold within my hand
Grains of the golden sand-
How few! yet how they creep
Through my fingers to the deep,
While I weep- while I weep!
O God! can I not grasp
Them with a tighter clasp?
O God! can I not save
One from the pitiless wave?
Is all that we see or seem
But a dream within a dream?
-
From Spring Days To Winter (For Music)
~ Oscar Wilde
In the glad springtime when leaves were green,
O merrily the throstle sings!
I sought, amid the tangled sheen,
Love whom mine eyes had never seen,
O the glad dove has golden wings!
Between the blossoms red and white,
O merrily the throstle sings!
My love first came into my sight,
O perfect vision of delight,
O the glad dove has golden wings!
The yellow apples glowed like fire,
O merrily the throstle sings!
O Love too great for lip or lyre,
Blown rose of love and of desire,
O the glad dove has golden wings!
But now with snow the tree is grey,
Ah, sadly now the throstle sings!
My love is dead: ah! well-a-day,
See at her silent feet I lay
A dove with broken wings!
Ah, Love! ah, Love! that thou wert slain--
Fond Dove, fond Dove return again!
-
Shakespeare Sonnet XV
When I consider every thing that grows
Holds in perfection but a little moment,
That this huge stage presenteth nought but shows
Whereon the stars in secret influence comment;
When I perceive that men as plants increase,
Cheered and cheque'd even by the self-same sky,
Vaunt in their youthful sap, at height decrease,
And wear their brave state out of memory;
Then the conceit of this inconstant stay
Sets you most rich in youth before my sight,
Where wasteful Time debateth with Decay,
To change your day of youth to sullied night;
And all in war with Time for love of you,
As he takes from you, I engraft you new.
-
Ah, BARB, you seem in a somewhat despondent mood today. Poe,
Wilde, and one of Shakespeare's gloomier passages. Reflections on
decay and loss. I must insert an antidote.
~A SYMPHONIC ZEPHYR~
I tried to catch the wind,
But it blew away from me,
And flew into some wind chimes
To play a symphony.
The music was uplifting.
The trees all raised their heads.
The flowers did a waltz in their autumn beds.
I zipped up my jacket when this zephyr danced with me.
If I owned a sailboat, I would take her out to sea.
-
Babi and Barb - Beautiful poems all.
Thank you for that blessing, babi. Back at you :)
-
Blow, Blow, thou Winter Wind
~ William Shakespeare
Blow, blow, thou winter wind
Thou art not so unkind
As man's ingratitude;
Thy tooth is not so keen,
Because thou art not seen,
Although thy breath be rude.
Heigh-ho! sing, heigh-ho! unto the green holly:
Most freindship if feigning, most loving mere folly:
Then heigh-ho, the holly!
This life is most jolly.
Freeze, freeze thou bitter sky,
That does not bite so nigh
As benefits forgot:
Though thou the waters warp,
Thy sting is not so sharp
As a friend remembered not.
Heigh-ho! sing, heigh-ho! unto the green holly:
Most freindship if feigning, most loving mere folly:
Then heigh-ho, the holly!
This life is most jolly.
-
January
~ Cornelius Webb
COLD January comes in Winter's car,
Thick hung with icicles--its heavy wheels
Cumbered with clogging snow, which cracks and peels
With its least motion or concussive jar
'Gainst hard hid ruts, or hewn trees buried far
In the heaped whiteness which awhile conceals
The green and pastoral earth. Old Christmas feels,--
That well-fed and wine-reeling wassailer,--
With all his feasts and fires, feels cold and shivers,
And the red runnel of his indolent blood
Creeps slow and curdled as a northern flood.
And lakes and winter-rills, impetuous rivers
And headlong cataracts, are in silence bound,
Like trammelled tigers lashed to th'unyielding ground.
-
Desert Rainstorm
~ She Whispers
I listen to the sky with the vision
chambers of my ears
The ritual misty canyons and mesa's
welcome the dawn with emptyness
and with cold rain incantation
More offerings against a empty sky
my eyes see through the lightning
rain crashing and the deep
rolling thunder that echos
I can feel the ritual rumble...
as it leaves my rainy world
as it plunges through the darkness
I can almost see the dawning light
starting my new life alone
but I am not afraid .....
-
Winter Rain
~ by Lorri Proctor
Rain beating on the ground.
Swift eddies flowing into gutters;
Sticks swirling in the grey mud flow.
Hasty umbrellas pop up like mushrooms in the air.
Girl slumped upon the ground;
The thin, the creeping rain
soaking her trembling, shivering body.
Sad girl leaning against the shop window.
Lights hurt-bright and goods all shapes and colours
glitter behind her to tempt the passers-by.
They stop a fleeting, captured moment, then move on.
But she, sad, weeping girl, ignored.
Relentless stream of people; a stream
Casting humanity aside like flotsam
Cast up on a bank.
In winter rain.
-
Winter Time
~ by Robert Louis Stevenson
Late lies the wintry sun a-bed,
A frosty, fiery sleepy-head;
Blinks but an hour or two; and then,
A blood-red orange, sets again.
Before the stars have left the skies,
At morning in the dark I rise;
And shivering in my nakedness,
By the cold candle, bathe and dress.
Close by the jolly fire I sit
To warm my frozen bones a bit;
Or with a reindeer-sled, explore
The colder countries round the door.
When to go out, my nurse doth wrap
Me in my comforter and cap;
The cold wind burns my face, and blows
Its frosty pepper up my nose.
Black are my steps on silver sod;
Thick blows my frosty breath abroad;
And tree and house, and hill and lake,
Are frosted like a wedding cake.
-
Ooh, all these wintry poems have me hugging myself for warmth. I
need a poem about a cozy fireplace, I think.
“Home is where the hearth is” - Author Unknown
The Hearth am I...the deep heart
of the dwelling.
A pleasant nook for ease
and storytelling,
Where friendship’s flame shall find
a glad renewal
While mirth and kindly chat supply
the fuel.
-
We are just a few days away from Robbie Burns nicht - here are some sites that can get us into the glory of the man and his work...
A new Burns museum in Scotland...
http://www.burnsmuseum.org.uk/
http://www.bbc.co.uk/robertburns/
Robert Burns Poems
http://www.worldburnsclub.com/poems/translations/index.htm
All about the traditional Burns Supper
http://www.scotland.org/culture/festivals/burns-night/
http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Burns_supper
http://www.worldburnsclub.com/supper/burns_supper_intro.htm
-
Oh my - from Burns to Petrarch
During the 1300's, before card stores and chocolate manufacturers conspired to commercialize the true spirit of love, passion, and romance, Francesco Petrarca literally wrote the book on infatuation. The collection of Italian verses, Rime in vita e morta di Madonna Laura (after 1327), translated into English as Petrarch's Sonnets, were inspired by Petrarch's unrequited passion for Laura (probably Laure de Noves), a young woman Petrarca first saw in church.
It was the day the sun's ray had turned pale
with pity for the suffering of his Maker
when I was caught, and I put up no fight,
my lady, for your lovely eyes had bound me.
It seemed no time to be on guard against
Love's blows; therefore, I went my way
secure and fearless-so, all my misfortunes
began in midst of universal woe.
Love found me all disarmed and found the way
was clear to reach my heart down through the eyes
which have become the halls and doors of tears.
It seems to me it did him little honour
to wound me with his arrow in my state
and to you, armed, not show his bow at all.
-
I've never heard of a 'Robbie Burns nicht',BARB. when and what
is that? Whatever it is, I'll love the excuse to plunge into
Burns and his lovely Scots brogue.
I like Petrarch's image of the eyes as the 'halls and doors' of tears.
I especially liked those closing lines:
It seems to me it did him little honour
to wound me with his arrow in my state
That speaks for so many vulnerable souls.
-
"Storm"
~ by Robert Pack
Cascading snowflakes settle in the pines,
Sculpting each tree to fit your ghostly form
The surge of swirling wind defines
As if your human shape were what the storm
Sought to contrive, intending to express
Its consciousness of my white consciousness,
Sculpting each tree to fit your ghostly form.
Cascading snowflakes settle in the pines,
Swaying in unison beneath the snow,
Calling me to you with wild gesturings
Homeward into the howling woods, although
Thinking of your abiding spirit brings
Only a whiter absence to my mind,
Only whirled snow heaped up by whirled snow,
Only a fox whose den I cannot find.
"Midwinter Thaw"
~ by Robert Pack
Stunned in their voiceless way to be alive
This drizzling three-day January thaw,
Green lilac buds appear that won't survive
When Arctic winds crack down from Canada
And half-starved foxes shake and paw
A rabbit carcass in its stiffened fur.
Green lilac buds appear that won't survive
This third day of our January thaw,
This gap in time, this season not their own,
Merely a mockery of spring
With sun's warmth wasted on a stone,
And still my mind goes groping in the mud to bring
Some stubborn sprouts up through the stubble hay,
To follow in the path of their brief blossoming
In search of brighter green to come. No way!
-
Today just happens to be Australia Day - so here's a poem for you -
Australia Day poems verses -poetry verse #2
This is an old land
For ever nurtured and nourished
by the spirit of the Rainbow Serpent.
The land of the Darug people,
Of the Darginung and the Dharawal,
The Gundungurra and the Guringai.
An old land.
This is the new land of the convict and the refugee,
Of the European settler,
Of the Asian and the African,
The American and the Islander.
It is the golden hope-filled land.
A hope-filled land?
This is the silent sun-baked land
Of the gibber plain and granite outcrop
Of the waterhole and the rain forest
Of native title and pastoral lease
Of skyscraper and empty reservoir.
A golden land?
This is a land battered and blackened by bush fire
But look! a land of grass trees green-shooting
in the still dark-smouldering ashes;
Of wildflowers in the sun-heat-blighted desert
And of cities glistened smog-free by an autumn wind.
A sacred land!
This is the Dreaming land, the land of spirit ancestors
Of campfire and corroboree, of rock art and cave painting
A land of mosque and temple, of prayer book and philosophy text
A land of tribal elders and politicians.
And how slowly we have learnt, 60,000 years slowly, how to live with this land
And how slowly we have learnt, 200 years slowly, not to abuse this land
And how slowly we are learning, day-by-day slowly, how to share this land.
We who are black of skin, and white and brown and yellow
And sunburnt pink
Native and newcomer
Blue-eyed and brown-eyed and black-haired and fair-haired
We will live in harmony in this land
Because this is the Land of the Rainbow Serpent
And we are the Rainbow People.
©RAF 26.01.2007
-
Reading Robert Pack's "Storm", I'm afraid it conjured a most irreverent image. I am trying
to imagine his lady(?)'s 'ghostly form' in the shape of a snow-covered pine tree. Hardly
an inspiring picture.
Lovely, GUM. It is the phrase "Dreaming land", the land of aboriginal dreamers who followed
the old paths, that appeals to me most. I love to read about the dreaming and the spirit
ancestors.
-
Gum - A Beautiful poem indeed. Even a cynical old duck like me was moved to tears while watching a rather special Australia Day. I know that you will understand what I mean.
-
Ah so Australia Day celebrates the day when the first fleet entered Sidney Harbor - considered the day Australia was founded - I guess as we celebrated Columbus Day - was not aware of this holiday - are there special things you most often do on this day - I bet any celebration is on hold in the area where the floods have rampaged. - The poem is stirring and is filled with great affection for the land - the place - so glad you shared this with us -
I am supposed to meet a friend for lunch and I am so tired today after having worked so hard yesterday only to have her fade in the midst of a 'horse race' with 5 offers on the same property - she was so close and then lost courage listening to those who had no stake in the outcome - too bad but I am worn out playing cheerleader while trying to arrange what was needed. I would love to go back to bed for awhile and then spend the rest of the day behind a good book - ah so at least my friend is easy to be with.
Babi that form confused me as well - I thought he was talking about a house - onward there are so many poets...
-
Roshanarose : Yes, a very emotional Australia Day for me too. Quentin Bryce almost always moves me to tears.
Babi : the dreamtime gets to anyone who loves this land. It's so quintessentially Australian.
Barbara : Yes, we celebrate the arrival of the First Fleet in 1788 but so much more as well. I think we look to where we've come from, where we are and where we hope to be in the future. It's a day for naturalisation and citizenship ceremonies, awards and honours but also for picnics and parades, fun, family and fireworks. This year was especially poignant in the light of the recent and current flooding.
-
Just coming back after a week of being without a compuiter. So I had no idea that Rose and family were in the midst of the floods. I'm so glad everyone is allright.
I've been staying up at night watching the Australian Open, and saw something of the Australia day celebrations in Melbourne. I will miss the pictures of Australia when it's over (although I will get more sleep).
-
Glad you are back on-line Joan - amazing how we are so dependent on the internet that is what only maybe 14 or 15 years old if that...
Swan
~ by Mary Oliver
Did you too see it, drifting, all night on the black river?
Did you see it in the morning, rising into the silvery air,
an armful of white blossoms,
a perfect commotion of silk and linen as it leaned
into the bondage of its wings: a snowbank, a bank of lilies,
biting the air with its black beak?
Did you hear it, fluting and whistling
a shrill dark music, like the rain pelting the trees, like a waterfall
knifing down the black ledges?
And did you see it, finally, just under the clouds—
a white cross streaming across the sky, its feet
like black leaves, its wings like the stretching light of the river?
And did you feel it, in your heart, how it pertained to everything?
And have you too finally figured out what beauty is for?
And have you changed your life?
-
Do let me add to the poem of the swan this one about the loon.
The Laughter Of The Loon
by Nancy Ness
The secrets of remote lagoon
From morning's blush of dawn,
Till rise of eve's nocturnal moon
Sung by her eerie song.
Such wonderment from wint'ry surd,
Soliloquy's mere tune.
Grand jubilance in summer's heard -
Uncommon sounds the loon.
Bespeckled pinions, grace in flight,
Resplendent is her plume.
Bemusing splash to see her light
Cavort about the flume.
Her serenade's a proud regale,
A songbird so unique.
How wondrous her falsetto wail
Reechoing mystique.
I'll not divulge the secret song
Of this remote lagoon.
I'd rather hearken years along
The laughter of the loon.
-
JoanK - Thanks for your thoughts. The floods have cut a swathe through the Eastern States of Australia, i.e. Queensland, New South Wales and Victoria. Even though there were many warnings, the people of Queensland really had no idea of what was to befall them. I phoned my daughter's house the day before the maelstrom and was incredulous when my SIL told me that they were "going to go under". It seemed to me he was in panic mode unnecessarily. It turned out he was not. Considerable damage was done to my daughter's home = many dollars as the home is not insured against flood damage. Two weeks after the disaster their pool is still filled with sludge. We don't grumble about it however, as many people lost everything as the flood waters consumed their homes and some lost their lives. The community support has been truly incredible. Volunteers walking the streets with shovels, wheelbarrows and even bobcats ready, willing and able for when and where they may be needed. The pollies and powers that be expect that it will take at least 12 months (some say more) before things return to some kind of normalcy. As for me - if I hadn't heard what was happening via the news I would not have known there was a flood at all. The only way it impacted on my life was that I was not able to get to see my daughter for some time as the roads were closed. Such is the fickle nature of Nature.
-
long...but too perfect not to share!
A Possum Entering the Argument
~by Tom Healy
We’re talking about
when we met
and you say
it was easier
to fall for me thinking
(I’ll remember
this pause)
it was likely I’d be
dead by now.
Talking. Falling.
Thinking. Waiting . . .
Have I
undone
what you’ve tried to do?
You say no.
You say the surprise
of still being
is something
being built—
the machine of our living,
this saltwork of luck,
stylish, safe,
comfortable and
unintended.
Meanwhile, I haven’t
had the opportunity
to tell you, but
our lovely little dog
has just killed
a possum.
Maybe it’s unfair,
a possum entering
the argument here.
But I lay it down
before us:
because an ugly
dying possum
played dead
and didn’t run,
its dubious cunning
was brought to an end
outside our door
by our brutal, beautiful
and very pleased
little dog.
So how do I say
that this is not
about death or sadness
or even whether
you really
first loved me
waiting, thinking
I’d be
dying young?
It’s just that
standing there
a few minutes ago
holding a dead possum
by its repellent
bony tail,
I was struck by how
eerily pleased I was
to be a spectator
to teeth, spit,
agony and claw,
feeling full of purpose,
thinking how different
in our adversaries
we are from possums.
We try love—
the fist of words,
their opening hand.
And whether we play
dead or alive,
our pain, the slow
circulation of happiness,
our salt and work,
the stubborn questions
we endlessly
give names to
haunt us with choice
-
1912.
~ By Boris Pasternak. Translated by Alex Miller.
February. Get ink, shed tears.
Write of it, sob your heart out, sing,
While torrential slush that roars
Burns in the blackness of the spring.
Go hire a buggy. For six grivnas,
Race through the noice of bells and wheels
To where the ink and all you grieving
Are muffled when the rainshower falls.
To where, like pears burnt black as charcoal,
A myriad rooks, plucked from the trees,
Fall down into the puddles, hurl
Dry sadness deep into the eyes.
Below, the wet black earth shows through,
With sudden cries the wind is pitted,
The more haphazard, the more true
The poetry that sobs its heart out.
-
February Twilight
~ Sara Teasdale
I stood beside a hill
Smooth with new-laid snow,
A single star looked out
From the cold evening glow.
There was no other creature
That saw what I could see--
I stood and watched the evening star
As long as it watched me.
-
Picture Books in Winter
~ by Robert Louis Stevenson
Summer fading, winter comes--
Frosty mornings, tingling thumbs,
Window robins, winter rooks,
And the picture story-books.
Water now is turned to stone
Nurse and I can walk upon;
Still we find the flowing brooks
In the picture story-books.
All the pretty things put by,
Wait upon the children's eye,
Sheep and shepherds, trees and crooks,
In the picture story-books.
We may see how all things are
Seas and cities, near and far,
And the flying fairies' looks,
In the picture story-books.
How am I to sing your praise,
Happy chimney-corner days,
Sitting safe in nursery nooks,
Reading picture story-books?
-
Laughing Mary
~ by John O'Brien, written in 1910
With cheeks that paled the rosy morn
She bounded o'er the heather,
And romped with us among the corn
When we were kids together.
Her mother's help, her mother's mate.
Her mother's darling daughter,
When riper mind and more sedate
The rapid years had brought her.
As pure as air from mountain snows,
As dainty as a fairy,
As fetching as the native rose,
And always-Laughing Mary.
A little mother round about,
The happy sunshine bringing-
You'd see her bustle in and out,
A-working and a-singing;
And then the soul of Casey's place,
The love, the light, the laughter.
When friendship showed its cheery face,
And music shook the rafter;
And many a lad went home to find
A haunting sweet vagary
Was rambling softly through his mind
Because of Laughing Mary.
But when the smiling stars were blurred,
And someone's heart was bleeding,
She flew as flies the homing bird,
With balms of comfort speeding.
An angel in a sweet disguise,
She filled the measure over,
While tears stood sparkling in her eyes
Like rain-drops on the clover;
And many a head bowed low to pray,
Howe'er her skies might vary,
The years would bless her on her way
And keep her Laughing Mary.
-
I liked the Stephenson child's poem. I haven't read that one before.
And I loved 'Laughing Mary'.
-
Thanks to all for making this nightmare day of snow and wind more bearable. Barb and Babi, such wonderful creations. The Australia Day poem was fabulous. Please accept the following amateur effort: February to us means our vacation in a little Mexican town, where I always ask this lady to make me something.
Homage to a Costatura
Brilliant garments swirl and flash above the crannied shop,
The banners of her life’s crusade, magenta, purple, lime ;
Below, a graying head above a dream machine,
Faithfully stitching seam to seam, stitching the future to the present,
Stitching love to labor, dream to reality, a university to a daughter.
-
The New Yorker Book of Humorous Writing has some "recently discovered letters to Santa"
This one seems appropriate:
Dear Santa,
I hope you can find the way to our house. Most people take the wrong road. You will be tired after traveling all those miles, but then you will be able to get a good night's sleep.
Bobby Frost
-
bellemere where in Mexico do you winter? Don't you just love the riot of color and your poem brings that out - a delightful picture comes to mind while reading your poem - thanks.
-
(http://seniorlearn.org/bookclubs/poetry/wintermyths430x274.jpg) A Winter Myth Join Us! It's the Season for Winter Poetry- Famous Poets and Poems about Winter (http://famouspoetsandpoems.com/thematic_poems/winter_poems.html)
- Link to: Winter Poems (http://poetry.about.com/od/ourpoemcollections/a/winterpoems.htm)
Discussion Leaders: Barb (augere@ix.netcom.com) & fairanna (fairanna@verizon.net) |
The Miracle
~ Barbara Winkler
Every gardener knows
that under the cloak of winter
lies a miracle ...
A seed waiting to sprout,
A bulb opening to the light,
A bud straining to unfurl.
And the anticipation
Nurtures our dream.
|
-
Flowers In Winter
~ John Greenleaf Whittier
How strange to greet, this frosty morn,
In graceful counterfeit of flower,
These children of the meadows, born
Of sunshine and of showers!
How well the conscious wood retains
The pictures of its flower-sown home,
The lights and shades, the purple stains,
And golden hues of bloom!
It was a happy thought to bring
To the dark season's frost and rime
This painted memory of spring,
This dream of summertime.
Our hearts are lighter for its sake,
Our fancy's age renews its youth,
And dim-remembered fictions take
The guise of present truth.
A wizard of the Merrimac, -
So old ancestral legends say, -
Could call green leaf and blossom back
To frosted stem and spray.
The dry logs of the cottage wall,
Beneath his touch, put out their leaves;
The clay-bound swallow, at his call,
Played round the icy eaves.
The settler saw his oaken flail
Take bud, and bloom before his eyes;
From frozen pools he saw the pale
Sweet summer lilies rise.
To their old homes, by man profaned
Came the sad dryads, exiled long,
And through their leafy tongues complained
Of household use and wrong.
The beechen platter sprouted wild,
The pipkin wore its old-time green,
The cradle o'er the sleeping child
Became a leafy screen.
Haply our gentle friend hath met,
While wandering in her sylvan quest,
Haunting his native woodlands yet,
That Druid of the West;
And while the dew on leaf and flower
Glistened in the moonlight clear and still,
Learned the dusk wizard's spell of power,
And caught his trick of skill.
But welcome, be it new or old,
The gift which makes the day more bright,
And paints, upon the ground of cold
And darkness, warmth and light!
Without is neither gold nor green;
Within, for birds, the birch-logs sing;
Yet, summer-like, we sit between
The autumn and the spring.
The one, with bridal blush of rose,
And sweetest breath of woodland balm,
And one whose matron lips unclose
In smiles of saintly calm.
Fill soft and deep, O winter snow!
The sweet azalea's oaken dells,
And hide the banks where roses blow
And swing the azure bells!
O'erlay the amber violet's leaves,
The purple aster's brookside home,
Guard all the flowers her pencil gives
A live beyond their bloom.
And she, when spring comes round again,
By greening slope and singing flood
Shall wander, seeking, not in vain
Her darlings of the wood.
-
Eye of the Cyclone
~ by Elga
Seeking shelter
I hid from the storm
To take refuge from raging winds
And rain that felt so bitterly cold
My eyes blinded by the elements
And a mind blank and devoid
I stepped without thought
Into the dungeon of distress
I walked further in darkness
Experiencing more cold and gloom
Felt more alone than before
Like a lost soul in purgatory
What I’d thought would ease
My emotional emptiness
Only led me deeper
Into the eye of the cyclone
Tossed in the midst
Of this inclement outbreak
The aftermath and destruction
So dolorously painful
Can I rebuild anew
And walk in the sunshine
Remembering in future
To watch where I’m going!
-
The Terrific Cyclone of 1893
~ William Topaz McGonagall
'Twas in the year of 1893, and on the 17th and 18th of November,
Which the people of Dundee and elsewhere will long remember,
The terrific cyclone that blew down trees,
And wrecked many vessels on the high seas.
All along the coast the Storm Fiend did loudly roar,
Whereby many ships were wrecked along the shore,
And many seamen lost their lives,
Which caused their children to mourn and their wives.
Alas! they wiil never see their husbands again,
And to weep for them 'tis all in vain,
Because sorrow never could revive the dead,
Therefore they must weep, knowing all hope is fled.
The people's hearts in Dundee were full of dread
For fear of chimney-cans falling on their heads,
And the roofs of several houses were hurled to the ground,
And the tenants were affrighted, and their sorrow was profound,
And scores of wooden sheds were levelled to the ground,
And chimney stalks fell with a crashing rebound :
The gale swept everything before it in its way;
No less than 250 trees and 37 tombstones were blown down at Balgay.
Oh! it was a pitiful and a terrible sight
To see the fallen trees lying left and right,
Scattered about in the beautiful Hill of Balgay,
Also the tombstones that were swept away.
At Broughty Ferry the gale made a noise like thunder,
Which made the inhabitants shake with fear and wonder
If their dwellings would be blown to the ground,
While the slates and chimney-cans were falling all around.
Early on the 18th a disaster occurred on the Tay :
The wreck of the steamer "Union,"- Oh! horror and dismay!
Whereby four lives have been taken away,
Which will make their friends mourn for many a day.
The steamer left Newburgh for Dundee with a cargo of sand,
And the crew expected they would safely land,
But by the time the steamer was opposite Dundee,
Alas! stronger blew the gale, and heavier grew the sea.
And in order to prevent stranding the anchor was let go,
And with the cold the hearts of the crew were full of woe,
While the merciless Storm .Fiend loudly did roar,
As the vessel was driven towards the Fife shore.
Then the crew took shelter in the stokehole,
From the cold wind they could no longer thole,
But the high seas broke over her, one finding its way
Right into the stokehole, which filled the crew's hearts with dismay.
Then one of the crew, observing that the steamer had broached to,
Immediately went on deck to see what he could do,
And he tried hard to keep her head to the sea,
But the big waves dashed over her furiously.
Then Strachan shouted that the "Union" was sinking fast,
Which caused his companions to stand aghast,
And Strachan tried to lower the small boat,
But alas! the vessel sunk, and the boat wouldn't float,
And before he could recover himself he was struggling in the sea,
And battling with the big waves right manfully,
But his companions sank with the "Union" in the Tay,
Which filled Strachan's heart with sorrow and dismay,
And after a great struggle he reached the beach,
Fortunately so, which he never expected to reach,
For often he was drawn back by the back-wash,
As the big waves against his body did dash.
But, when nearly exhausted, and near to the land,
A piece of wreckage was near him, which he grasped with his hand,
Which providentially came within his reach,
And bruised, and battered, he was thrown on the beach.
He was so exhausted, he was unable to stand upright,
He felt so weakly, he was in such a plight,
Because the big waves had done him bodily harm,
Yet on hands and knees he crept to a house at Northfield farm.
He arrived there at ten minutes past four o'clock,
And when he awakened the inmates, their nerves got a shock,
But under their kind treatment he recovered speedily,
And was able to recount the disaster correctly.
Oh! it was a fearful, and a destructive storm!
I never mind the like since I was born,
Only the Tay Bridge storm of 1879,
And both these storms will be remembered for a very long time.
-
bellemere - beautiful poem. ....a university to a daughter...made it real for me. Thank you.
Barb - I enjoyed your cyclone poems - a bit too close to home at the moment, though.
-
Yes, intended as close to home - I always try to find poems that address what I think those of you who are regulars are experiencing in real life with the hope that a poet saying it outloud will give feelings another voice. It is my way of saying I am thinking of you...
-
barb - i appreciate your sensitivity, thank you. We all wait anxiously for the outcome, knowing we have no control.
btw I loved the colourful art in which you dressed "Flowers in Winter". I also thought that the name of the poet seemed particularly suited to the poem.
-
I spend a few weeks each year in Isla Mujeres, a tiny island off the coast of the Yucatan. Over theyears, Hortensia has become a friend. Her daughter is now a lawyer.
Thanks for the kind words.
-
Thanks for those cyclone poems Barbara, nature can be very destructive every part of the planet. I appreciate that you think of us in Oz - even though I live far from this current cyclone area. However only a few days ago we were tracking a smaller one along the West Aust coastline which caused damage in some rural areas and at least one death - a teenaged girl unwittingly stepped on a blown down power line - her two companions were also severely burned trying to help her.
The McGonagall poem reminded me of this one of his about the Tay Bridge storm of 1879 which he mentions in the last couple of lines of the you posted. As bridges go - the Tay was considered one of the engineering feats of its day (until it fell down :D) At the time it was the longest bridge in the world - the disaster ruined the reputation of its designer, Sir Thomas Bouch who had made no particular allowance for wind pressure on the structure. The story of it is legendary.
The Tay Bridge Disaster
Beautiful Railway Bridge of the Silv'ry Tay!
Alas! I am very sorry to say
That ninety lives have been taken away
On the last Sabbath day of 1879,
Which will be remember'd for a very long time.
'Twas about seven o'clock at night,
And the wind it blew with all its might,
And the rain came pouring down,
And the dark clouds seem'd to frown,
And the Demon of the air seem'd to say-
"I'll blow down the Bridge of Tay."
When the train left Edinburgh
The passengers' hearts were light and felt no sorrow,
But Boreas blew a terrific gale,
Which made their hearts for to quail,
And many of the passengers with fear did say-
"I hope God will send us safe across the Bridge of Tay."
But when the train came near to Wormit Bay,
Boreas he did loud and angry bray,
And shook the central girders of the Bridge of Tay
On the last Sabbath day of 1879,
Which will be remember'd for a very long time.
So the train sped on with all its might,
And Bonnie Dundee soon hove in sight,
And the passengers' hearts felt light,
Thinking they would enjoy themselves on the New Year,
With their friends at home they lov'd most dear,
And wish them all a happy New Year.
So the train mov'd slowly along the Bridge of Tay,
Until it was about midway,
Then the central girders with a crash gave way,
And down went the train and passengers into the Tay!
The Storm Fiend did loudly bray,
Because ninety lives had been taken away,
On the last Sabbath day of 1879,
Which will be remember'd for a very long time.
As soon as the catastrophe came to be known
The alarm from mouth to mouth was blown,
And the cry rang out all o'er the town,
Good Heavens! the Tay Bridge is blown down,
And a passenger train from Edinburgh,
Which fill'd all the peoples hearts with sorrow,
And made them for to turn pale,
Because none of the passengers were sav'd to tell the tale
How the disaster happen'd on the last Sabbath day of 1879,
Which will be remember'd for a very long time.
It must have been an awful sight,
To witness in the dusky moonlight,
While the Storm Fiend did laugh, and angry did bray,
Along the Railway Bridge of the Silv'ry Tay,
Oh! ill-fated Bridge of the Silv'ry Tay,
I must now conclude my lay
By telling the world fearlessly without the least dismay,
That your central girders would not have given way,
At least many sensible men do say,
Had they been supported on each side with buttresses,
At least many sensible men confesses,
For the stronger we our houses do build,
The less chance we have of being killed.
-
Here's a link to pic of the Tay Bridge: You can easily note the 'central girders' referenced in the poem.
http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/File:Taybridge_from_law_02SEP05.jpg
Trivia: "Tay Bridge" was used as the codename for the funeral plans for Queen Elizabeth, the Queen Mother who died in 2002 at the ripe old age of 101.
-
BELLEMERE, I really like that "Homage to a Costatura". Such great
images, and such a sympathetic close.
Brr!, BARB. These poems have me shivering again. The cold has
returned with a vengeance, and our heating system does not
entirely warm the house. With the temperatures at 40 or lower,
I am prepared to be grateful for 60.
-
Babi I know - we were 15 last night - as of now we are only 23 - I have a meeting I am supposed to attend that has me leaving here a little after 1: and it still will not even be 30 - it only gets to 32 at the hottest part of the day at 4: - I've hung blankets on curtain rods on all the door openings to the open area of Den, Breakfast, Kitchen - I've closed the doors to the bedrooms except for mine at the back of the house. Under my quilts I was fine.
I did a dumb thing yesterday - I have an electric heater in the ceiling of the bathrooms - the house was built in 1966 before heat was put in the bathrooms - well I wanted to warm up the one bathroom and turned on the heater - of course closed the door and forgot it - that thing was on chewing up electricity for over 4 hours till I heard the sound and could not figure out what it was and then like a brick it hit. What a bill I will have to pay this month.
As I covered up the plants with more blankets - found blankets at WalMart a few years ago for $4 a piece and picked up 3 that I keep in the garage. I have some wire cage like temporary plant protectors that I stick in the ground and drape the blankets over them using clothespins to secure them from the wind - well the Rosemary was all in bloom and not enough blankets or even beach towels to near cover them - so we shall see just how much cold they will take - I did cut off a few branches and have been cooking them with cloves in a huge 6 gallon pot of water. The house gets so dry with all this hot air heat.
I looked and it is colder here than where my daughter is in the Appalachian mountain area of NC and it is even colder than NYC. and so this front must have come straight down the plains and swung over to the Mississippi Valley.
I am tempted not to go to my meeting but I need a few things from the store to tie me over - they are talking snow on Thursday and this town closes down if it snows - no one knows how to drive in it and those who think they do always are crashed into by those who know they don't but attempt it anyhow.
Good grief - the bug man is here - of all days - well I am just having him do the outside and the garage and check the bait boxes for the roof rats that have invaded this area a few years ago...toodles...
-
snows - no one knows how to drive in it and those who think they do always are crashed into by those who know they don't but attempt it anyhow.
::)
Our biggest fear here is icing. We keep salt on hand for the porch
stairs; otherwise we can't get out of the house. Valerie slipped on
those icy steps one year and cracked her tailbone.
"Snow, beautiful snow". Well, in reasonable quantities, okay. Why
is it these freezes won't kill the 'take-over' ivy I've been trying to
control for years?
-
With Valentine's Day a week away and so many love poems it is time to start - I recently became aware of the poetry of Petrarch a medieval man of letters- who lived from 1304 to 1374 and whose love poems are beautiful - the sonnet form he used so often is named for him as the Italian form of the Sonnet - the Petrarchan sonnet.
I find no peace, and have no arms for war,
and fear and hope, and burn and yet I freeze,
and fly to heaven, lying on earth's floor,
and nothing hold, and all the world I seize.
My jailer opens not, nor locks the door,
nor binds me to hear, nor will loose my ties;
Love kills me not, nor breaks the chains I wear,
nor wants me living, nor will grant me ease.
I have no tongue, and shout; eyeless, I see;
I long to perish, and I beg for aid;
I love another, and myself I hate.
Weeping I laugh, I feed on misery,
by death and life so equally dismayed:
for you, my lady, am I in this state.
-
After reading this poem I will never again look upon cupid's bow and arrow with the same benign sweet play.
To make a graceful one his sweet vendetta,
redress a thousand slights in one quick swoop,
Love stealthily picked up his bow, much as
a man who schemes a time and palace to hunt.
My vital power was buttressed in my heart
and well defended, there and in my eyes,
until the harsh stroke landed, where before
all arrows that had come had glanced away.
That sudden onslaught and its fell success
left my poor power bewildered and in pain.
It had not time for weapons; it grew weak,
it couldn't help me climb the weary mountain, (mountain means reason)
it couldn't whisk me from that scene of slaughter.
It meant to help, would like to now, but can't.
-
I love Petrarch's style, but oh my, he is in sad shape, isn't he?
I do hope the lady took pity on him.
Since I've been reading a book about Indians for one of our discussions, I went looking for an Indian love poem. They are quite rare.
Most native American poems seem to be prayers. But I did find this
one, and heartily approve.
Shoshone Love Song
Fair is the white star of twilight,
and the sky clearer at the day's end;
But she is fairer, and she is dearer.
She, my heart's friend!
Far stars and fair in the skies bending,
Low stars of hearth fires and wood smoke ascending,
The meadow-lark's nested,
The night hawk is winging;
Home through the star-shine the hunter comes singing.
Fair is the white star of twilight,
And the moon roving
To the sky's end;
But she is fairer, better worth loving,
She, my heart's friend
-
Alas, Babi, Petrarch loved his Laura from afar. The story goes that he saw her in church and fell for her hook, line and sinker. His love was unrequited - possibly unknown - she was married and later had several children. She died young whereupon Petrarch was broken hearted. To express his love for Laura he perfected the art of the Petrarchan (or Italian) sonnet which differs noticeably from the English. Sir Thomas Wyatt is credited with introducing the sonnet into English literature by adapting the Petrarchan model to better suit the English language.
-
Thanks Gum for filling out his story - I see his poem to Laura all over the Internet - and I am trying to figure out his status so to speak - he was ordained however, he is not a monastic as his brother and he does not seem to be attached or assigned to any particular church and so I am trying to figure all this out -
I had not put it together that he was the famous poet till just a week or so ago because I am reading one of the only two books he wrote - Petrarch on Religious Leisure which he writes after visiting his brother for a month or maybe it was two months. Anyhow he decides the monastic life although, filled with praise for what it offers, is not for him.
He and his brother born in Padua, lived together in Avignon as wild and well healed young blades after receiving a very large inheritance when their father died, that they were swindled out of by they believe those who managed their financial estate.
From what I am gathering at this time in history the only way to receive an education of merit is to be sent to a monastery - at least that seems to be what was going on in both Italy and Southern France.
Babi what a lovely love poem you found - I love the concept and phrase
She, my heart's friend!
And not only is this line beautifully written but the concept and the comparison to fire sparks with stars - just wonderful!
Low stars of hearth fires and wood smoke ascending,
-
Ah, yes, I had forgotten about Petrarch's Laura. I am never quite
sure whether I find that story romantic or pathetic. A bit of both,
I guess. And of course the story of the two brothers playing gay young
blades with their inheritance...until it was stolen from them...doesn't
say much for his good sense, either. :-\
-
I've often wondered what would have happened had Laura not been so chaste and perfect and had responded to Petrarch - he would probably have died of fright or run for cover.
Although Petrarch wrote much of his work in Latin he was one of the early Italian writers who also wrote in their own vernacular - he had the examples of Dante (who was the first) and Boccaccio who followed Dante and in some instances Petrarch rewrote stories Boccaccio had written earlier -Griselda is one. This is an extract from Petrarch on the subject....
To be sure, the Latin, in both prose and poetry, is undoubtedly the nobler language, but for that very reason it has been so thoroughly developed by earlier writers that neither we nor anyone else may expect to add very much to it. The vernacular, on the other hand, has but recently been discovered, and, though it has been ravaged by many, it still remains uncultivated, in spite of a few earnest labourers, and still shows itself capable of much improvement and enrichment. Stimulated by this thought, and by the enterprise of youth, I began an extensive work in that language. I laid the foundations of the structure, and got together my lime and stones and wood.
-
I like that quote from Petrarch, GUM. In fact, I think I liked it better than his poem.
Here's one that seems timely:
"Announced by all the trumpets of the sky,
Arrives the snow, and, driving o'er the fields,
Seems nowhere to alight: the withered air
Hides hills and woods, the river, and the heaven,
And veils the farm-house at the garden's end.
The sled and traveler stopped, the courier's feet
Delayed, all friends shut out, and housemates sit
Around the radiant fireplace, enclosed
In a tumultuous privacy of storm."- Ralph Waldo Emerson
-
A wonderful Emerson - I am hoping our snow and cold is over as the weather man is suggesting but the poem you shared is wonderful - trumpets of the sky, -- And veils the farm-house at the garden's end. The sled and traveler stopped, the currier's feet Delayed, - the radiant fireplace, - the tumultuous privacy of storm pure wonderment...!
OK, here is a bit of Yeats...
When You are Old
~ by W. B. Yeats
When you are old and grey and full of sleep,
And nodding by the fire, take down this book,
And slowly read, and dream of the soft look
Your eyes had once, and of their shadows deep;
How many loved your moments of glad grace,
And loved your beauty with love false or true,
But one man loved the pilgrim soul in you,
And loved the sorrows of your changing face;
And bending down beside the glowing bars,
Murmur, a little sadly, how Love fled
And paced upon the mountains overhead
And hid his face amid a crowd of stars.
-
oh and we need a bit of Marlowe...
The Passionate Shepherd to His Love
~ by Christopher Marlowe
Come live with me and be my love,
And we will all the pleasures prove
That valleys, groves, hills, and fields,
Woods, or steepy mountain yields.
And we will sit upon the rocks,
Seeing the shepherds feed their flocks,
By shallow rivers to whose falls
Melodious birds sing madrigals.
And I will make thee beds of roses
And a thousand fragrant posies,
A cap of flowers, and a kirtle
Embroidered all with leaves of myrtle;
A gown made of the finest wool
Which from our pretty lambs we pull;
Fair lined slippers for the cold,
With buckles of the purest gold;
A belt of straw and ivy buds,
With coral clasps and amber studs:
And if these pleasures may thee move,
Come live with me, and be my love.
The shepherds' swains shall dance and sing
For thy delight each May morning:
If these delights thy mind may move,
Then live with me and be my love.
-
I've been promising myself for years to read more of Robert Penn Warren and never do - so here is one of his love poems...
True Love
~ by Robert Penn Warren
In silence the heart raves. It utters words
Meaningless, that never had
A meaning. I was ten, skinny, red-headed,
Freckled. In a big black Buick,
Driven by a big grown boy, with a necktie, she sat
In front of the drugstore, sipping something
Through a straw. There is nothing like
Beauty. It stops your heart. It
Thickens your blood. It stops your breath. It
Makes you feel dirty. You need a hot bath.
I leaned against a telephone pole, and watched.
I thought I would die if she saw me.
How could I exist in the same world with that brightness?
Two years later she smiled at me. She
Named my name. I thought I would wake up dead.
Her grown brothers walked with the bent-knee
Swagger of horsemen. They were slick-faced.
Told jokes in the barbershop. Did no work.
Their father was what is called a drunkard.
Whatever he was he stayed on the third floor
Of the big white farmhouse under the maples for twenty-five years.
He never came down. They brought everything up to him.
I did not know what a mortgage was.
His wife was a good, Christian woman, and prayed.
When the daughter got married, the old man came down wearing
An old tail coat, the pleated shirt yellowing.
The sons propped him. I saw the wedding. There were
Engraved invitations, it was so fashionable. I thought
I would cry. I lay in bed that night
And wondered if she would cry when something was done to her.
The mortgage was foreclosed. That last word was whispered.
She never came back. The family
Sort of drifted off. Nobody wears shiny boots like that now.
But I know she is beautiful forever, and lives
In a beautiful house, far away.
She called my name once. I didn't even know she knew it.
-
You ladies are making me want to cry. These poems are magnificent, but so poignant.
I am inspired by Yeats. Here is a poem in a similar vein by Cavafy.
CANDLES
The days of our future stand before us
like a row of little lighted candles -
golden, warm and lively little candles.
The days gone by remain behind us,
a mournful line of burnt-out candles;
the nearest ones are still smoking,
cold candles, melted and bent.
I do not want to look at them; their form saddens me,
and it saddens me to recall their first light.
I look ahead at my lighted candles.
I do not want to look back, lest I see and shudder -
how quickly the somber line lengthens,
how quickly the burnt-out candles multiply.
C. Cavafy
-
Ah, the Yeats and Marlowe I know. Robert Penn Warren I know only
from his book, "All The Kings' Men".
I'm afraid I found the Cavafy poem depressing. I'd hate to see all
my past as darkened, melted candles. Remembering some of the good
parts is one of my comforts now.
-
Babi - It's strange that you should say that. Although I adore Cavafy I thought this was one of his "darkest" poems. I can see him writing this poem in a small dark room, punishing himself for his "forbidden" loves. He is surrounded by candles and their imagery make a deep impression upon him. Despite this I have always loved this poem. Since I have been dicussing Cavafy with you and others on this board, I often wondered if I should introduce it. I did, with some trepidation, and sure enough you proved my instincts were correct.
I guess it introduces the notion of whether poets write for an audience, or for themselves. The majority of Cavafy's poems indicate the latter. I can't say that his poems make me happy, or even sad, they make me think of HIM.
-
Interesting his concept of time - sad or not - today February 12 is my Mother's Birthday - growing up it was a national holiday when we celebrated special President's Birthdays on their Birthdate - now it is all made into a long weekend shoving the Birthday as the excuse to have Monday off and the two President's Birthdays we celebrated in February, Lincoln and Washington are shoved together and called President's Day - as children we thought the day off for Lincoln's Birthday was really celebrating our Mother's Birthday.
Both my sisters were filled with memories of Mom and emailed me separately, followed by one email that went to all three of us that all three of us responded to - what made it so interesting for me is - I have been into Native American literature and poetry for at least 20 years and you have to know how to read time to understand - Native American's concept of time is, there is no past and no future as we westerners know it - so everything is spoken about in the present tense.
After receiving the emails from my sisters I was sorting my books and picked up a new book by Scott Momaday, Kiowa and a Pulitzer Prize winner - he had a chapter describing for westerners the concept of native time - the explanation - if we go to a movie we do not leave after every frame - repay to enter for the next frame - we pay once and see the entire movie, the entire sequence of frames as one story - and so the Native American's concept of time is like a movie rather than time broken up in years as if frames in a movie.
Well with our memories floating over the internet about our mother it was as if she was here with us - we realized we could see ourselves in our heads as children with her and later when she and we looked older - on and on, so that we realized we were each our own movie and in our heads there was no past - we could see our mind pictures as if they were alive in the room with us.
And so Cavafy may see burnt candle wicks in a darkened space only lit by one current candle while some in the world simply see lines of candles still glowing - still giving light - still alive in our hearts and minds - a women still enjoying a glass of Root Beer with ice cream, still cooking the best oxtail stew, still bending over a scrub board and hanging clothes on the line, still sewing all our clothes and surprising us with new doll clothes for all our dolls at Christmas and still welcoming Spring by picking Lily of the Valley from under the giant pine that grows in the side yard.
-
ROSE, I've always heard that poets are driven to write poetry. I
firmly believe they are writing for themselves, and it's the sincerity
of those poems that makes them resonate with the readers.
What lovely memories of your Mother, BARB. It was a pleasure to
read them, as if reading a poem.
-
Lingering Joys
The tide recedes, but leaves behind bright seashells on the sand.
The sun goes down, but gentle warmth still lingers in the land,
The music stops, and yet it echoes on in sweet refrains...
For every joy that passes, something beautiful remains.
Heirlooms
~ Amy Grant
Up in the attic
Down on my knees
Lifetimes of boxes
Timeless to me.
Letter and photographs
Yellowed with years
Some bringing laughter
Some bringing tears.
Time never changes
The memories, the faces
Of loved ones, who bring to me
All that I come from
And all that I live for
And all that I'm going to be.
My precious family
Is more than an heirloom to me.
-
The Old Family Album
~ Ethel K. Gosney
The old family album
Once was prominently displayed
With its cover of red velvet
Trimmed in gleaming silken braid.
Every parlor had a table
Filled with shells and a paperweight,
And the album of your ancestors
Anchored like a ship of state.
There were old tin types of Grandma,
Aunts and uncles and cousins too...
And Grandpa with his cane and derby,
Fancy vest and button shoes.
Yes, the old family album
Once held its rightful place
In an old-fashioned parlor
Amid souvenirs and lace.
So if you're tired of travel
And your world seems closing in...
Bring out the family album
With the tin types of your kin.
-
The Clothesline Said So Much
A clothesline was a news forecast
To neighbors passing by.
There were no secrets you could keep
When clothes were hung to dry.
It also was a friendly link
For neighbors always knew
If company had stopped on by
To spend a night or two.
For then you'd see the fancy sheets
and towels on the line;
You'd see the comp'ny table clothes
With intricate design.
The line announced a baby's birth
To folks who lived inside
As brand new infant clothes were hung
So carefully with pride.
The ages of the children could
So readily be known
By watching how the sizes changed
You'd know how much they'd grown.
It also told when illness struck,
As extra sheets were hung;
Then nightclothes, and a bathrobe, too,
Haphazardly were strung.
It said, "Gone on vacation now"
When lines hung limp and bare.
It told, "We're back!" when full lines sagged
With not an inch to spare.
New folks in town were scorned upon
If wash was dingy gray,
As neighbors raised their brows, and looked
Disgustedly away.
But clotheslines now are of the past
For dryers make work less.
Now what goes on inside a home
Is anybody's guess
I really miss that way of life.
It was a friendly sign
When neighbors knew each other best
By what hung on the line!
-
Ah, we have nostalgic poems, today. Since I'm feeling my age, I
appreciate those from time to time. But here's another side.
Prayer for Senility:
God grant me the senility
to forget the people I never liked anyway,
the good fortune to run into the ones I do,
and the eyesight to tell the difference.
Don't Worry
At age 20 we worry about what others think of us;
At age 40 we don't care what they think of us;
At age 60 we realize that they haven't been thinking of us at all.--------------------------------------------------------------------------------
-
Haha Babi - Good one!
-
WINTER FOG
Dark Moods
By Ariegaw LE Garcia
It rises from the bottom or maybe it descends from above sometimes you see
it come in from out there floating along the surface of the Bering Sea
a twist on deception in the noiseless freeze all I hear is the motion
of the water against the boat and the fog horn that shatters
the muffled effect of molecules packed tightly together
bone cold obscures my reason unable to control
the chattering of my teeth pulling the nets into
the boat I convulse the line slices into my
fingers icy rage is never planned it
just happens like this thick
winter fog that swallows
you alive leaving no
clues to which
way shore
lies
-
Barb : I have never seen a Winter fog by the sea, this poem helped me to "see" it. Such artistry by poet and poster :-)
-
A Winter Dawn
~ Lucy Maud Montgomery
Above the marge of night a star still shines,
And on the frosty hills the sombre pines
Harbor an eerie wind that crooneth low
Over the glimmering wastes of virgin snow.
Through the pale arch of orient the morn
Comes in a milk-white splendor newly-born,
A sword of crimson cuts in twain the gray
Banners of shadow hosts, and lo, the day!
-
Winter in the Boulevard
~ D. H. Lawrence (1885-1930)
THE frost has settled down upon the trees
And ruthlessly strangled off the fantasies
Of leaves that have gone unnoticed, swept like old
Romantic stories now no more to be told.
The trees down the boulevard stand naked in thought,
Their abundant summery wordage silenced, caught
In the grim undertow; naked the trees confront
Implacable winter's long, cross-questioning brunt.
Has some hand balanced more leaves in the depths of the twigs?
Some dim little efforts placed in the threads of the birch?--
It is only the sparrows, like dead black leaves on the sprigs,
Sitting huddled against the cerulean, one flesh with their perch.
The clear, cold sky coldly bethinks itself.
Like vivid thought the air spins bright, and all
Trees, birds, and earth, arrested in the after-thought
Awaiting the sentence out from the welkin brought.
-
Soon Shall the Winter's Foil Be Here
~ Walt Whitman (1819-1892)
Soon shall the winter's foil be here;
Soon shall these icy ligatures unbind and melt--A little while,
And air, soil, wave, suffused shall be in softness, bloom and
growth--a thousand forms shall rise
From these dead clods and chills as from low burial graves.
Thine eyes, ears--all thy best attributes--all that takes cognizance
of natural beauty,
Shall wake and fill. Thou shalt perceive the simple shows, the
delicate miracles of earth,
Dandelions, clover, the emerald grass, the early scents and flowers,
The arbutus under foot, the willow's yellow-green, the blossoming
plum and cherry;
With these the robin, lark and thrush, singing their songs--the
flitting bluebird;
For such the scenes the annual play brings on.
-
Clean Winter
~ Louise Driscoll (1875-1957)
Winter comes grimly
And cleans house.
Blowing all the leaves away.
The field mouse
Burrows below the soil;
The wind sweeps
All waste places bare.
The snow keeps
Watch over gardens,
Lest seeds stir.
Even the grass hides
Away from her!
-
(http://seniorlearn.org/bookclubs/poetry/poetryspringgirl.jpg) J.W. Waterhouse - Famous Poets and Poems about Spring (http://famouspoetsandpoems.com/thematic_poems/spring_poems.html)
- Link to: Spring Poems (http://poetry.about.com/od/ourpoemcollections/a/springpoems.htm)
Discussion Leaders: Barb (augere@ix.netcom.com) & fairanna (fairanna@cox.net) | Join Us! For a Season of Spring Poetry
A Prayer in Spring
~ Robert Frost
Oh, give us pleasure in the flowers to-day;
And give us not to think so far away
As the uncertain harvest; keep us here
All simply in the springing of the year.
Oh, give us pleasure in the orchard white,
Like nothing else by day, like ghosts by night;
And make us happy in the happy bees,
The swarm dilating round the perfect trees.
And make us happy in the darting bird
That suddenly above the bees is heard,
The meteor that thrusts in with needle bill,
And off a blossom in mid air stands still.
For this is love and nothing else is love,
The which it is reserved for God above
To sanctify to what far ends He will,
But which it only needs that we fulfil.
|
-
Australia
~ Brad Evans (1971- )
In 1825
all Kadaicha
met
to discuss
the white threat
and calmly came to realise
they will be
overcome.
but I am reminded
whenever
i go back
their legacy
their final act
to curse
forever
this white threat.
the number
of accidents
incidents
strange deaths
long droughts
followed by floods
that
the curse
of 1825
goes
on...
-
Barbara: interesting poem - is the poet Brad Evans or do you mean Brett Evans?
I'm no expert on aboriginal customs and lore but the Kadaicha are the 'stones of death' - Kadaicha Man is something like a 'witch doctor' - they're the ones who can point the bone or sing a man to death - usually for a crime committed - once this is done the transgressor will surely die even though he be in perfect strength and health. Amazing power of the mind.
-
Thanks for the explanation Gum and yes, his name is Brad Evans...found a couple more of his poems on-line.
-
The Winter's Spring
~ by John Clare
The winter comes; I walk alone,
I want no bird to sing;
To those who keep their hearts their own
The winter is the spring.
No flowers to please—no bees to hum—
The coming spring's already come.
I never want the Christmas rose
To come before its time;
The seasons, each as God bestows,
Are simple and sublime.
I love to see the snowstorm hing;
'Tis but the winter garb of spring.
I never want the grass to bloom:
The snowstorm's best in white.
I love to see the tempest come
And love its piercing light.
The dazzled eyes that love to cling
O'er snow-white meadows sees the spring.
I love the snow, the crumpling snow
That hangs on everything,
It covers everything below
Like white dove's brooding wing,
A landscape to the aching sight,
A vast expanse of dazzling light.
It is the foliage of the woods
That winters bring—the dress,
White Easter of the year in bud,
That makes the winter Spring.
The frost and snow his posies bring,
Nature's white spurts of the spring
-
Spring Thaw
~ by Virginia Lee Gregory
Spring warmth embraces the mountain crown;
Melts trickles of sweat from the snow.
Rivulets join together, tumbling down
Free and wild--leaving scars of mud-brown.
Spring rejoices with Winter in tow.
In joyous descent, streams grow rash--
Bounce unrestrained over cliff and crag;
Snag roots and leaves; seize timbers and brush.
Impertinent, Spring Thaw makes its dash;
Racing, swirling downward--playing tag.
The deluge pours through breach and plain,
Jubilant in its run to the sea.
Barriers try to hold ground in vain.
Spring Thaw becomes the cowpunchers bane.
Red River crossings rise to the knee.
Constantly upward--waist high now.
Beeve and drovers fear torrents this deep.
Quicksand and silt, difficult to plough,
Snatches at feet of trailhand and cow.
Death Spectre rides near, a soul to reap.
A morass of flesh, hooves, and hide
Struggle across the span of the Red.
Bodies of beeves form a diverse tide
As they swim over the river wide
To travel miles, yet, before they bed.
Oblivious, Spring Thaw cavorts on--
Chasing Winter from mountains and vale;
Opening gates for Summer’s sweet song.
A sigh of relief escapes the throng
Of survivors left to tell the tale.
-
River God
~ Linda Sue Grimes
Every spring along the Whitewater
I saw that some mysterious hand
Had rearranged the rocks and sand.
The path I followed the summer before
Was slipping off into the water.
I could not figure whose force could drive
That water among the reeds & shift its bed
& every spring draw me to its side.
Whose muscles uprooted those trees?
Whose fingers patterned those stones
Along the edge? I guessed
Only the spring thaw
Conjured up changes
In those sleeping river images
-
This first fallen snow
is barely enough to bend
the jonquil leaves
On the polished surface
Of the divine glass,
Chaste with flowers of snow.
-
This is a long one, but it does fit this in-between time of year..
Two Tramps in Mud Time Robert Frost (1934)
Out of the mud two strangers came
And caught me splitting wood in the yard,
And one of them put me off my aim
By hailing cheerily “Hit them hard!”
I knew pretty well why he dropped behind
And let the other go on a way.
I knew pretty well what he had in mind:
He wanted to take my job for pay.
Good blocks of beech it was I split,
As large around as the chopping block;
And every piece I squarely hit
Fell splinterless as a cloven rock.
The blows that a life of self-control
Spares to strike for the common good
That day, giving a loose to my soul,
I spent on the unimportant wood.
The sun was warm but the wind was chill.
You know how it is with an April day
When the sun is out and the wind is still,
You’re one month on in the middle of May.
But if you so much as dare to speak,
A cloud comes over the sunlit arch,
A wind comes off a frozen peak,
And you’re two months back in the middle of March.
A bluebird comes tenderly up to alight
And fronts the wind to unruffle a plume
His song so pitched as not to excite
A single flower as yet to bloom.
It is snowing a flake: and he half knew
Winter was only playing possum.
Except in color he isn’t blue,
But he wouldn’t advise a thing to blossom.
The water for which we may have to look
In summertime with a witching wand,
In every wheel rut’s now a brook,
In every print of a hoof a pond.
Be glad of water, but don’t forget
The lurking frost in the earth beneath
That will steal forth after the sun is set
And show on the water its crystal teeth.
The time when most I loved my task
These two must make me love it more
By coming with what they came to ask.
You’d think I never had felt before
The weight of an axhead poised aloft,
The grip on earth of outspread feet.
The life of muscles rocking soft
And smooth and moist in vernal heat.
Out of the woods two hulking tramps
(From sleeping God knows where last night,
But not long since in the lumber camps.)
They thought all chopping was theirs of right.
Men of the woods and lumberjacks,
They judged me by their appropriate tool.
Except as a fellow handled an ax,
They had no way of knowing a fool.
Nothing on either side was said.
They knew they had but to stay their stay
And all their logic would fill my headAs that I had no right to play
With what was another man’s work for gain.
My right might be love but theirs was need.
And where the two exist in twain
Theirs was the better right — agreed.
But yield who will to their separation,
My object in living is to unite
My avocation and my vocation
As my two eyes make one in sight.
Only where love and need are one,
And the work is play for mortal stakes,
Is the deed ever really done
For heaven and the future’s sakes.:
-
What a great find Babi - I was not familiar with this poem - and yes, perfect for this time of year - all weekend we were experiencing late Spring and yesterday winter rolled back in.
-
Well, we're used to that, aren't we. An early Spring, and then a fresh
cold snap just to remind us not to take anything for granted. It's Texas,
after all.
-
How about where you are - we look so much sadder this Spring because the two cold spells were colder than usual and froze out too much - t here is a huge 50 year growth of Jasmine on the side fence that normally would this time of year would be deep green and covered in yellow blossoms - it really needs to be cut back to the ground - in the back there are some green branches but it is as brown as the lawn - I think if we had a good soaking rain it would help but all we get are misty days - what has really saddened me is I had a beautiful agave and a yucca in front that do catch the north wind and I had covered both with wool blankets over wire cages but oh they too are obviously frozen with most of the fronds or stalks or whatever they are called having turned brown. Again, I am hoping a good rain may bring some of this back. - need to find a poem about early Spring rain.
-
Water is the driver of Nature.
- Leonardo da Vinci
Before the Rain
We knew it would rain, for the poplars showed
The white of their leaves, the amber grain
Shrunk in the wind,--and the lightning now
Is tangled in tremulous skeins of rain.
- Thomas Bailey Aldrich,
Millions long for immortality who do not
know what to do with themselves
on a rainy Sunday afternoon.
- Susan Ertz
Truths are first clouds; then rain, then harvest and food.
- Henry Ward Beecher
-
Not as good a soaking as I hoped for but it did rain this morning and although dreary it was nice to see wet...
In Praise of the Earth
~ John O'Donohue, (1956 - 2008)
Let us bless
The imagination of the Earth,
That knew early the patience
To harness the mind of time,
Waited for the seas to warm,
Ready to welcome the emergence
Of things dreaming of voyaging
Among the stillness of land.
And how light knew to nurse
The growth until the face of the Earth
Brightened beneath a vision of color.
When the ages of ice came
And sealed the Earth inside
An endless coma of cold,
The heart of the Earth held hope,
Storing fragments of memory,
Ready for the return of the sun.
Let us thank the Earth
That offers ground for home
And holds our feet firm
To walk in space open
To infinite galaxies.
Let us salute the silence
And certainty of mountains:
Their sublime stillness,
Their dream-filled hearts.
The wonder of a garden
Trusting the first warmth of spring
Until its black infinity of cells
Becomes charged with dream;
Then the silent, slow nurture
Of the seed's self, coaxing it
To trust the act of death.
The humility of the Earth
That transfigures all
That has fallen
Of outlived growth.
The kindness of the Earth,
Opening to receive
Our worn forms
Into the final stillness.
Let us ask forgiveness of the Earth
For all our sins against her:
For our violence and poisonings
Of her beauty.
Let us remember within us
The ancient clay,
Holding the memory of seasons,
The passion of the wind,
The fluency of water,
The warmth of fire,
The quiver-touch of the sun
And shadowed sureness of the moon.
That we may awaken,
To live to the full
The dream of the Earth
Who chose us to emerge
And incarnate its hidden night
In mind, spirit, and light.
-
Oh, yes, BARB. I didn't think about my bougainvillea when the
freezes occurred. I always think of it as such a hardy bush, and
it's right up against the shelter of a stone wall. But it it now
all brown. I need to prune it back, and see if new growth will come
in.
I love the lines from Aldrich. I've seen that ironic line from
Susan Ertz before; it made me grin then, too. She is so right. If
I'm going to live forever in Heaven, I do hope God has plans to keep
us busy!
You know, I read the poem by John O'Donahue and found myself
wondering it that was a Monsignor John Donahue. I had to look him up
and found that he had indeed been a Catholic priest, but left the
priesthood in 1990. The article said he was know for promoting
Celtic spirituality. Surely his poem reflects that; it's beautiful.
-
It fits Babi - the site that I found his poem was a web site of 20th century Irish poets - I bet it is the same person - an earlier poet who was also a priest and whose poems are so lyrical is Gerard Manley Hopkins. I am always enchanted reading any literature or poetry from an Irish writer - they have a way with words like no other in my opinion.
-
Oh for heavens sake - I immediately Googled him after your post and lo and behold I do know of him - there was a PBS special that I think may even be the video on this web site http://being.publicradio.org/programs/john_odonahue/
-
Spring
~ Gerard Manley Hopkins (1844–89).
NOTHING is so beautiful as spring—
When weeds, in wheels, shoot long and lovely and lush;
Thrush’s eggs look little low heavens, and thrush
Through the echoing timber does so rinse and wring
The ear, it strikes like lightnings to hear him sing;
The glassy peartree leaves and blooms, they brush
The descending blue; that blue is all in a rush
With richness; the racing lambs too have fair their fling.
What is all this juice and all this joy?
A strain of the earth’s sweet being in the beginning
In Eden garden.—Have, get, before it cloy,
Before it cloud, Christ, lord, and sour with sinning,
Innocent mind and Mayday in girl and boy,
Most, O maid’s child, thy choice and worthy the winning.
-
There is nothing like natural beauty to touch the soul and sooth with a
sense of innocence and grace. Mr. Hopekins says it beautifully.
Remember this old Wordsworth poem?
The World is Too Much With Us
The world is too much with us; late and soon,
Getting and spending, we lay waste our powers;
Little we see in Nature that is ours;
We have given our hearts away, a sordid boon!
This Sea that bares her bosom to the moon,
The winds that will be howling at all hours,
And are up-gathered now like sleeping flowers,
For this, for everything, we are out of tune;
It moves us not. -Great God! I'd rather be
A Pagan suckled in a creed outworn;
So might I, standing on this pleasant lea,
Have glimpses that would make me less forlorn;
Have sight of Proteus rising from the sea;
Or hear old Triton blow his wreathed horn.
-
Babi I have no idea what happened to my post from yesterday - bottom line I emailed the poem you found to several of my friends - what a wonderful find - it filled me with deep satisfaction.
Onward for today - I have recently purchased a book about Dorothy Wordsworth that includes her poetry and then another that is her diary - fascinating woman - have not finished either book yet - anxious to understand how a sister can devote her whole life to a brother even after he marries and still continued to have an important place in the household. .
One of her poems
Floating Island
~ by Dorothy Wordsworth
Harmonious Powers with Nature work
On sky, earth, river, lake, and sea:
Sunshine and storm, whirlwind and breeze
All in one duteous task agree.
Once did I see a slip of earth,
By throbbing waves long undermined,
Loosed from its hold; — how no one knew
But all might see it float, obedient to the wind.
Might see it, from the mossy shore
Dissevered float upon the Lake,
Float, with its crest of trees adorned
On which the warbling birds their pastime take.
Food, shelter, safety there they find
There berries ripen, flowerets bloom;
There insects live their lives — and die:
A peopled world it is; in size a tiny room.
And thus through many seasons’ space
This little Island may survive
But Nature, though we mark her not,
Will take away — may cease to give.
Perchance when you are wandering forth
Upon some vacant sunny day
Without an object, hope, or fear,
Thither your eyes may turn — the Isle is passed away.
Buried beneath the glittering Lake!
Its place no longer to be found,
Yet the lost fragments shall remain,
To fertilize some other ground.
-
i had an immediate frisson of memory when I saw The World Is Too Much With Us. I realised I knew the first 4 lines as well as my own name, but typically, not where I remember them from.
Something else to add to the growing and frustrating list of things, I'm trying to claw back from my memory files. Perhaps it was a quote on the front of a book or something similar.
I'm enjoying your choices, Barbara, they seem to harmonise with the series on Britain's coastlines, I'm watching on TV.
-
Octavia - glad you stopped by - please feel free to share a poem with us - either the poetry you find or remember or one of your own - reading poetry for some of us brings our spirit closer to understanding ourselves than all the techniques of meditation espoused today... look forward to your posts Octavia.
-
I have heard/read the term "outworn creed" many times, and on
reading the Wordsworth poem I thought his "creed outworn" must be
the source. But no, on checking I find that Tacitus used 'outworn creed'
centuries before. Who knows, even he might not be the first to note
that a creed can lose it's authority.
-
I guess creeds can change often - in that all a creed is - is a statement of a belief or the system towards an agreed upon ethic - ethic being the community of valued individual morality.
And so as individual morality is altered because of education, new revelation, or life experiences that the old morality no longer works then with enough individuals changing there has to be a change in ethics and so that change means their creed would be adjusted
With the rate we experience unexpected events in our lives that require we value a new or, changed morality and then seeing the change in the community, either a nation or a business or a school or simply a family - with enough families making a change I can see how creeds can be outdated over time regardless in an ancient civilization or a modern civilization.
Interesting Babi, almost like following a Geometry proof.
Have a poem for tomorrow that to me is so lovely it needs a post all of its own. And so to follow...
-
Blow, Wild March Wind
~ William Wilsey Martin: 1885
From 'By Solent and Danube'. A rondeau.
Blow, wild March wind! In hollows of the lea,
In copses low, thy bride awaiteth thee—
The timid, saint-like, white anemone.
She will not show her face, though woo'd by kings,
Till o'er her beat the pulsings of thy wings.
Blow, wild March wind! that we her face may see,
Through pine-clad gorges by our northward sea,
Through English woodlands where the blackcap sings.
Blow, wild March wind!
She lifts her face. The answering passion stings
Her veined leaves, at the rough kiss he brings.
Sing round her bridal couch thy melody,
Thy breath is life to her. Apart from thee
She droops and dies, the frailest of frail things—
Then blow, March wind!
-
WIND SONG
Author Unknown
Here comes the wind, with a noise and a whir,
Out on the streets he is making a stir.
Now he sends flying a fine, stiff hat,
Tosses and leaves it all muddy and flat;
Turns an umbrella quite inside out,
Tears up stray papers and scatters about,
Makes big balloons out of ladies' long capes,
Skirts into sails, then--the queerest of shapes.
The wind is an enemy, often we say:
"We never quite like it--a windy day!"
The winds blows the seeds from their close little pods
And scatters them far away--rods upon rods;
He plants them where never an eye could see
Place for their growing and blooming to be.
He blows away rain, and scatters the dew,
He sweeps the earth clean and makes it all new.
He blows away sickness and brings good health
He comes overladen with beauty and wealth.
Oh, the wind is a friend! Let us always say:
"We love it, we love it, a windy day!"
-
End of Winter
~ by Eve Merriam
Bare-handed reach
to catch
April's
incoming curve.
Leap higher than you thought you could and
Hold:
Spring,
Solid,
Here.
-
Two wonderful poems on wind, and both so different. A gust of wind
caught me slightly off-balance Sunday and very nearly knocked me
over. We are definitely coming into the windy season. Too bad it's not
likely to bring up any anemones around here.
-
Barb and Babi - The poem that most struck a chord with me about wind was Blow, Wild March Wind ~ William Wilsey Martin. There was something familiar about it, something I had read many years ago. It is this : anemos is the Greek word for Wind.
Canada Anemone
by Fleda Brown
I count nineteen white blossoms
which would not be
visible except for
their wiry stems that catapult them
above the grass like
the last white pop
of fireworks, a toothed blast
of leaf below. It’s
the Fourth of July
on the bank of Hinkson Creek
fifty years ago, the powder-
bitterness, the red
combustion, my life, since
anemos means wind, means
change, no matter
that I’ve been held all along in this
thin twenty miles of atmosphere.
The wind’s disturbed
the leaves, rolled the waves,
convincing enough. Each
star of a bloom
is driven upward almost against
its small nature. All it can do
is hang on and die.
Still, it did want to go
as high as possible,
for some reason,
to sway up there like an art object.
-
Wow Babi that must have been some wind - scary - I was pleased the wind blew all the Oak leaves that have been dropping off my patio - they pile up and are so dense that if it rains I have one sodden cover that takes a shovel and not a rake - even the blower does not move them - then the paper sacks we have to use to recycle yard clippings gets all wet and will often break before I can get them out for the trash. And so I was elated to see the wind take care of one round of leaves.
roshanarose - I am not sure if an "art object" is a good thing, a bad thing, a show off thing, being too big for its breeches thing - I had heard that the mind set in Australia is something like do not be taller than the sunflowers all around you and that the tall ones have their flower head topped - this being an Australian poet I wondered if that was the thinking so basic that we could mis-understand the punch line to this poem. Help us out here - please?
How wonderful to know that anemos is the Greek word for wind and so the flowers anemones are really wind flowers - I do not think I have ever seen a white anemone - lots of purples and pinks but not white - that must be a sight with all these flowers growing near a river. We have a small flower on a long stem for the size of the flower - the stems are 15 to 18 inches long that come up after a good soaking rain - they are wild and are called rainlily's - they will pop up even on someone's well cared for front lawn - usually they are scattered - a few here and there but last summer there was a host of them that popped up across the street in the school yard - what a sight.
Here is a poem about the wood anemone - I think there is a Japanese and seems to me there is also a sea anemone - not up on my anemones - but here we have a poem a Sonnet to be exact by one of the romantics of the nineteenth century.
Sonnet: Wood Anemone
~ John Clare (1793-1864)
The wood anemone through dead oak leaves
And in the thickest woods now blooms anew,
And where the green briar and the bramble weaves
Thick clumps o'green, anemones thicker grew,
And weeping flowers in thousands pearled in dew
People the woods and brakes, hid hollows there,
White, yellow and purple-hued the wide wood through.
What pretty drooping weeping flowers they are:
The clipt-frilled leaves, the slender stalk they bear
On which the drooping flower hangs weeping dew,
How beautiful through April time and May
The woods look, filled with wild anemone;
And every little spinney now looks gay
With flowers mid brushwood and the huge oak tree.
-
My 'new' used book arrived this evening - "Relke on Love and Other Difficulties" translated by John J.L.Mood - I shop Amazon's marketplace - for $3.69 including 2 day shipping, I have a lovely copy of a book that priced new is $7.95 - when you buy as many books as I do every dollar saved counts.
Reading the first pages I learn that Rilke was far beyond the women's liberation advocates of a Mlle. de Beauvoir in the 60s and also, he wrote from a masculine view point with masculine goals of freedom and equality as its primary focus. In the intro to Letters on Love the translator says, "he started at the place where most of us at best manage finally to end up" He quotes in response to Rilke's understanding of solitude and the provisional nature of being human.
Rilke says, "Verily, nature speaks not of love; nature bears it in her heart and more knows the heart of nature,. Verily, God bears love in the world, yet the world overwhelms us. Verily, the mother speaks not of love, for it is borne for her within the child, and the child destroys it. Verily, the spirit speaks not of love, for the spirit thrusts it into the future, and the future is remote. Verily, the lover speaks not of love, for to the lover it comes in sorrow, and sorrow sheds tears."
I had to take a minute to digest this - I looked and saw the love spoken by the mother is borne not born - and then it started to clear up because of course the child has to break that bond in order to be a free adult with their own self - not sure about the lover in sorrow nor the love in spirit but I am thinking as I read it will become clear.
Oh my - I am reading and sharing immediately - I love what he says about marriage - let me quote "...It is a question in marriage, to my feeling, not of creating a quick community of spirit by tearing down and destroying all boundaries, but rather a good marriage is that in which each appoints the other guardian of his solitude, and shows him this confidence, the greatest in his power to bestow. A togetherness between two people is an impossibility, and where it seems, nevertheless, to exist, it is a narrowing, a reciprocal agreement which robs either one party of both of his fullest freedom and development. But once the realization is accepted that even between the closest human beings infinite distances continue to exist, a wonderful living side by side can grow up, of they succeed in loving the distance between them which makes it possible for each to see the other whole and against a wide sky!"
We are not to know why
this and that masters us;
real life makes no reply,
only that it enrapturesus
makes us familiar with it
May 1924
If you'd attempt this, however; hand in hand to be mine,
as the wine in the wineglass is wine.
If you'd attempt this.
November, 1925
Are not the nights fashioned from the sorrowful
space of all the open arms a lover suddenly lost.
Eternal lover, who desires to endure: exhaust
yourself like a spring, enclose yourself like a laurel.
Summer, 1909
Interesting - the space of self-hood is what he values - I never thought of it, but it is that space where we retain our integrity of self - our dreams and thoughts that are our own and not the shared dreams and thoughts that become a common force in a marriage - the promise to each other to protect that space, so that we continue to be more than the mingling of our essence - the concept opens my mind and yet, it is what we think of today in a healthy marriage. I remember it was not the concept that were the guides to a happy marriage written in magazines or, shown as the example of the good wife in the movies or, in the basis of the women's role in novels back in the 50s and for many of us, right into the early 80s.
Ah so - I get it now - to be entwined in a love union is, if only temporarily, bridging that space and that is where the sorrow comes in. Sorrow for the space that is lost and hopefully to be found again. So we trade the entanglement of love with the loss of the space that like a buttress holds us as individuals.
-
Barb - Actually, Fleda Brown is American.
"Fleda Brown has a collection of memoir essays, Driving With Dvorak, from the University of Nebraska Press. Her sixth collection of poems, Reunion, won the Felix Pollak Prize and was published in 2008 by University of Wisconsin Press. She is professor emerita of the University of Delaware. She now lives in Traverse City, Michigan, and teaches in the Rainier Writing Program in Tacoma, Washington"
I think maybe what you are referring to is the "tall poppy syndrome". Certainly, it exists in Australia, but to my mind it originated in Ancient Greece. They called it "ostracism". Ask Themistocles.
I think you are right about that tiny white anenome's moment of glory. No longer one of the masses. An Art Object in its own right. Similar to a falling star. When else is a star singled out than when it is falling?
-
owwww I like "I think you are right about that tiny white anenome's moment of glory. No longer one of the masses. An Art Object in its own right. Similar to a falling star. When else is a star singled out than when it is falling?"
Huh! - so Fleda Brown is an American - see how quickly I assumed the understanding of a poem because of the concept we share of the tall poppy syndrome being alive and well in Australia - I guess we are all shaded by the bits and pieces we hear over the years - from Greece - oh my - well we sure are not reading about that Grecian philosophy of the tall poppy over in the Odyssey are we...
Whow to live in Michigan and teach in Tacoma Washington - that is some commute - I bet she is in either place seasonally - I cannot even imagine flying back and forth for a long weekend. Although my younger sister lives on the outer banks of North Carolina and is the Dean of English at Cluny in New York City where she has another house - she stays in NY for a couple of weeks then is able to drive to NC for a long 4 days weekend and then spends the fall and half the summer semester in NC so that she teaches during the Spring semester in addition to her other duties but that drive is only 9 hours - no where like the difference between Michigan and Washington.
Just on the phone with my daughter as we discussed what we think is a better image of marriage that today is more often practiced but my daughter said how she often feels guilty since supporting each other's space is NOT what the churches and media cherish today. The talk is still about togetherness - the family or couple who do this or that together kind of thing not that protecting space is the buttress to our growth and sense of self. We had a great conversation which is always pleasing isn't it.
-
ROSHANA, the lines that especially caught my attention were,
Still, it did want to go
as high as possible,
for some reason,
Isn't that a deep instinct in most of us?
I'm finding the quotes from Rilke a bit hard to take. For instance,
it is not the bond of love that a child must break, but the bond of
dependency. A few too many 'verily's in there for my taste, too.
I liked what he said about a good spouse being a guardian of the
other's solitude, but not the idea that 'togetherness' robs people
of their "fullest freedom and development". That 'togetherness'
can sometimes be the support that enables one to find that
full development. Remember the song, "You are the wind beneath
my wings"? That's what I have in mind.
-
Oh perfect Babi - I think that is what Rilke talks about - the wind is not the wings and the wings, the moving and spiritual nature of a person is not the wind, the breathe of the universe - just as the wine in the glass is its own wine so that two wines are not co-mingled, they are each separate in a glass - without the glass you cannot drink the special taste of a wine - just as the cup or glass, the container holds the spirit of each individual, a mother, a child, a wife, a husband. Without the container we blend and mesh beyond recognition. The act of being the wind beneath someone's wings sounds to me like honoring and pushing a person's specialness - what a gift to accept when someone is willing to love by being the wind beneath someone's wings for years - without the wind no one flies - as without the glass the special taste of one wine cannot be admired and enjoyed.
Last night talking with my daughter she explained how this winter Gary decided to get in shape and joined a gym where he drives, before the crack of dawn in the dark to get there by 6: The gym is down in Greenville SC, 30 minutes from the house near his store - Computer Outlet - at the gym he grunts and groans on the machines with a bunch of guys that ‘out-sweat’ each other. Also this winter my daughter received a memo at school that the 7th Day Adventist were giving Teachers a half price rate to use their facilities located north of where they live by, you guessed it - 30 minutes - the facility includes a large lap pool. Katha loves to swim - she joined - and the two of them joke and scheme at dinner over their progress - But when my daughter shared this at Church and with some friends in the neighborhood they were shocked that they were in two separate facilities and then she started to feel guilty and then justified her guilt thinking maybe she was wasting money.
When we talked, using the Rilke quotes she felt a sigh of relief - yes, they were both enjoying and accomplishing, each in the environment that best suited their personality and it gave them something to talk about. Gary especially was urging on my daughter, who ended up last week sharing with her cousin and now the two of them are emailing each other back and forth with a shared excitement to get healthy.
The space to do and be their best is honored and further, as we talked she saw the time Gary spends coaching soccer was never a problem and so why should Katha feel guilty over time she could take with her art work rather than feeling she must be attending those games - Yes, her cheering the team is nice but if she was not there Gary would still coach - their boys are no longer that age so it is not like she would be bailing out as a mom - it feels strange but she knows her time is so limited and to give up her art when the boys were playing was one thing but to give it up simply to be there for Gary, who is fine with the parents of the boys doing the cheering. A new freedom to be more of who she was when they fell in love that feels strange but she is going to try it and pull out her materials again and set it up downstairs.
They both introduced each other to what was them and the boys are perfect examples - here Ty is at the Savannah School of Art with a 4 year scholarship and grant paying 3/4ths of the tuition – tuition is 40k a year - and Cade has already been offered a scholarship at Duke for his skill as a soccer player and he is only a Junior in High School -
Now we are fans of not feeling guilty pursuing individual interests and talents that may be different and yet, because of the space to grow there is more excitement and joy shared with each other. But then not everyone will feel this way and that is fine - whatever works for them.
I haven't read a poet in a long time that sparked such an in-depth look at life – Rilke for me is special - a shift in acknowledging what we are about so that guilt is set aside - I love it - obviously - my many posts being dazzled with the concept. I look at the majority of marriages today - both are working in separate jobs often in separate fields - to honor success and be the wind under each other's wings has a new meaning than in our generation where it was unusual for a mom to work outside the house.
A look back and seldom was there an attitude of wind under the wings of a mom - it was expected she should and could manage. Also, she did it alone with maybe the support of her mom and a few friends - but guys, husbands or not, did not expect to get into the domain of the house and so in that way we were separate but the guys were not expected to act as wind under the wings of a housewife. However, housewives dropped everything to support not only our kids but also the success of our husbands.
Rilke lived and worked during the early part of the twentieth century therefore, he would be more familiar with women as housewives and so I think it is amazing that he could see space between intimate relationships needing to be loved and honored to foster personal growth in a marriage when all around him folks were giving up something of themselves in the name of love and togetherness.
-
Since you were onto "WIND' before you descended (or went up) to Rilke I was busy remembering this childhood favorite by Robert L. Stevenson:
The Wind
I saw you toss the kites on high
And blow the birds about the sky:
And all around I heard you pass,
Like Ladies skirts across the grass.--
O wind, a blowing all day lomg,
O wind,that sings so loud a song!
I saw the differnt things you did
But always you yourself you hid.
I felt you push, heard you call,
I could not see yourself at all--
O wind, a-blowing all day long,
O wind, that sings so loud a song!
O you that are so strong and cold,
O blower, are you young or old?
Are you beast of field and tree,
Or just a stronger child than me?
O wind, a-blowing all day long,
O wind thaat sings so loud a song!
-
Thanks Jude for the reminder - that poem paints a picture like no other - you can feel and hear the wind when reading Stevenson's poem - wonderful... to continue with the wind here is another...
Spring Wind in London
~ by Katherine Mansfield
I Blow across the stagnant world,
I blow across the sea,
For me, the sailor's flag unfurled,
For me, the uprooted tree.
My challenge to the world is hurled;
The world must bow to me.
I drive the clouds across the sky,
I huddle them like sheep;
Merciless shepherd-dog am I
And shepherd-watch I keep.
If in the quiet vales they lie
I blow them up the steep.
Lo! In the tree-tops do I hide,
In every living thing;
On the moon's yellow wings I glide,
On the wild rose I swing;
On the sea-horse's back I ride,
And what then do I bring?
And when a little child is ill
I pause, and with my hand
I wave the window curtain's frill
That he may understand
Outside the wind is blowing still;
...It is a pleasant land.
O stranger in a foreign place,
See what I bring to you.
This rain--is tears upon your face;
I tell you--tell you true
I came from that forgotten place
Where once the wattle grew,--
All the wild sweetness of the flower
Tangled against the wall.
It was that magic, silent hour....
The branches grew so tall
They twined themselves into a bower.
The sun shown... and the fall
Of yellow blossom on the grass!
You feel that golden rain?
Both of you could not hold, alas,
(both of you tried, in vain)
A memory, stranger. So I pass....
It will not come again
-
MARCH WIND
~ author unknown
Never mind March, we know
When you blow
You're really not mad
Or angry or bad,
You're only blowing the winter away,
To get the world ready
For April and May.
:D don't you love it?
-
When the early soft spring wind comes blowing
~ Sappho, 630 BC - 570 BC (Greek poetess who lived on the island of Lesbos and whose work has survived in fragments.)
When the early soft spring wind comes blowing
Over Rhodes and Samos and Miletus,
From the seven mouths of Nile to Lesbos,
Freighted with sea-odours and gold sunshine,
What news spreads among the island people
In the market-place of Mitylene,
Lending that unwonted stir of gladness
To the busy streets and thronging doorways?
Is it word from Ninus or Arbela,
Babylon the great, or Northern Imbros?
Have the laden galleons been sighted
Stoutly labouring up the sea from Tyre?
Nay, 'tis older news that foreign sailor
With the cheek of sea-tan stops to prattle
To the young fig-seller with her basket
And the breasts that bud beneath her tunic,
And I hear it in the rustling tree-tops.
All this passionate bright tender body
Quivers like a leaf the wind has shaken,
Now love wanders through the aisles of springtime.
-
Oh and we cannot forget -
The Wind and the Moon
~ by George MacDonald
Said the Wind to the Moon, "I will blow you out.
You stare in the air
Like a ghost in a chair,
Always looking what I am about.
I hate to be watched; I will blow you out."
The Wind blew hard, and out went the Moon.
So, deep on a heap
Of clouds, to sleep
Down lay the Wind, and slumbered soon--
Muttering low. "I've done for that Moon."
He turned in his bed; she was there again.
On high in the sky,
With her one ghost eye,
The Moon shone white and alive and plain.
Said the Wind, "I will blow you out again."
The Wind blew hard, and the Moon grew dim.
"With my sledge and my wedge
I have knocked off her edge.
If only I blow right fierce and grim,
The creature will soon be dimmer than dim."
He blew and he blew, and she thinned to a thread.
"One puff more's enough
To blow her to snuff!
One good puff more where the last was bred,
And glimmer, glimmer glum will go the thread."
He blew a great blast, and the thread was gone;
In the air nowhere
Was a moonbeam bare;
Far off and harmless the shy stars shone;
Sure and certain the Moon was gone!
The Wind he took to his revels once more:
On down, in town,
Like a merry-mad clown,
He leaped and hallooed with whistle and roar--
"What's that?" The glimmering thread once more.
He flew in a rage--he danced and blew;
But in vain was the pain
Of his bursting brain;
For still the broader the moon-scrap grew,
The broader he swelled his big cheeks and blew.
Slowly she grew--till she filled the night,
And shone on her throne
In the sky alone,
A matchless, wonderful, silvery light,
Radiant and lovely, the queen of the night.
Said the Wind: "What a marvel of power am I
With my breath, good faith,
I blew her to death--
First blew her away right out of the sky--
Then blew her in; what a strength am I!"
But the Moon she knew nothing about the affair,
For, high in the sky,
With her one white eye,
Motionless, miles above the air,
She had never heard the great Wind blare.
-
(http://seniorlearn.org/bookclubs/poetry/poetryspringgirl.jpg) J.W. Waterhouse - Famous Poets and Poems about Spring (http://famouspoetsandpoems.com/thematic_poems/spring_poems.html)
- Link to: Spring Poems (http://poetry.about.com/od/ourpoemcollections/a/springpoems.htm)
Discussion Leaders: Barb (augere@ix.netcom.com) & fairanna (fairanna@cox.net) | Join Us! For a Season of Spring Poetry
A Prayer in Spring
~ Robert Frost
Oh, give us pleasure in the flowers to-day;
And give us not to think so far away
As the uncertain harvest; keep us here
All simply in the springing of the year.
Oh, give us pleasure in the orchard white,
Like nothing else by day, like ghosts by night;
And make us happy in the happy bees,
The swarm dilating round the perfect trees.
And make us happy in the darting bird
That suddenly above the bees is heard,
The meteor that thrusts in with needle bill,
And off a blossom in mid air stands still.
For this is love and nothing else is love,
The which it is reserved for God above
To sanctify to what far ends He will,
But which it only needs that we fulfil.
|
-
I love Spring and I love poetry. These presented are among the most beautiful I have ever read...thankyou.
-
Glad you stopped by Janice - and please, if you have a poem to share that would be lovely...
-
BARB, I had to read that first paragraph two or three times,
but I finally figured out what you were saying. Well, it is
early and I haven't been awake long. :)
-
We Need a bit of humor so first we have Emily Dickinson on Spring
A little madness in the Spring
Is wholesome even for the King,
But God be with the clown-
Who ponders this tremendous scene-
The whole Experiment of Green-
As if it were his own.
And next Shakespeare (Loves Labor Lost)
When daisies pied, and violets blue,
And lady-smocks all silver white,
And cuckoo buds of yellow hue
Do paint the meadows with delight,
The cuckoo then, on every tree,
Mocks married men, for thus sings he:
"Cuckoo!
Cuckoo, cuckoo!" O word of fear,
Unpleasing to a married ear.
When shepherds pipe onoaten straws,
And merry larks are ploughmen's clocks,
When turtles tread and rooks, and daws,
And maidens bleach their summer smocks,
The cuckoo then, on every tree,
Mocks married men, for thus sings he:
"Cockoo
Cuckoo,cuckoo!" O word of fear,
Unpleasing to a married ear.
-
Jude two winners - thanks - just what I needed tonight - been a strange day with a headache that would not let up so that had to even miss a class - long nap this afternoon with some migraine meds - tonight I feel like if I step crooked it will all come back - if it were later in Spring I would be sitting on the patio - legs pulled up with a hot cup of tea. And so the poems you shared were just the balm I needed -
I love the line - "And lady-smocks all silver white," and then in the next bit the maidens are bleaching their smocks - I think back when my daughter was young and Spring meant a simple cotton pinafore - all she needed was butterflies dancing around her head to complete the picture but it is the kind of memory most of us like to imagine life is all about - but alas - God sometimes can be with the clowns, green or otherwise.
-
Lovliest of Trees
~ A. E. Houseman
Loveliest of trees, the cherry now
Is hung with bloom along the bough,
And stands about the woodland ride
Wearing white for Eastertide.
Now, of my threescore years and ten,
Twenty will not come again,
And take from seventy springs a score,
It only leaves me fifty more.
And since to look at things in bloom
Fifty springs are little room,
About the woodlands I will go
To see the cherry hung with snow.
-
Barb
I hope your headache gets better!
The Houseman Poem is new to me . I thought I knew most of his work but I'm always happy to be surprised with a delightful one that for me,is new.
-
I echo JUDE's good wishes re. your headache, BARB. And I've always
loved that Houseman poem. I also offer, not a poem, but some interesting data about the month of March.
"The word 'March' comes from the Roman 'Martius'. This was originally the first month of the Roman calendar and was named after Mars, the god of war. March was the beginning of our calendar year. We changed to the 'New Style' or 'Gregorian calendar in 1752, and it is only since then when we the year began on 1st January. The Anglo-Saxons called the month Hlyd monath which means Stormy month, or Hraed monath which means Rugged month. All through Lent the traditional games played are marbles and skipping. The games were stopped on the stroke of twelve noon on Good Friday, which in some places was called Marble Day or Long Rope Day. The game of marbles has been played for hundreds of years and some historians say that it might have been started by rolling eggs. In the past, round stones, hazelnuts, round balls of baked clay and even cherry stones have been used."
- Facts About March
-
who would have guessed 'playing marbles' and skipping rope are ancient games for Spring - fun!
Ode to Marbles
~ Ted Kooser, US Poet Laureate 2004-2006
I love the sound of marbles
scattered on the worn wooden floor,
like children running away in a game of hide-and-seek.
I love the sight of white marbles,
blue marbles,
green marbles, black,
new marbles, old marbles,
iridescent marbles,
with glass-ribboned swirls,
dancing round and round.
I love the feel of marbles,
cool, smooth,
rolling freely in my palm,
like smooth-sided stars
that light up the worn world.
-
Let's Play Marbles
~ Kathy Paysen
Freckles lightly sprinkled
A little toothless smile
A bag of colored marbles
Rolled out to play awhile
A circle drawn in the dirt
Tussled hair on one knee
Shooters behind thumbs
Knocking out pee wees
Cat eyes start to chase
A steely joins the game
Devil’s eyes and mashers
Then the boulders came
A free for all in the dirt
A circle of great friends
A collection of marbles
A circle that never ends
Marbles throughout time
Found in ancient pyramids
Puries and sapphire wonders
A game to make kids, just kids
-
do you remember jumping to
FIVE plum PEAS in a PEApod PRESSED.
ONE grew, TWO grew, SO DID the REST
They GREW, they GREW
they GREW so BIG
Never stopped growing
till the PEApod POPPED! - Your OUT
-
No, I never heard that jump rope stanza, though I knew quote a few
others. And marbles can be so beautiful, can't they. My best childhood
memories are of swimming, tumbling and skating. Such a sense of
freedom in them.
-
Orkney/This Life
It is big sky and its changes,
the sea all round and the waters within.
It is the way sea and sky
work off each other constantly,
like people meeting in Alfred Street,
each face coming away with a hint
of the other’s face pressed in it.
It is the way a week-long gale
ends and folk emerge to hear
a single bird cry way high up.
It is the way you lean to me
and the way I lean to you, as if
we are each other’s prevailing;
how we connect along our shores,
the way we are tidal islands
joined for hours then inaccessible,
I’ll go for that, and smile when I
pick sand off myself in the shower.
The way I am an inland loch to you
when a clatter of white whoops and rises...
It is the way Scotland looks to the South,
the way we enter our friends’ houses
to leave what we came with, or flick
the kettle’s switch and wait.
This is where I want to live,
close to where the heart gives out,
ruined, perfected, an empty arch against the sky
where birds fly through instead of prayers
while in Hoy Sound the ferry’s engines thrum
this life this life this life.
Andrew Greig
Barbara, here in Australia we are entering Autumn, and I'm sure you've had your fill of cold weather poems, although here in CQ we have very mild winters. We can often shed our woolies by mid morning or earlier.
This is one of my favourite poems, I admire his work, both novels and poetry.
I've had a soft spot for Orkney since I read Ruth Park's Playing Beatie Bow. I didn't actually see the TV version.
Scottish poetry seem to be thriving at present. I've listened to Greig reading this on line, and it's wonderfully enhanced by the Scottish accent.
-
Octavia - I had no idea you were from Australia - so glad you shared that bit - I know, we have several for Australia and one, maybe two from New Zealand - it is amazing how 95% of poetry is written by authors in the Northern Hemisphere using our weather to match the seasons. I guess March is a midling month regardless which side of the equator - one day hot another day cold - you are loosing leaves we are beginning to see leaves and where I am we have more growth that is never without leaves and the new leaves come this time of year letting the old fall and so the job of cleaning up piles of leaves that is typical up north is our Spring task and I bet it is your Spring task as well.
I was not familiar with this Scottish poet - exciting - another poet to discover his work - I need to look on a map and learn where the Orkney's are located - I have heard the word and I think it is an Island - I know where a few of the larger cities are located and the names of a few of the rivers - and I have a fleeting memory of the major upsets in Scotland with Britain but I really need to look into learning more about Scotland. Seems to me I read some Cozy Mysteries about a policeman in Scotland by the same author that writes the Agatha Raisin Cosy's and PBS did a series about a young man who inherits his family estate and he becomes the Lard which I think is a Scottish accent for Lord.
And so it is bits and pieces but not a whole picture - now with this poet I will have to get Scotland in place and find a few more Scottish poets.
Oh yes, Octavia, where in Australia are you located - in or near what city so I can look you up on the map - does everyone use the Google maps - they are terrific - in that most places you take the little yellow man and put him down on the street and use the arrows to travel the streets of the town - it is like a tour - you could actually see the front of our houses if we had each other's addresses. Now some cities are not all mapped yet so that not every street is depicted - I know the little community where my daughter lives only the main streets are in pictures which is more than last year when it was only 'the' main street. And I notice in many other areas of the world they are not as photographed yet as we are, but it is fun to see the land, shops, houses and parks in various towns.
If you try it I am in Austin on North Hills Drive which is next to Far West Blvd that comes off a major artery that runs through town called MoPac.
-
Barbara, the Orkney's are off the very tip of Scotland, so there can be very harsh weather, as Greig describes. I actually have the book This Life, This Life, I think I have one of the last copies in print. A collection of new and old poems, put together after a serious brain illness.
Carol Ann Duffy, Britain's Poet Laureate, is from Glasgow in Scotland. The first in 400 yrs. Carol won the TS Eliot Prize in 2006 for Rapture. Sean Heaney(sp?) is Scottish too, I think.
I will have a look for your town, MoPak is an unusual name, where does it come from?
I live in Rockhampton(everyone calls it Rocky) in Central Queensland on the Tropic of Capricorn, the beach isn't too far away, a lot of workers commute every day, so they get the best of both worlds.
Very, very hot and humid in summer unfortunately. Most recently known for the great floods, but also as the birthplace of "Rocket Rod Laver" if you follow tennis.
-
It is MoPac - it is the acronym for the Missouri and Pacific railroad - it was the railroad that donated the first bit of land to make up the highway - the remaining land was gradually purchased - some from Ranchers and some from the Limestone Quarry that took in so much of this area north of the River before Austin became so large. The State wants the highway to be called Route 1 but locals have called it MoPac for at least 25 years before the first shovel went in the ground and now the highway is about 30 years old - can't change the habits of that much time.
-
I'm not very good with Google, so I had to revert to my World Atlas to "see" Austin. I have a feeling it's much, much, bigger than Rocky :). So many familiar names around you, we Down Under people have been steeped in these names all our lives from music, and films and books.
I thought I might add a poem from one of our best poets, Judith Wright.
It's called Egrets
Once as I travelled through a quiet evening,
I saw a pool, jet-black and mirror-still.
Beyond, the slender paperbarks stood crowding;
each on its own white image looked its fill,
and nothing moved but thirty egrets wading -
thirty egrets in a quiet evening.
Once in a lifetime, lovely past believing,
your lucky eyes may light on such a pool.
As though for many years I had been waiting,
I watched in silence, till my heart was full
of clear dark water, and white trees unmoving,
and, whiter yet, those thirty egrets wading.
Judith Wright
-
Octavia when I Googled Rocky Australia lots of businesses came up and this Google Map with lots of evidently Rock locations but no town by the name of Rocky - is that a shortened nickname for your town? here is what came up on the Australia map that I clicked on from Google - I wonder if maybe Google has not mapped Australia yet.
http://www.nothinglikeaustralia.com/us/flash.htm#/entries
-
Barbara, I'm sorry I've confused you with the two names. I did mention that the proper name is Rockhampton(hampton for village, plus there are rocks in the river near the bridge). In days gone by, everything was brought in by ship, up the Fitzroy River, and there is an historic Customs House on the river front.
Are we the only two people around here? Perhaps it's late over there, it's just aftr 11:00AM here, and I have loads of things I should be doing, but nothing as interesting :).I've been reading in a lot of Folders.
-
wheeee I found it - I am on William Street and the corner of Denison Street - lots of palm trees - rather flat - I am going to find the river - Well I turned onto Denison to Derby and then I had to get on Almy or something like that and here I am back on William again - but now quaint shops as I go toward the river. Oh I see - I bet you drive on the other side of the street and that is why it keeps forcing me to make turns. - Well I am getting a look - are there better streets I should be on?
I do not know if this link goes to the map I am using but here goes -
http://maps.google.com/?utm_campaign=en&utm_medium=ha&utm_source=en-ha-na-us-bk-gm
Octavia I believe the time showing on top of the posts is Pacific time which is California - they are two hours behind us in Central time and many of those who post live east and they are in yet another time zone - I have to look to find the time difference between you and Texas - but now it is showing 6 going for 7 which is west coast time here it is hmmm should be two hours difference so I am confused - when it is 6: in California it is 8: here and 9: where most of those who post live - now Babi is also in Texas but she is an early bird and is up and posting by 7: in the morning our time. I am often an night owl posting in the wee hours of the morning - but for now it is after 8: in the evening.
OK went along Quay street to a bridge - this is exciting - lovely river and lots of trees.
-
Barbara, I did get to see your area, very clumsily because of the touch pad I'm learning to use, and my total incompetency with maps, but I was actually on the street. It seems very spacious and clean, not cluttered like most of our streets. There was a school that seemed to be made of pink stone? Certainly a huge City, about 7 times bigger than mine.
-
Octavia - Nice to see you here. Barb is a legend, and we all love her. She may not know it but often the poetry she posts here reduces me to tears. I am much more emotional now I am getting older. I don't know if that is a good or bad thing.
I loved your poem about the Orkneys. I think I saw a documentary about Andrew Greig on SBS or ABC. He gave the impression of being a bit of a hermit, preferring his own company, he wrote some gorgeous poetry. I can still see him walking along the waterfront.
Judith Wright - her poetry is so hauntingly beautiful. I like these lines.
"Once in a lifetime, lovely past believing,
your lucky eyes may light on such a pool."
She takes you into her world, and you long to see that pool.
Barb : Octavia has made me jealous. 8) Now I want you to see Brisbane, Queensland on Google. Brisbane has recovered well after the floods.
-
Oh my you slipped in here while I was writing - what a nice thing to say - oh dear - I had no idea - well I am glad to bring wonders to folks even if it means tears :-*
Octavia I live across from those two school - the elementary you can hardly see because it is behind all the trees but the school you saw was down a very very steep hill that the maps do not do a good job of showing just how steep [I know from my Daughter's area - she is in the Appalachian mountains on the side of a mountain] the school you saw is the middle school for the area and just past the middle school are many shops.
I think here the pictures were taken in early summer and the construction of the drainage on the school was still going on - my house is opposite all that construction.
Is there a part of Rockhampton I should look at that is more telling of the town - I seemed to go through the area where there are lots of shops and on Quay it appears those buildings are probably some of the earliest built when river traffic was probably the only delivery point.
-
Oh my we are talking BIG town for Brisbane - I was in the area that is labeled Brisbane and then there are all these smaller areas with different names - rosehanarose what would be a good area for me to explore to find a typical residential area
-
With all this posting from Australia we need a couple of poems for your kind of Spring --- this one has no author that I can find.
Spring 'down under'
Last Spring,
on a visit to my daughter,
there was, on her sideboard,
next to the photos of her children,
a vase of daffodils,
yellow in a ray of sunshine from the window,
trumpeting that spring was back again.
Green leaves complementing
the pale green dress she was wearing,
she sat, with her cat on her lap,
reading Wordsworth’s poem
about what he’d seen when,
as lonely as a cloud,
he'd wandered by the lake.
As we talked, we remembered
the friends she'd had during
her early life 'up-over', and realised
that, though it was Spring 'down-under',
they would be seeing the dead leaves
of their trees falling in anticipation of
winter’s forthcoming.
-
I don't remember this one being posted in the past but if it was - so be it - some are just too good to only read one time.
ANZAC
~ by Bartlett Adamson
By purple hills and opalescent sea
And sunlit leagues of plain they lived, and they
Were summery-hearted all, and life was gay,
And peace was theirs, and love, and liberty.
And when the clarion sounded suddenly,
They went, a rollicking band of boys at play
Tilted at doom, and there, at Anzac Bay,
Died...but they taught the world what men they be.
And Anzac now is an enchanted shore;
A tragic splendor, and a holy name;
A deed eternity will still acclaim;
A loss that crowns the victories of yore;
A glittering golden dome for evermore
Shining above the minarets of fame.
-
Barb - Yes. It is a BIG town. Take a look at the CBD on the BIG river that caused so much drama not so long ago. Two suburbs for you to compare- the wealthy - Hamilton; and the not so wealthy - Inala. My daughter lives in St Lucia. I live in Forest Lake which is a planned community and has a man (person?) made lake. One of my favourite suburbs is Ascot, near Hamilton. Kangaroo Point is an interesting suburb. I lived in a house there that I swear was haunted. You will be able to get an idea of where it is if you look for Holman Street under the Storey Bridge. As a marker Kangaroo Point is across from the City. Have fun!
-
Not particularly Australian but seasonless.
Urban Haiku
~ Michael R. Collings
# Silence--a strangled
Telephone has forgotten
That it should ring
# Freeway overpass--
Blossoms in grafitti on
fog-wrapped June mornings
-
Thanks - immediately went to St. Lucia - easy to find - what a delight- lovely tree lined streets and cottage type along with big ol' two story houses - looks like most were built within the last 50 years. I was on 11th street and passed 8th I forgot avenue or street.
Need to get off here now but this is like creating our own little travel logs - I love it...
P.S. I found Forest Lake - hurray - lovely, just lovely - I sware the entire western world must use the same trash bins - the photos were taken on Trash day and the bins are exactly like ours. :D
-
Roshanarose, you picked outmyfavourite lines from Egrets. I have childhood memories of Brolga's dancing, that I treasure.
I have to say your by-line is messing with my mind.
Barb, we have a lot of beautiful Queenslanders in Rocky, houses built on "stilts" with large wrap-around verandahs, and often a laundry or extra room underneath, but you can see them while you're in Brisbane :).
I do appreciate the work you do here, although sometimes it's hard to enjoy winter poems when we're melting into little puddles, and vice versa.
Sometimes, we seem to miss Spring and just launch into full blown summer.As few leaves fall from our trees, it can be a case of blink and you'll miss it.
-
Well, our trees are mostly evergreens. Not many deciduous trees are native to Australia so spring comes to us in different forms. Best of all I love our autumn season in the west where we get cool mornings, long warm to hot afternoons and cool evenings with light sea breezes. Perfect weather to sit outside any time of the day and enjoy - or even do a few chores! If only it would hurry up and get here - we are still in full midsummer mode :D
Barbara: I see that on your Google tour you've left the best until last. Take your time to enjoy Perth in the west. If you follow the Swan river in a westerly direction to Crawley you'll be within spitting distance of me. The river runs to Fremantle and then why not run north along the coast from Fremantle and you'll find City Beach and Scarborough - two of my favourite surfing beaches - I might even be there on the beach waving to you.
You should try panning around in Sydney too - especially around the Harbour and the coastline. If you can find Mosman or Balmoral Beach you can wave to my son.
I'll take a look at your neck of the woods later...
-
That's 'Laird', BARB, not "Lard". 'Lard' does great up some
interesting images, tho'. I was interested to learn the present
poet laureate for Britain is Scots. The only one I really know
is dear old Bobbie Burns.
A beautiful poem, OCTAVIA. I can so easily imagine that
scene.
BARB & OCTAVIA, where do you find those maps that actually
show you the scenes you are 'passing'. The only maps I've seen
just have streets and names marked out...no scenery. Sounds like
a wonderful way to go sightseeing...anywhere!
-
Thanks Babi Laird - OK I will remember that
The map - here is the tlink to Google's map
http://maps.google.com/?utm_campaign=en&utm_medium=ha&utm_source=en-ha-na-us-bk-gm
now in the box on top you can enter a city but I found you need to have the map over the continent you want to explore - example when I found the locations in Australia - when the map was on the US and I put the name of an Australian city in the box it took me to the middle of the Atlantic Ocean - once I had Australia in view and put in the city viola there it was -
Then get close enough that you can read the names of some streets - not all the streets but at least the main streets - and then take that little yellow man with your curser and move him onto the map and again - viola - all the streets that are pictured turn blue -
If you look just below his feet there is a roundish either green or blue circle - that is where the man is going to see, not where the man himself is set down - but once he is set down the screen turns from a map to a movie of where he is and in the road you can see a white line with arrows -
You have to fiddle a bit and turn the picture around sometimes but you can actually get in front of a house and point the man at the house and see the house from the street full front view - best I think is simply follow the street using the arrow to click and then you get to the point where you can go further faster by clicking ahead of the arrow a good distance. - coming to a corner is tricky at first but I find if as I am approaching the corner I click into the street I want to turn into and the first bit is out of focus but the second click and all is well.
You just have to play with it till you can smoothly see and then yes, most all the cities and towns and even byways are pictured - I thought it was done from outer space but I wonder since I saw the growth in this for the past 2 years and at first only the bigger cities especially if they were in the high tech parts of this country were pictured - now it appears to be almost all over - although as I say my daughter's house is still not on here although there are now more streets in her little village of 600 people on here.
OK Babi have fun...
-
Barb: I understand that Google had folk driving around the streets to get the images - wasn't there talk about some kind of invasion of privacy?
-
Hmmm I do not know - but it make sense with the quality of the photos - for awhile you could get a view of roof tops and that I bet was from outer space - As to privacy - folks forget how much is already on line - just go to the county tax records and some counties even include a line drawing of the rooms of your house - plus, if you ever donate to a political candidate the total amount you donate and your phone number is on-line. - there is no privacy any longer - at first it seemed jarring that face book was putting all this on their site till you stop and realize it is all already on the Internet in one place or another.
-
Oh I found some goodies in honor of y'all from Australia...
Travel Song
~ By Anne Glenny Wilson, (1848–1930), an Australian poet and novelist
‘COME, before the summer passes
Let us seek the mountain land:’
So they called me, happy playmates,
And we left the dawn-lit strand:
Riding on till later sunbeams slanted
On dark hills and downward-plunging streams,
And the solemn forest softly chanted
Old, old dreams.
From the pass, we saw in glory
Wave on purple wave unrolled
To the cloud-encircled summit
Floating high, alone and cold:
Like that altar-stone, by men of Athens
Dedicated to the unknown God;
Waiting for some fire to touch his holy
White abode.
Then the mellow sunset dying
Passed in rosy fire away,
And the stars and planets journeyed
On their ancient unknown way.
Riders of the illimitable heaven!
Moving on so far beyond our ken,
Do ye scorn the toiling, heavy-hearted
Sons of men?
Ere we slept we heard the torrents
Rushing from that mighty hill
Join in deep melodious singing,
While the forest-land was still.
Music of forgotten wildernesses!
Would that I could hear that song again!
Song of primal Earth’s enchanted sweetness,
Joy and pain.
-
O Heart of Spring!
~ By John Shaw Neilson, (22 February 1872 – 12 May 1942), Australian poet.
O HEART of Spring!
Spirit of light and love and joyous day,
So soon to faint beneath the fiery Summer:
Still smiles the Earth, eager for thee alway:
Welcome art thou, soever short thy stay,
Thou bold, thou blithe newcomer!
Whither, O whither this thy journeying,
O heart of Spring?
O heart of Spring!
After the stormy days of Winter’s reign,
When the keen winds their last lament are sighing,
The Sun shall raise thee up to life again:
In thy dim death thou shalt not suffer pain:
Surely thou dost not fear this quiet dying?
Whither, O whither this thy journeying,
O heart of Spring?
O heart of Spring!
Youth’s emblem, ancient and unchanging light,
Uncomprehended, unconsumed, still burning:
Oh that we could, as thou, rise from the night
To find a world of blossoms lilac-white,
And long-winged swallows unafraid returning…
Whither, O whither this thy journeying,
O heart of Spring?
-
Night
~ By H. Duncan Hall
I SAW the Night caught, as by wizard’s spell,
In the red meshes of the setting sun;
From her black plumes the lurid light had won
A flash of sheen, and she grew visible.
But like a stricken gladiator fell
The weak-eyed sun beyond the hills of sleep;
The cloud-fires smoulder’d to a grey ash heap,
And Heaven whitened to a curvèd shell.
Before, I never knew Night’s majesty;
But now I know her beauty hath no peer
In heaven or earth; and when the white moon shines
From th’ circlet on her brow of mystery,
I see her shadow on the hills, and hear
The shudder of her plumes among the pines.
Cannot find out anything about H.Duncan Hall - do any of you know anything about him?
-
In a Southern Garden
~ By Dorothea Mackellar, (1885 - 1968)
WHEN the tall bamboos are clicking to the restless little breeze,
And bats begin their jerky skimming flight,
And the creamy scented blossoms of the dark pittosporum trees,
Grow sweeter with the coming of the night.
And the harbour in the distance lies beneath a purple pall,
And nearer, at the garden’s lowest fringe,
Loud the water soughs and gurgles ’mid the rocks below the wall,
Dark-heaving, with a dim uncanny tinge
Of a green as pale as beryls, like the strange faint-coloured flame
That burns around the Women of the Sea:
And the strip of sky to westward which the camphor laurels frame,
Has turned to ash-of-rose and ivory—
And a chorus rises valiantly from where the crickets hide,
Close-shaded by the balsams drooping down—
It is evening in a garden by the kindly water-side,
A garden near the lights of Sydney town!
Dorothea was born in Sydney in 1858 into a well-established, wealthy family, and was educated privately at the University of Sydney. Her family owned substantial properties in the Gunnedah district of New South Wales and it is in this town which claims her as their own, there a statue of her on horseback has been erected. Her best known work is 'My Country', written when she was 19 years old, that is in the following post.
-
(http://seniorlearn.org/bookclubs/poetry/poetryspringgirl.jpg) J.W. Waterhouse - Famous Poets and Poems about Spring (http://famouspoetsandpoems.com/thematic_poems/spring_poems.html)
- Link to: Spring Poems (http://poetry.about.com/od/ourpoemcollections/a/springpoems.htm)
Discussion Leaders: Barb (augere@ix.netcom.com) & fairanna (fairanna@cox.net) | Join Us! For a Season of Spring Poetry
A Prayer in Spring
~ Robert Frost
Oh, give us pleasure in the flowers to-day;
And give us not to think so far away
As the uncertain harvest; keep us here
All simply in the springing of the year.
Oh, give us pleasure in the orchard white,
Like nothing else by day, like ghosts by night;
And make us happy in the happy bees,
The swarm dilating round the perfect trees.
And make us happy in the darting bird
That suddenly above the bees is heard,
The meteor that thrusts in with needle bill,
And off a blossom in mid air stands still.
For this is love and nothing else is love,
The which it is reserved for God above
To sanctify to what far ends He will,
But which it only needs that we fulfil.
|
-
My Country
The love of field and coppice
Of green and shaded lanes,
Of ordered woods and gardens
Is running in your veins.
Strong love of grey-blue distance,
Brown streams and soft, dim skies
I know, but cannot share it,
My love is otherwise.
I love a sunburnt country,
A land of sweeping plains,
Of ragged mountain ranges,
Of droughts and flooding rains.
I love her far horizons,
I love her jewel-sea,
Her beauty and her terror
The wide brown land for me!
The stark white ring-barked forests,
All tragic to the moon,
The sapphire-misted mountains,
The hot gold hush of noon,
Green tangle of the brushes
Where lithe lianas coil,
And orchids deck the tree-tops,
And ferns the warm dark soil.
Core of my heart, my country!
Her pitiless blue sky,
When, sick at heart, around us
We see the cattle die
But then the grey clouds gather,
And we can bless again
The drumming of an army,
The steady soaking rain.
Core of my heart, my country!
Land of the rainbow gold,
For flood and fire and famine
She pays us back threefold.
Over the thirsty paddocks,
Watch, after many days,
The filmy veil of greenness
That thickens as we gaze ...
An opal-hearted country,
A wilful, lavish land
All you who have not loved her,
You will not understand
though Earth holds many splendours,
Wherever I may die,
I know to what brown country
My homing thoughts will fly.
-
Growing up in America all we knew of Australia was "Waltzing Matilda" and some song about a Kukaberry Tree. Never found out what that was.
Now with all the wonderful Actors and Actresses from Australia it is becoming more well known. There is more news of Australia on line and yet I know only one great book and the movie made from it that became really famous. "A Town Called Alice". Are there any recommendations from you Aussies for books or movies about your country?
I love the Australian poetry presented here also. I had never heard of any of those writers before reading them in this chatroom.
-
Gotta have one about Texas now... ;)
Texas Poets
~ Boyce House
You write about bluebonnets—
In a land that knew Houston, hero fit for a Greek tragedy;
And about cottages nestling in honeysuckle—
Though there is the spot that saw Goliad’s massacre;
And about white poplars marching up a hill into the sunset—
When men and women face the drouth, the sand, the wind—
and somehow smile!
Texas!
With its pirates’ gold, its cattle-trails, its gun-fighters;
Its cotton fields, cornfields, wheat fields, and oil fields;
Its lonely canyons, carved by nature, in a forgotten land,
Newsboys waving “extras,”
Wrestlers throwing each other out of rings while pale—
Countenanced clerks shriek;
Clyde and Bonnie with blazing machine guns,
Farmer Jim and Ma Ferguson,
And seven million others doing things brave, foolish, amusing
or what-have-you!
And yet, Texas poets, you swoon when you behold a dew—
Drop enfolded by a rose!
His name once was a household word in Texas, but only a few know it today. He wrote 17 books -- more than J. Frank Dobie. He reported for and edited newspapers, regaled countless civic clubs and Chamber of Commerce banquets with Texas anecdotes, worked in Hollywood as technical consultant for a blockbuster movie starring Clark Gable, ran twice for lieutenant governor, wrote a column that ran in 200 newspapers, had a weekly radio show and was a member of the by-invitation-only Texas Institute of Letters.
Born in Piggott, Ark., in 1896 as the son of a country newspaper editor, House lived in Texas for several years and attended schools in Brownwood, Uvalde, Taylor and Alpine. When his father died, his mother moved to Memphis, Tenn., where House graduated from high school.
He came back to Texas in 1920 and wrote for or edited newspapers in the oil boom towns of Eastland, Cisco and Ranger and later worked for papers in Olney and Fort Worth. Married in 1927, he and his wife, Golda Fay, did not have children, House died in Fort Worth on Dec. 30, 1961.
House covered one of Texas biggest crime stories, the so-called Santa Claus bank robbery in Cisco on Dec. 23, 1927. He broke the story of "Old Rip" (for Rip Van Winkle), the horned toad that supposedly survived for 30 years sealed in the cornerstone of the Eastland County Courthouse.
His newspaper career in Eastland County coincided with one of Texas most prolific oil booms. At the height of the drilling activity, $1 million worth of oil gushed every 72 hours from wells around Ranger. House wrote four books that remain excellent sources of information on this wildcat period of early 20th-century Texas history
-
French Quarter
~ Larry D. Thomas, 2008 Texas Poet Laureate
Below sea level, in night fog
thick as chicken and sausage gumbo, it looms,
this whole place a brick and concrete grave
adorned with Spanish and French iron,
a grisly Easter basket
wrapped in alternating bands
of green, gold, and purple cellophane
under which flicker the lights,
the ghastly lights of gas lamps and neon
every hue of the rainbow
illuming the ghostly faces
of voodooienne Marie Laveau
and the Saint Louis Cathedral
sticking its spires into night sky
like pins in a doll of voodoo, voodoo
whose rhythmic chants gave birth to jazz
in this glittering city of sin and Lent
forever gently nudged by the giant python
of the Mississippi, triumphant, tumescent,
and shining from its meal of mice and men.
-
Whoops Jude you posted while I was writing and copying and pasting - just noticed your post - and yes, what a thrill this is isn't it to learn first hand from folks who live in Australia more about the land, their towns and cities and their national poetry. Like all of us we admire the work of many poets but local poets seem to capture something that rings true for us because we have seen or heard what it is they are writing about.
-
Jude - Gosh! There must be hundred of movies I have seen, but my brain is in a blank phase.
Just a couple :
The Year My Voice Broke - Ben Mendelssohn (sp)
My Brilliant Career - Judy Davis, Sam Neill
Shine - Geoffrey Rush
Chant of Jimmy Blacksmith
Oscar and Lucinda - Ralph Fiennes and Cate Blanchett
First two of the Mad Max series - Mel Gibson - OK> So I was a rev head ::).
Priscilla, Queen of the Desert - Hugo Weaving
Lantana - Vince Colosimo
Jindabyne - Laura Linney
Gumtree - I know you are going to come up with some lyrical, cerebral movies I have never heard of.
I am trying to think of some less dramatic films, something lighter perhaps. I personally prefer drama, and Australia makes good dramas. "The Chant of Jimmy Blacksmith" is a good example. It was released in the 70s. Fortunately, I got to see it in a theatre, because a week later it vanished. I found out later because of the "theme" the movie had been banned by the Australian government censor due to its undesirable content, or some such crazy notion. True, it is not for the faint hearted. Thomas Keneally wrote the book.
Some wonderful poetry above. Thanks.
-
Roshanarose: I think that list of Aussie films is lyrical and cerebral enough for anyone :D
Lantana - Vince Colosimo
and don't forget -Anthony LaPaglia
Only other film that jumps into my mind is The Getting of Wisdom
-
Jude: Someone else asked about Aussie writers in the Literary Games area only a couple of days ago - here's what I replied.
I always hesitate to 'recommend' an author as I find reading is such a personal occupation and so much depends on what type of reading you're after.
If you want a quintessential colonial Australian classic novel try Henry Handel Richardson's The Fortunes of Richard Mahony or the more harrowing Marcus Clarke For the Term of His Natural Life
Here's a few of today's crop - Thomas Kenneally Peter Carey, David Malouf, Geraldine Brooks, Kate Grenville, Elizabeth Jolley, Thea Astley, Murray Bail, Robert Dessaix, Michelle de Kretzer, Drusilla Modjeska, Tim Winton, Shirley Hazzard, Helen Garner, Richard Flanagan, Marcus Zusak.
Older writers: Christina Stead, Miles Franklin, Eleanor Dark, Xavier Herbert, D'arcy Niland, Morris West, Randolph Stow, George Johnston, Neville Shute, Coral Lansbury (Angela's cousin), Kylie Tennant.
There's always our Nobel prizewinner, Patrick White - and another South African now naturalised Aussie and Nobel winner, J.M. Coetzee.
I suppose I'd better mention Colleen McCullough - one I love to hate.
Then we have Clive James, Germaine Greer and and and...
Most of those mentioned are fundamentally novelists but we have many others worth reading - poets and diarists, essayists, biographers, historians - the list is endless.
-
Barbara - thanks for posting those Australian poems. John Shaw Neilsen is one of our most respected poets of his era.
Dorothea Mackellar's My Country is an icon among our literature - every child learns it a fairly young age - I think I posted it here some time back - so good to see it again. She wrote it when living in England as a young woman and very homesick for her country.
I don't know anything about H Duncan Hall - totally unfamiliar. I googled for him but couldn't get anything biographical.
-
Growing up in America all we knew of Australia was "Waltzing Matilda" and some song about a Kukaberry Tree. Never found out what that was.
Jude Waltzing Matilda is one of our national songs - written by Andrew Barton (Banjo) Paterson who was one of our foremost poets of the late 19th and early 20th centuries. The rivalry between Paterson and his contemporary Henry Lawson is well documented. They had vastly different temperaments which is obvious from a study of their poetry.
Kukaberry Tree You surely must mean the Girl Guides song, Kookaburra Sits in the Old Gum Tree. These days it is taught in schools but I think I was out of school before it was written - still, it is well known. A kookaburra is an Australian bird of the kingfisher species - it has a wonderful song which sounds like anything from a slow chortle to a deep throated, full blooded belly laugh and all stages in between- they're often referred to as the 'laughing jackass' and they are a beautiful bird - we have pairs nesting nearby which frequently come into the garden especially when I'm pottering out there - they hope for a juicy worm of two in my rose beds and perch on the fences or clothesline just waiting their chances.
-
And one last comment -
roshanarose - The Chant of Jimmy Blacksmith was a good film but I think it is a better book. Well worth the read - some descriptions of the bush and the settlers live's are superb - Kenneally also captures something of the aboriginal ethos - realism was perhaps his forte.
Barbara Thanks for letting us talk about things Australian. I appreciate it as I'm sure do Octavia and Roshanarose. It's great to share with the posters here and perhaps give back a little.
-
OK folks I am going to try and find the movies you have recommended on Amazon - the US version of Amazon so that at least we have a bit more info and if we want to locate them in Netflex or something we can - personally I do not use Netflex and so I may break down and buy a used copy on one of these movies from time to time - OK I found a few others and have added them to the list... hope they are worthy of your recommendations...
Getting of Wisdom VHS (http://www.amazon.com/Getting-Wisdom-VHS-Julia-Blake/dp/6304431864/ref=sr_1_1?ie=UTF8&qid=1299645200&sr=8-1)
The Year My Voice Broke 1989 VHS (http://www.amazon.com/Year-My-Voice-Broke-VHS/dp/6301229096/ref=sr_1_1?ie=UTF8&s=video&qid=1299645427&sr=1-1)
My Brilliant Career (http://www.amazon.com/Brilliant-Career-VHS-Judy-Davis/dp/B00000F55X/ref=sr_1_1?ie=UTF8&s=video&qid=1299645582&sr=1-1)
Chant of Jimmie Blacksmith (1977) (http://www.amazon.com/Chant-Jimmie-Blacksmith-Tommy-Lewis/dp/B001EAWMP6/ref=pd_sim_v_8)
Walkabout - Criterion Collection (1971) (http://www.amazon.com/Walkabout-Criterion-Collection-Jenny-Agutter/dp/0780020847/ref=pd_sim_d_21)
The Adventures of Priscilla Queen of the Desert (Extra Frills Edition) (1994) (http://www.amazon.com/Adventures-Priscilla-Queen-Desert-Frills/dp/B000OPOAKC/ref=pd_sim_d_27)
The Man From Snowy River (1982) (http://www.amazon.com/Man-Snowy-River-Tom-Burlinson/dp/B000062XG0/ref=pd_sim_d_28)
Shine (1996) (http://www.amazon.com/Shine-Geoffrey-Rush/dp/0780619587/ref=sr_1_1?s=dvd&ie=UTF8&qid=1299646503&sr=1-1)
Jindabyne (2006) (http://www.amazon.com/Jindabyne-Chris-Haywood/dp/B000TGJ81M/ref=sr_1_1?s=dvd&ie=UTF8&qid=1299646606&sr=1-1)
Lantana (2001) (http://www.amazon.com/Lantana-Anthony-LaPaglia/dp/B0000639HN/ref=pd_cp_d_1)
Rabbit-Proof Fence (2002) (http://www.amazon.com/Rabbit-Proof-Fence-Kenneth-Branagh/dp/B00005JLD4/ref=pd_bxgy_d_img_b)
Oscar & Lucinda [VHS] (1997) (http://www.amazon.com/Oscar-Lucinda-VHS-Ralph-Fiennes/dp/B000006GJI/ref=sr_1_2?ie=UTF8&s=video&qid=1299647354&sr=1-2)
Mary and Max (2009) (http://www.amazon.com/Mary-Max-Toni-Collette/dp/B00366E1E6/ref=sr_1_22?s=dvd&ie=UTF8&qid=1299647842&sr=1-22)
Oyster Farmer (2004) (http://www.amazon.com/Oyster-Farmer-Alex-OLoughlin/dp/B000E1OI8K/ref=pd_cp_d_3)
Ben Folds and Waso: Live in Perth (http://www.amazon.com/Ben-Folds-Waso-Live-Perth/dp/B000BQ7JNO/ref=sr_1_75?s=dvd&ie=UTF8&qid=1299648292&sr=1-75)
Ned Kelly: The True Story Of Australia's Most Legendary Outlaw. (http://www.amazon.com/Ned-Kelly-Australias-Legendary-Outlaw/dp/B00018YC3W/ref=sr_1_116?s=dvd&ie=UTF8&qid=1299648563&sr=1-116)
The Lighthorsemen (Import) (1985) (http://www.amazon.com/Lighthorsemen-Peter-Phelps/dp/B000CJ2E5I/ref=sr_1_186?s=dvd&ie=UTF8&qid=1299648993&sr=1-186)
-
Barbara - a better Ned Kelly film was one which starred Heath Ledger - can't remember the title - probably just Ned Kelly Gang?
Trivia: Did you know that the first full length feature film EVER made ANYWHERE was made in Australia in 1906 and was about Ned Kelly?
Haven't heard of Ben Folds - guess he's a pop star playing with our local symphony orchestra WASO
-
Thank you, thank you for all your suggestions. I will be reading some of the books and seeing some of the suggested movies if NETFLIX carries them.
Actually I did see and enjoy two of the movies: Shine and Priscilla , Queen of the Desert. Both had such universal themes that I didn't think of them as Australian .
I also knew of some of the authors but never knew they were Australian except for Marcus Zusak.
Gumtree;
Very interesting about the Kookaburra bird. Wish I could see one in your garden.
How delightful to hear you Aussies share some of your culture with us. I'm glad I asked.
-
Hi Jude - There is a story about the kookaburra that begs to be told. According to Australian folklore they are one of the very few Australian creatures that are not afraid of snakes and actually make a meal of them whenever they can. Their method of killing the snake is rather unique. The kookaburra as it flies, sees the snake from on high, swoops and grabs it behind its head. The kookaburra then soars to a great height and drops the snake on rocks below, swoops and grabs it again, and then drops the snake on rocks again. After the kookaburra is satisfied the snake is dead and nicely pulverised it devours the snake.
Every morning when I wake I hear the beautiful warbling song of the magpie; the harsh and plaintive cry of the crow; the laughter of the kookaburra, which according to Aboriginal legend heralds a change in the weather; and the screech of the sulphur-crested cockatoos that frequent my area. There are a myriad of other bird calls that I have yet to identify. If my cat sleeps with her chin up, I am almost certain the weather will change as well. A pretty accurate barometer, I have found.
Do our American cousins have similar bird tales?
-
BARB, I added the link to my 'Favorites'. And thanks for
the instructions; my initial attempt wasn't working. I think
I have the idea now.
The Anne Wilson poem is lovely. I put in a moment or two
reading parts of it out loud. On the second poem, I ran into
an old problem. Use of "O", and 'thou' and 'whither' always
seems so out of place to me in a poem of more modern date. I
always feel I'm reading at attempt to imitate someone else.
McKellar, now, definitely has a voice of her own. Thanks so
much for that one.
Texas!
With its pirates’ gold, its cattle-trails, its gun-fighters;
Its cotton fields, cornfields, wheat fields, and oil fields;
Its lonely canyons, carved by nature, in a forgotten land That does encapsulate the Texas of the stories, doesn't it?
I've only heard of three of those movies before. I do hope some of
them are on Netflix.
-
Well back to reversing the seasons from Australia's fall like days to the Spring north of the equator. These are anonymous Japanese poems from the 8th century - from the time of Emperor Shomu (724-49) all except the first poem which was written during the reigh of Emperor Uda ( 867 – July 19, 931)
Seeing the fields burnt before the new crop was planted, Ise, consort of Emperor Uda, wrote
If I consider
My body like the fields
Withered by winter,
Can I hope, though I am burnt,
That spring will come again?
Anonymous, Plum blossoms are an outer proof of life's inner beauty in this spring poem
I am at a loss
To say to whom if not to you
I might show plum blossoms;
For such beauty and such fragrance
Only the best judge is a judge at all.
Anonymous, eighth century collection of poems called Man'Yoshu:
That you like me not
It may well be --
Yet will you not come
Even to see the orange tree
Abloom in my dooryard?
The importance of spring blossoms - Emperor Shomu (724-49) ordered the construction of the Temple of the Dharma Blossom (Hokkeji), the main temple of all provincial nunneries, which contains this symbol of an ever renewing life, both spiritual and material.
When they bloom they fall
When they do not bloom we yearn
For mountain cherry flowers .
From the Preface of Kokenshu.: The poetry of Japan takes the human heart as seed and flourishes in the countless leaves of words. Poetry is created following the cyclic patterns of nature or of the cosmos. From its source, the human heart, it flourishes like spring blossoms. In speaking about the human heart, we can conceive it as the poet's organ of emotions and feelings of warmth -- from it the words and poems radiate. We can also see the heart as the core or essence of man or humanity. We have unfolded from the seed which is our inner core; likewise, the words and sentences of Japan's poets have unfolded as the expressions of "the meditations of their hearts."
-
Time for Irish poets and the best of the best must include Yeats -
Another Song Of A Fool
~ by William Butler Yeats
This great purple butterfly,
In the prison of my hands,
Has a learning in his eye
Not a poor fool understands.
Once he lived a schoolmaster
With a stark, denying look;
A string of scholars went in fear
Of his great birch and his great book.
Like the clangour of a bell,
Sweet and harsh, harsh and sweet.
That is how he learnt so well
To take the roses for his meat.
-
That's a lovely Yeats Barbara, "Sweet and harsh, harsh and sweet"-Perfect.
My favourite of the Japanese, is the one with the orange tree.
Reading about Texas, I thought about the inherent beauty of a landscape. No matter what happens on the surface, wars, earthquakes, floods, the land just goes on, keeps its own counsel, and just is,.....immutable.
This is one of Norman MacCaig's, another Scot.
Toad - by Norman MacCaig
Stop looking like a purse. How could a purse
Squeeze under the rickety door and sit,
Full of satisfaction in a man’s house?
You clamber towards me on your four corners –
Right hand, left foot, left hand, right foot.
I love you for being a toad,
For crawling like a Japanese wrestler,
And for not being frightened
I put you in my purse hand not shutting it,
And set you down outside directly under
Every star.
A jewel in your head? Toad,
You’ve put one in mine,
A tiny radiance in a dark place
-
What a delight Octavia - precious - ha uh -
And set you down outside directly under
Every star.
A jewel in your head?
And then the last line makes it...
A tiny radiance in a dark place
I found this while browsing tonight - and oldie but ah so lovely we never tire of past wonders.
She Walks In Beauty
by Lord Byron
She walks in beauty, like the night
Of cloudless climes and starry skies;
And all that's best of dark and bright
Meet in her aspect and her eyes:
Thus mellowed to that tender light
Which heaven to gaudy day denies.
One shade the more, one ray the less,
Had half impaired the nameless grace
Which waves in every raven tress,
Or softly lightens o'er her face;
Where thoughts serenely sweet express
How pure, how dear their dwelling place.
And on that cheek, and o'er that brow,
So soft, so calm, yet eloquent,
The smiles that win, the tints that glow,
But tell of days in goodness spent,
A mind at peace with all below,
A heart whose love is innocent!
-
BARB, Roshana mentioned in the Library (?) a book by Robert Graves, called "The White Goddess". I found this description: 'The White Goddess is perhaps the finest of Robert Graves's works on the psychological and mythological sources of poetry. " Naturally, I thought of you.
You may already know this book, but if not it sounds like something you would enjoy.
-
t hanks Babi - you are so right - I found it on Amazon and have it in my list for the future
White Goddess (http://www.amazon.com/White-Goddess-Historical-Grammar-Enlarged/dp/0374504938/ref=sr_1_1?ie=UTF8&qid=1299945327&sr=8-1)
-
Wow, Lord Byron's, She Walks In Beauty, takes me right back to High School. Grade 12, hot and sweaty afternoons, tugging at our ties(I don't think we even had fans in the 60's) and Mrs Chapman reading Byron. It was in our set poetry book.
The girls were enchanted by the words, and the boys were probably dreaming of cricket or footy.
Those were the days!
-
Exclusion - XIII.
~ - Emily Dickinson
The soul selects her own society,
Then shuts the door;
On her divine majority
Obtrude no more.
Unmoved, she notes the chariot's pausing
At her low gate;
Unmoved, an emperor is kneeling
Upon her mat.
I've known her from an ample nation
Choose one;
Then close the valves of her attention
Like stone.
-
I always looked upon
the acts of racist exclusion, or insult, as
pitiable, from the other person.
I never absorbed that.
I always thought that there was something
deficient about such people.
~ Toni Morrison
I have a great interest in a number of things, perhaps too many.
I admire people who seem to concentrate on only one fixed discipline
to the exclusion of almost everything else.
~ Tom Glazer
-
"It’s important to recognize
expanding
the circle of opportunity
increasing
the democratic potential
of our own society, as well as
those across the world,
is a continuing process of
inclusion."
~ Hillary Rodham Clinton
"Inclusion is a process of
identifying, understanding and breaking down barriers
to participation and belonging."
"Real development cannot take root
on a sustainable basis, unless
it is inclusive of women."
~ President Pratibha Patil, India
-
"I'm nobody! Who are you?"
~ by Emily Dickinson
I'm nobody! Who are you?
Are you nobody, too?
Then there's a pair of us — don't tell!
They'd banish us, you know.
How dreary to be somebody!
How public, like a frog
To tell your name the livelong day
To an admiring bog!
-
Ah, thanks, I was just perfectly in the mood for Emily Dickinson this morning. I also
enjoyed the quotes from Tony Morrison and Hillary Clinton. Clinton is so right...it is
inclusion that will take us from 'one nation' to 'one world'.
-
Absolutely Babi, the last pamphlets I got from Care Australia were about the education of girls and mothers being just as important as that of boys and men.
What a lovely selection Barbara. Coming here is like the Quiz of the Day, we never know what delight we'll find :).
-
There is talk of Spring flowers in another discussion - specifically the lilac was last mentioned which immediately our thoughts turn to Whitman - but my word - that is one of the longest poems without being an Epic to the Lilac and so I am not regaling you with "When Lilacs Last in the Dooryard Bloom'd" - And then Amy Lowell also has a poem about Lilacs - however, it too goes on and on, forever - these folks sure have a lot to say about Lilacs - and so no Lilacs - let's go with Tulips - now that is a nice neat upright flower that seems to inspire a poem that can be read in under 30 minutes. ;)
Tulips
~ by A.E. Stallings
The tulips make me want to paint,
Something about the way they drop
Their petals on the tabletop
And do not wilt so much as faint,
Something about their burnt-out hearts,
Something about their pallid stems
Wearing decay like diadems,
Parading finishes like starts,
Something about the way they twist
As if to catch the last applause,
And drink the moment through long straws,
And how, tomorrow, they’ll be missed.
The way they’re somehow getting clearer,
The tulips make me want to see—
The tulips make the other me
(The backwards one who’s in the mirror,
The one who can’t tell left from right),
Glance now over the wrong shoulder
To watch them get a little older
And give themselves up to the light.
-
A different look at flowers, there. Fading away, instead of glorious new bloom. A more original
viewpoint.
Now here's an oldie, not about flowers, but perhaps about contentment, by Alexander Pope.
SOLITUDE
Happy the man whose wish and care
a few paternal acres bound.
Content to breathe his native air
In his own ground.
Whose herds with mild, whose fields with bread
Whose flocks supply him with attire;
Whose trees in summer yield him shade,
In winter, fire;
Blest, who can unconcern'dly find
Hours, day, and years slide soft away
In health of body, peace of mind,
Quiet by day;
Sound sleep by night; study and ease
Together mixt, sweet recreation,
And innocence, which most does please
With meditation.
Thus let me live, unseen, unknown;
Thus unlamented let me die;
Steal from the world , and not a stone
Tell where I lie.
-
Never thought of it this way but oh so true...
Whose trees in summer yield him shade,
In winter, fire;
Here is another about Contentment.
Contentment
~ by William Cowper
(Phillipians, iv.11)
Fierce passions discompose the mind,
As tempests vex the sea,
But calm, content and peace we find,
When, Lord, we turn to Thee.
In vain by reason and by rule
We try to bend the will;
For none but in the Saviour's school
Can learn the heavenly skill.
Since at His feet my soul has sate,
His gracious words to hear,
Contented with my present state,
I cast on Him my care.
"Art thou a sinner, soul?" He said,
"Then how canst thou complain?
How light thy troubles here, if weigh'd
With everlasting pain!
"If thou of murmuring wouldst be cured,
Compare thy griefs with mine!
Think what my love for thee endured,
And thou wilt not repine.
"'Tis I appoint thy daily lot,
And I do all things well;
Thou soon shalt leave this wretched spot,
And rise with me to dwell.
"In life my grace shall strength supply,
Proportion'd to thy day;
At death thou still shalt find me nigh,
To wipe thy tears away."
Thus I, who once my wretched days
In vain repinings spent,
Taught in my Saviour's school of grace,
Have learnt to be conten
-
Everybody, Fairanna has posted in the Classics Bulletin Board:
MY ACCIDENT HAS MADE ME AN A HANDICAPPED Person I would appreciate hearing from you at Anna Alexander at my home address 207 Dominion Dr. Newport News VA 23602 any suggestions and ideas Thank you :) :) love Anna
-
Hello please email me fairanna at cox.net I don't see one of how to make the mark that makes those that connect a whatever PLEASE JOAN SEND ME YOUR ADDRESS I LOST MY ADDRESS BOOK THAT IS JOAN KRAFT
-
OK, Anna,I'm on it. Let me know if you don't get it.
-
I've always been one to prefer 'calm, content and peace'. It not only works best for me,
it's a lot easier on those around me.
ANNA, I've updated my contacts list with the address you give here. I believe you have my address. If not, just click on my name on the post; it should be in my profile. Do let me know
what kind of handicaps..other than the poor eyesight.. you now have. I don't know if I will have
anything to offer, but I certainly want to help if I can.
-
All overgrown by cunning moss
~ by Emily Dickinson
All overgrown by cunning moss,
All interspersed with weed,
The little cage of “Currer Bell”
In quiet “Haworth” laid.
This Bird – observing others
When frosts too sharp became
Retire to other latitudes –
Quietly did the same –
But differed in returning –
Since Yorkshire hills are green –
Yet not in all the nests I meet –
Can Nightingale be seen –
Currer Bell pen name for Charlotte Brontë, April 1816 – March 1855, English novelist and poet, the eldest of the three Brontë sisters, who, using the pseudonym Currer Bell wrote Jane Eyre. .
Haworth is a rural village in the City of Bradford metropolitan borough of West Yorkshire, England, Home of the Brontë sisters.
-
LINES COMPOSED IN A WOOD ON A WINDY DAY
by: Anne Bronte (1820-1849)
- Reprinted from Poems By Currer, Ellis, and Acton Bell, pseudonyms used by the three Bronte sisters.
MY soul is awakened, my spirit is soaring
And carried aloft on the wings of the breeze;
For above and around me the wild wind is roaring,
Arousing to rapture the earth and the seas.
The long withered grass in the sunshine is glancing,
The bare trees are tossing their branches on high;
The dead leaves beneath them are merrily dancing,
The white clouds are scudding across the blue sky
I wish I could see how the ocean is lashing
The foam of its billows to whirlwinds of spray;
I wish I could see how its proud waves are dashing,
And hear the wild roar of their thunder to-day!
-
High waving heather, 'neath stormy blasts bending
~ Emily Bronte (December 13, 1836)
High waving heather, 'neath stormy blasts bending,
Midnight and moonlight and bright shining stars;
Darkness and glory rejoicingly blending,
Earth rising to heaven and heaven descending,
Man's spirit away from its drear dongeon sending,
Bursting the fetters and breaking the bars.
All down the mountain sides, wild forest lending
One mighty voice to the life-giving wind;
Rivers their banks in the jubilee rending,
Fast through the valleys a reckless course wending,
Wider and deeper their waters extending,
Leaving a desolate desert behind.
Shining and lowering and swelling and dying,
Changing for ever from midnight to noon;
Roaring like thunder, like soft music sighing,
Shadows on shadows advancing and flying,
Lightning-bright flashes the deep gloom defying,
Coming as swiftly and fading as soon.
-
(http://seniorlearn.org/bookclubs/poetry/poetryspringgirl.jpg) J.W. Waterhouse - Famous Poets and Poems about Spring (http://famouspoetsandpoems.com/thematic_poems/spring_poems.html)
- Link to: Spring Poems (http://poetry.about.com/od/ourpoemcollections/a/springpoems.htm)
Discussion Leaders: Barb (augere@ix.netcom.com) & fairanna (fairanna@cox.net) | Join Us! For a Season of Spring Poetry
A Prayer in Spring
~ Robert Frost
Oh, give us pleasure in the flowers to-day;
And give us not to think so far away
As the uncertain harvest; keep us here
All simply in the springing of the year.
Oh, give us pleasure in the orchard white,
Like nothing else by day, like ghosts by night;
And make us happy in the happy bees,
The swarm dilating round the perfect trees.
And make us happy in the darting bird
That suddenly above the bees is heard,
The meteor that thrusts in with needle bill,
And off a blossom in mid air stands still.
For this is love and nothing else is love,
The which it is reserved for God above
To sanctify to what far ends He will,
But which it only needs that we fulfil.
|
-
The Song of Hiawatha
~ by Henry Wadsworth Longfellow
Introduction:
Should you ask me,
whence these stories?
Whence these legends and traditions,
With the odors of the forest
With the dew and damp of meadows,
With the curling smoke of wigwams,
With the rushing of great rivers,
With their frequent repetitions,
And their wild reverberations
As of thunder in the mountains?
I should answer, I should tell you,
"From the forests and the prairies,
From the great lakes of the Northland,
From the land of the Ojibways,
From the land of the Dacotahs,
From the mountains, moors, and fen-lands
Where the heron, the Shuh-shuh-gah,
Feeds among the reeds and rushes.
I repeat them as I heard them
From the lips of Nawadaha,
The musician, the sweet singer."
Should you ask where Nawadaha
Found these songs so wild and wayward,
Found these legends and traditions,
I should answer, I should tell you,
"In the bird's-nests of the forest,
In the lodges of the beaver,
In the hoofprint of the bison,
In the eyry of the eagle!
"All the wild-fowl sang them to him,
In the moorlands and the fen-lands,
In the melancholy marshes;
Chetowaik, the plover, sang them,
Mahng, the loon, the wild-goose, Wawa,
The blue heron, the Shuh-shuh-gah,
And the grouse, the Mushkodasa!"
If still further you should ask me,
Saying, "Who was Nawadaha?
Tell us of this Nawadaha,"
I should answer your inquiries
Straightway in such words as follow.
"In the vale of Tawasentha,
In the green and silent valley,
By the pleasant water-courses,
Dwelt the singer Nawadaha.
Round about the Indian village
Spread the meadows and the corn-fields,
And beyond them stood the forest,
Stood the groves of singing pine-trees,
Green in Summer, white in Winter,
Ever sighing, ever singing.
"And the pleasant water-courses,
You could trace them through the valley,
By the rushing in the Spring-time,
By the alders in the Summer,
By the white fog in the Autumn,
By the black line in the Winter;
And beside them dwelt the singer,
In the vale of Tawasentha,
In the green and silent valley. |
~
"There he sang of Hiawatha,
Sang the Song of Hiawatha,
Sang his wondrous birth and being,
How he prayed and how be fasted,
How he lived, and toiled, and suffered,
That the tribes of men might prosper,
That he might advance his people!"
Ye who love the haunts of Nature,
Love the sunshine of the meadow,
Love the shadow of the forest,
Love the wind among the branches,
And the rain-shower and the snow-storm,
And the rushing of great rivers
Through their palisades of pine-trees,
And the thunder in the mountains,
Whose innumerable echoes
Flap like eagles in their eyries;-
Listen to these wild traditions,
To this Song of Hiawatha!
Ye who love a nation's legends,
Love the ballads of a people,
That like voices from afar off
Call to us to pause and listen,
Speak in tones so plain and childlike,
Scarcely can the ear distinguish
Whether they are sung or spoken;-
Listen to this Indian Legend,
To this Song of Hiawatha!
Ye whose hearts are fresh and simple,
Who have faith in God and Nature,
Who believe that in all ages
Every human heart is human,
That in even savage bosoms
There are longings, yearnings, strivings
For the good they comprehend not,
That the feeble hands and helpless,
Groping blindly in the darkness,
Touch God's right hand in that darkness
And are lifted up and strengthened;-
Listen to this simple story,
To this Song of Hiawatha!
Ye, who sometimes, in your rambles
Through the green lanes of the country,
Where the tangled barberry-bushes
Hang their tufts of crimson berries
Over stone walls gray with mosses,
Pause by some neglected graveyard,
For a while to muse, and ponder
On a half-effaced inscription,
Written with little skill of song-craft,
Homely phrases, but each letter
Full of hope and yet of heart-break,
Full of all the tender pathos
Of the Here and the Hereafter;
Stay and read this rude inscription,
Read this Song of Hiawatha! |
-
I remember Hiawatha from a reading book.
I liked the Bronte poems, my grandma sent my father a little box of heather, when we were children. My sister and I got shamrock brooches and Coronation books.
I just remembered it's St. Patrick's Day today!
-
So it is! Nothing happens here (a different story in Glasgow, I am sure - and my husband's firm in Edinburgh has many Irish employees; I expect they will be downing a few Guinesses tonight).
So perhaps we should be digging out our WB Yeats, or Maeve Binchy, or something. It's always good to have a theme.
Rosemary
-
How unexpected to see some work of the Bronte sisters. Of course, Emily is by far the best poet of the three - Anne has a quiet charm and Charlotte can be a trifle 'twee' - but such talents they had. Their brother Branwell also wrote poetry which has been long disregarded but in recent years new assessments have been made. I don't think he will ever be regarded as a major force of English letters but I'm sure he has a place somewhere.
-
Ah, thanks for the reminder, OCTAVIA. I'll wear some green today. I'm entitled; my paternal
grandmother was a Riley!
-
Octavia - I forgot Hiawatha and stumbled upon it last week - while reading I was bowled over with the message that to me was beyond sentiment - sounds like the kind of uplifting thoughts we want to hear expressed today.
How lovely to think on the idea of a mother sending her grown son a box with heather inside - so poetic and tender - I bet you can see in your minds eye those Shamrock pins to this day.
Rosemary thanks for stopping in - do you have a Yeats you could share with us - There are so many great Irish poets aren't there - they do have a way with words - I did not realize Binchy wrote poetry. I have certainly enjoyed reading her books over the years.
Talk about downing a Guinesses - my Grandboy is celebrating his first adult St. Patrick's day in Savannah where they do it up Green - he just finished up the 3rd quarter of his second year at Savannah College of Art and Design and rather than come home immediately between semester break he is staying in Savannah till Friday so he can be a part of the goings on - he is a good kid so there is no concern. In fact he is fun - he rides all over town and to class on his bike, even though he brings his car and when on his bike he wears his WWI leather pilot's helmet along with a pair of out-sized goggles. For St. Pat's he dressed up his black coachman's hat that he wears as his 'dress up' attire with green ribbon and ferns that he purchased at the florist.
Gumtree we did a month of the Bronte's back a couple of years ago and we were successful finding some of Patrick Branwell Bronte's poems - we learned of his life of drink - they all had such a miserable life didn't they surrounded by so much loss - very different than the life of Emily Dickinson. I visited the Moors where they lived and it is desolate but I thought beautiful with all the space laid out as a vista before your eye. The summer weather I'm sure is far different than a howling wind sweeping across that landscape.
Thorp Green
~ Patrick Branwell Bronte
I sit, this evening, far away
From all I used to know,
And nought reminds my soul today
Of happy long ago.
Unwelcome cares, unthought-of fears,
Around my room arise;
I seek for suns of former years,
But clouds o'ercast my skies.
Yes - Memory, wherefore does thy voice
Bring old times back to view,
As thou wouldst bid me not rejoice
In thoughts and prospects new?
I'll thank thee, Memory, in the hour
When troubled thoughts are mine -
For thou, like sins in April's shower,
On shadowy scenes wilt shine.
I'll thank thee when approaching death
Would quench life's feeble ember,
For thou wouldst even renew my breath
With thy sweet word 'Remember'!
Babi a Riley - for me it is Kane - my maternal Great Grandfather was the immigrant and his name was an Irish version that we can no longer find the papers that was Anglicized to Kane.
-
And I have Loton and Morris in my forebears...
-
Well Gumtree if this is family - wow - looks like both the Loton's and the Morris' were in the Cromwellian Adventures protecting the land for Ireland - http://ahd.exis.net/monaghan/advntrs.htm
-
Can I post this before the day is over - I hope, I hope, I hope... I just love it - it sings and says it all...
The Emerald Isle
~ Christine B.
There is a place that haunts my dreams
Where countless knolls are always green,
And scents of Celtic ocean breeze
Draws me back to past life gleams.
I oft recall the many smiles,
Although that life was not of wealth.
Happiness was in the love
Of country called the Emerald Isle.
I must go back—the Isle awaits
My return to its sweet shores;
And grassy hillsides, cottage doors
Call me back to discern my fate.
A grave lies there among the hills
A young girl’s end by lover’s hand,
The soul will never find its peace
Until a marker the specter stills.
-
Barbara - My goodness - I've done a lot of genealogical research but haven't got back as far as Cromwell for those two particular families - though I have seen that record. Most Australians of Anglo-Saxon descent have at least one Irish ancestor - I have two, my DH has 1 - so our children have 3 and so it goes.
-
Oh, yes, BARB. And then there was my great-grandfather from Austria, a Von Stoy, who
dropped the Von here to become simply Stoy. There is also a Cherokee in the family back-
ground; the rest seem to be pretty ordinary English.
I found a poem for you from the Cherokee nation.
CALLING LIKE A DISTANT BIRD
Listen!
Dressed in the sunrise
I might sing like a red bird.
But I shake my clothing until it fades
so that you and I are dressed alike.
Our souls are aligned.
Be thinking of me.
We are as the red bird.
We are as the blue bird.
We are as the yellow bird.
We are as the mythic bird.
Now!
Look at me ... talk with me ... no apartness.
In the middle of the morning we stand.
Each day we walk in splendor
within the heart of a rainbow.
Each day we are remade by
the spirit that never dies.
-
Babi thanks - what a treat - there is a mystical feel and sound about most Native American poetry and this one does not disappoint. Even the title of the poem stirs something within...CALLING LIKE A DISTANT BIRD - hmmm seems to me I used words very similar in a poem I wrote about 10 years ago - need to find that and share it.
Gumtree you never do know what you will find when you Google ;)
Looks like it is my grandboys who are the 36 flavors where as even my kids have a simple heritage the same as mine - for me it was my great grandparents who arrived - all from Germany in the 1830s and 1840s except for my mother's father's parents who came from Ireland in the 1850s and then the father of my children was both German and English I guess since on his father's mother's side they go back to the early days of this nation to Anne Hutchinson and the Massachusetts Bay Colony. Not much in the way of a mix of cultures - ah so
-
Found it...
A Cooing Near-by Dove Sounds a Long Way Off.
We've all just met -
two seated, two standing,
animated in chatter - "I've been,"
"No, not long," "Wasn't he great?" -
Pleasantries from pleasant faces
alive with smiles, flashing eyes,
a slight strain pulls tight
cheekbones and lip lines.
We're reaching for moons,
the essence of each shape.
Where is the safe spot?
What weakness joins space
with a sheepish smile? We're proud
we found a cringe,
trying to tell friendship
from each paper face.
A mention of blossoms -
words stop -
in mid air -
her fullness in place,
greets - a no-man's land.
Her eyes soften inward.
Pale checks relax
her face - like a white dove
flies into space
she wanders the sad grieving call, gentle
sounds a thousand miles away
she walks a mountain floating
in Dogwood blossoms as thick as snow,
shares a pink blush close to her throat -
Her voice undone
holds a longing,
a push against old stories in time
where red birds play in cold Spring shadows
our heartwood-dreams
bind the falling petals
of memory advancing
two seated, two standing,
a federation,
we share -
"I’ve been there !"
-
So beautiful.
-
Yes, indeed. I found myself drifting away with her, to a lovely place.
-
Hi everyone!
I am from the Latin Group but could not miss posting my favourite poem for Spring
Thoughts from Abroad
Robert Browning (1812–89)
OH, to be in England now that April ’s there
And whoever wakes in England sees, some morning, unaware,
That the lowest boughs and the brushwood sheaf
Round the elm-tree bole are in tiny leaf,
While the chaffinch sings on the orchard bough 5
In England—now!
II
And after April, when May follows
And the white-throat builds, and all the swallows!
Hark, where my blossom’d pear-tree in the hedge
Leans to the field and scatters on the clover 10
Blossoms and dewdrops—at the bent spray’s edge—
That ’s the wise thrush: he sings each song twice over
Lest you should think he never could re-capture
The first fine careless rapture!
And, though the fields look rough with hoary dew, 15
All will be gay when noontide wakes anew
The buttercups, the little children’s dower,
Far brighter than this gaudy melon-flower!
-
Thanks Bow Belle - had to laugh - first the English in Spring and then quick as a wink the Irish - I know, here it is funny - there it is not - so glad you popped in - so many wonderful Spring time poems aren't there - the Autumn poems are filled with a sadness but the Spring poems are always so hopeful - thanks for Browning.
Whoops what happened to the Irish song/poem - Oh Bow Belle it was wonderful - please we are not thinking the same as you probably experienced where you have to be careful - from a distance, as most of us are, the troubles are part of the tapestry of life in this world and we love to hear from poet and Bard their ability to turn the awful into something to sing.
-
The Song of Hiawatha
Part I: The Peace-Pipe
On the Mountains of the Prairie,
On the great Red Pipe-stone Quarry,
Gitche Manito, the mighty,
He the Master of Life, descending,
On the red crags of the quarry
Stood erect, and called the nations,
Called the tribes of men together.
From his footprints flowed a river,
Leaped into the light of morning,
O'er the precipice plunging downward
Gleamed like Ishkoodah, the comet.
And the Spirit, stooping earthward,
With his finger on the meadow
Traced a winding pathway for it,
Saying to it, "Run in this way!"
From the red stone of the quarry
With his hand he broke a fragment,
Moulded it into a pipe-head,
Shaped and fashioned it with figures;
From the margin of the river
Took a long reed for a pipe-stem,
With its dark green leaves upon it;
Filled the pipe with bark of willow,
With the bark of the red willow;
Breathed upon the neighboring forest,
Made its great boughs chafe together,
Till in flame they burst and kindled;
And erect upon the mountains,
Gitche Manito, the mighty,
Smoked the calumet, the Peace-Pipe,
As a signal to the nations.
And the smoke rose slowly, slowly,
Through the tranquil air of morning,
First a single line of darkness,
Then a denser, bluer vapor,
Then a snow-white cloud unfolding,
Like the tree-tops of the forest,
Ever rising, rising, rising,
Till it touched the top of heaven,
Till it broke against the heaven,
And rolled outward all around it.
From the Vale of Tawasentha,
From the Valley of Wyoming,
From the groves of Tuscaloosa,
From the far-off Rocky Mountains,
From the Northern lakes and rivers
All the tribes beheld the signal,
Saw the distant smoke ascending,
The Pukwana of the Peace-Pipe.
And the Prophets of the nations
Said: "Behold it, the Pukwana!
By the signal of the Peace-Pipe,
Bending like a wand of willow,
Waving like a hand that beckons,
Gitche Manito, the mighty,
Calls the tribes of men together,
Calls the warriors to his council!"
Down the rivers, o'er the prairies,
Came the warriors of the nations,
Came the Delawares and Mohawks,
Came the Choctaws and Camanches,
Came the Shoshonies and Blackfeet,
Came the Pawnees and Omahas,
Came the Mandans and Dacotahs,
Came the Hurons and Ojibways,
All the warriors drawn together
By the signal of the Peace-Pipe,
To the Mountains of the Prairie,
To the great Red Pipe-stone Quarry,
And they stood there on the meadow,
With their weapons and their war-gear,
Painted like the leaves of Autumn,
Painted like the sky of morning,
Wildly glaring at each other;
In their faces stem defiance,
In their hearts the feuds of ages,
The hereditary hatred,
The ancestral thirst of vengeance.
Gitche Manito, the mighty,
The creator of the nations,
Looked upon them with compassion,
With paternal love and pity; |
Looked upon their wrath and wrangling
But as quarrels among children,
But as feuds and fights of children!
Over them he stretched his right hand,
To subdue their stubborn natures,
To allay their thirst and fever,
By the shadow of his right hand;
Spake to them with voice majestic
As the sound of far-off waters,
Falling into deep abysses,
Warning, chiding, spake in this wise :
"O my children! my poor children!
Listen to the words of wisdom,
Listen to the words of warning,
From the lips of the Great Spirit,
From the Master of Life, who made you!
"I have given you lands to hunt in,
I have given you streams to fish in,
I have given you bear and bison,
I have given you roe and reindeer,
I have given you brant and beaver,
Filled the marshes full of wild-fowl,
Filled the rivers full of fishes:
Why then are you not contented?
Why then will you hunt each other?
"I am weary of your quarrels,
Weary of your wars and bloodshed,
Weary of your prayers for vengeance,
Of your wranglings and dissensions;
All your strength is in your union,
All your danger is in discord;
Therefore be at peace henceforward,
And as brothers live together.
"I will send a Prophet to you,
A Deliverer of the nations,
Who shall guide you and shall teach you,
Who shall toil and suffer with you.
If you listen to his counsels,
You will multiply and prosper;
If his warnings pass unheeded,
You will fade away and perish!
"Bathe now in the stream before you,
Wash the war-paint from your faces,
Wash the blood-stains from your fingers,
Bury your war-clubs and your weapons,
Break the red stone from this quarry,
Mould and make it into Peace-Pipes,
Take the reeds that grow beside you,
Deck them with your brightest feathers,
Smoke the calumet together,
And as brothers live henceforward!"
Then upon the ground the warriors
Threw their cloaks and shirts of deer-skin,
Threw their weapons and their war-gear,
Leaped into the rushing river,
Washed the war-paint from their faces.
Clear above them flowed the water,
Clear and limpid from the footprints
Of the Master of Life descending;
Dark below them flowed the water,
Soiled and stained with streaks of crimson,
As if blood were mingled with it!
From the river came the warriors,
Clean and washed from all their war-paint;
On the banks their clubs they buried,
Buried all their warlike weapons.
Gitche Manito, the mighty,
The Great Spirit, the creator,
Smiled upon his helpless children!
And in silence all the warriors
Broke the red stone of the quarry,
Smoothed and formed it into Peace-Pipes,
Broke the long reeds by the river,
Decked them with their brightest feathers,
And departed each one homeward,
While the Master of Life, ascending,
Through the opening of cloud-curtains,
Through the doorways of the heaven,
Vanished from before their faces,
In the smoke that rolled around him,
The Pukwana of the Peace-Pipe!
|
-
Having recently read a history of Quanah Parker and the Comanches, I couldn't help but
think that the listed group of Indian peoples never would have gathered to 'smoke the peace
pipe'. Facts do sometimes get in the way of properly enjoying a poem.
Does this seem familiar? "March is a month of considerable frustration - it is so near spring and yet across a great deal of the country the weather is still so violent and changeable that outdoor activity in our yards seems light years away."- Thalassa Cruso
This is probably from her book on gardening, published back in 1972.
-
Babi - I did so like the words of Thalassa Cruso. Also love his/her name. Thalassa is the Greek word for "sea".
From the New York Times : She was born Jan. 7, 1909, in London, the daughter of Henry and Mildred Cruso. The name Thalassa, the Greek word for ''sea,'' was a whim of her mother's. According to family legend, a paternal ancestor, John Cruso, was a schoolmate of Daniel Defoe, who would later add an ''e'' to the surname and bestow it on his best-known literary hero. ''My mother's maiden name was Robinson,'' Ms Cruso once said in an interview, ''and I am told that the announcement of that engagement was the last thing that made Queen Victoria smile.''
-
With a name like that, ROSE, she probably is Greek, at least in origin.
-
I do think you are right Babi and that is what I think Hawthorn is saying - it takes the calling by Gitche Manito, a god figure, through the peace-pipe to assemble them all together in that meadow and they arrive dressed for war - he then proceeds to scold them for their warlike behavior enacted between tribes. He uses a guilt tactic on them in hopes they change their behavior where the Christian God makes promises about a glory place .
I got from the epic the concept that we are all called regardless of earthly differences, that in common we have our humanity and a greater power that we call by many names that is more powerful than any group or tribe or nation that functions as an inner cry in all of humanity toward what the peace-pipe represents - but then no god can over-ride free will and so many of these prayers and poems are describing a Utopian dream.
Interesting bit of history about Cruso, the sea and Daniel Defoe - and then to top off the announcement of wonders is Queen Victoria's smile. Great bit - thanks roshanarose.
Peace
~ by Rupert Brooke - the first sonnet in his 1914 sequence
Now, God be thanked Who has matched us with His hour,
And caught our youth, and wakened us from sleeping,
With hand made sure, clear eye, and sharpened power,
To turn, as swimmers into cleanness leaping,
Glad from a world grown old and cold and weary,
Leave the sick hearts that honour could not move,
And half-men, and their dirty songs and dreary,
And all the little emptiness of love!
Oh! we, who have known shame, we have found release there,
Where there's no ill, no grief, but sleep has mending,
Naught broken save this body, lost but breath;
Nothing to shake the laughing heart's long peace there
But only agony, and that has ending;
And the worst friend and enemy is but Death.
AMAZING PEACE
~ by Maya Angelou
In our joy, we think we hear a whisper.
At first it is too soft. Then only half heard.
We listen carefully as it gathers strength.
We hear a sweetness.
The word is Peace.
It is loud now.
Louder than the explosion of bombs.
We tremble at the sound.
We are thrilled by its presence.
It is what we have hungered for.
Not just the absence of war. But true Peace.
A harmony of spirit, and comfort of courtesies.
Security for our beloveds and their beloveds.
We, Angels and Mortals, Believers and Nonbelievers,
Look heavenward and speak the word aloud.
Peace. We look at each other, then into ourselves,
And we say without shyness or apology or hesitation:
Peace, My Brother.
Peace, My Sister.
Peace, My Soul.
-
This is from A.C.Swinburne 1837-1909.its seeming simplicity covers great depth.
For winter's rains are over,
And all the season of snows and sins.
The day dividing lover and lover,
The light that loses,the night that wins;
And time remembered is grief forgotten,
And frosts are slain and flowers begotten,
And in green underwood and cover
Blossom by blossom the spring begins.
-
What a lovely expression Jude "in green underwood" and the other I like equally, "frosts are slain" - I do so admire folks who can tell the story and get their message out in a few lines - oh me - it is a gift I know I just do not have - it seems I end up writing a book most often to say what another can successfully say in 4 lines. ohhh well I guess we all have our own gifts.
Babi off the subject of Poetry - or according to how you look at life - anyhow - have you had a soaking rain yet this Spring - I am concerned - we had a few drizzles in February but the ground had not been soaked since all that cold freeze in mid-January and things are beginning to green up but ever so slowly with lots of dead stuff showing. Rain my not be a favorite day but we need a good soak - how about where you live...?
Oh yes, nearly forgot - seriously - if you have tackled any of Ezra Pound's work please share what you got from it - I keep thinking if I read more poetry maybe I can figure out his work - bottom line I need a class but the time that takes is a commitment I cannot make at this time - evidently he held some unorthodox opinions about the likes of Hitler and Mussolini. I think he was before the House on un-American Activities but again, for me he is so difficult a read to even get into his Bio.
-
What a beautiful poem.
".. true Peace.
A harmony of spirit, and comfort of courtesies.
Security for our beloveds and their beloveds."
Oh, if it were only so!
There is a book titled "Angels and Mortals", and also a game for youth of that name.
I don't know if the game is related to, or came from, the book.
"And time remembered is grief forgotten," I wish Swinburne was right about that, but I
often find the opposite to be true.
I can't claim any familiarity with Ezra Pound, BARB. I've read very little of his work, and never
tackled the really saga-sized epics for which he is so famous.
-
Thanks Babi - I still hope to unravel Pound - as to Peace - as fast as we settle in one place another pops up - I almost prefer it when we did not have instant news to all places in every corner of this world - I am trying to figure out what it is about peace we want - I think it is more than the quiet and good will among all - I wonder if it is as much about the feeling of being safe where as without peace there is a heightened level of anxiety based on the level of uncertainty we feel.
SAFETY
~ by Rupert Brooke
Dear! of all happy in the hour, most blest
He who has found our hid security,
Assured in the dark tides of the world that rest,
And heard our word, "Who is so safe as we?"
We have found safety with all things undying,
The winds, and morning, tears of men and mirth,
The deep night, and birds singing, and clouds flying,
And sleep, and freedom, and the autumnal earth.
We have built a house that is not for Time's throwing.
We have gained a peace unshaken by pain for ever.
War knows no power. Safe shall be my going,
Secretly armed against all death's endeavour;
Safe though all safety's lost; safe where men fall;
And if these poor limbs die, safest of all.
-
A powerful poem, BARB. That kind of peace, if we can hold on to it, is the only peace we can
truly rely on. I'm sure you are familiar with the scripture from John 14:27: Peace I leave with you, my peace I give unto you: not as the world giveth, give I unto you. Let not your heart be troubled, neither let it be afraid.
-
To off set the news or, maybe it is to live on with a full heart in spite of the news...
Security
~ by William Stafford
Tomorrow will have an island. Before night
I always find it. Then on to the next island.
These places hidden in the day separate
and come forward if you beckon.
But you have to know they are there before they exist.
Some time there will be a tomorrow without any island.
So far, I haven't let that happen, but after
I'm gone others may become faithless and careless.
Before them will tumble the wide unbroken sea,
and without any hope they will stare at the horizon.
So to you, Friend, I confide my secret:
to be a discoverer you hold close whatever
you find, and after a while you decide
what it is. Then, secure in where you have been,
you turn to the open sea and let go.
-
Maybe I have become too involved in the Odyssey. I know Barb that you choose poetry relative to events that are happening or have just happened. That poem sang Odysseus to me, Cavafy too.
-
How about poetry directly from the Odyssey? Here is Hermes, speaking to Calypso:
"Goddess to god, you greet me, questioning me?
Well, here is truth for you in courtesy,
Zeus made me come, and not my inclination;
who cares to cross that tract of desolation,
the bitter sea, all mortal towns behind
where gods have beef and honors from mankind?
But it is not to be thought of--and no use--
for any god to elude the will of Zeus."
-
Ah Hermes with his winged feet - here are a couple of poems devoted to the god
Hermes
~ by Sannion
Ie ie Hermes!
Staves and rocks and herds of cows and herds of ghosts;
Hats and boots and coins tinkling --
as they fall from cut purses or from hands that have thrown bad dice
Ie ie Hermes!
Pens and roads and treaties and men muttering old spells under the new moon;
Black earth and black night and blue eyes shining out of the shadows --
as footsteps fall on wet cobbles and people hurry home
Ie ie Hermes!
-
PHOEBUS AND HERMES.
~ by Johann Wolfgang von Goethe
DELOS' stately ruler, and Maia's son, the adroit one,
Warmly were striving, for both sought the great prize to obtain.
Hermes the lyre demanded, the lyre was claim'd by Apollo,
Yet were the hearts of the foes fruitlessly nourish'd by hope.
For on a sudden Ares burst in, with fury decisive,
Dashing in twain the gold toy, brandishing wildly his sword.
Hermes, malicious one, laughed beyond measure; yet deep-seated sorrow
Seized upon Phoebus's heart, seized on the heart of each Muse
-
Is there more to that poem, BARB? It seems to hang suspended, waiting for more.
-
That's it Babi - here is another translation
Phoebus And Hermes
~ by Johann Wolfgang von Goethe
The deep-brow'd lord of Delos once, and Maia's nimble-witted son,
Contended eagerly by whom the prize of glory should be won;
Hermes long'd to grasp the lyre, -- the lyre Apollo hoped to gain,
And both their hearts were full of hope, and yet the hopes of both were vain.
For Ares, to decide the strife, between them rudely dash'd in ire,
And waving high his falchion keen, he cleft in twain the golden lyre.
Loud Hermes laugh'd maliciously, but at the direful deed did fall
The deepest grief upon the heart of Phoebus and the Muses all.
-
One Sister have I in our house
~ by Emily Dickinson
One Sister have I in our house,
And one, a hedge away.
There's only one recorded,
But both belong to me.
One came the road that I came --
And wore my last year's gown --
The other, as a bird her nest,
Builded our hearts among.
She did not sing as we did --
It was a different tune --
Herself to her a music
As Bumble bee of June.
Today is far from Childhood --
But up and down the hills
I held her hand the tighter --
Which shortened all the miles --
And still her hum
The years among,
Deceives the Butterfly;
Still in her Eye
The Violets lie
Mouldered this many May.
I spilt the dew --
But took the morn --
I chose this single star
From out the wide night's numbers --
Sue - forevermore!
-
Sister Muses
~ by Raymond A. Foss
Oh the pen flowed
jumped to the words
found the voice
Talked the talk
said his piece
next to them
the Sister Muses
Aware of the weaknesses
of my chromosome
but gave me the start
the push
to jot and post
the poems on the page
Again.
-
Ah, that second translation is much clearer, and completes the idea for me. Aside from the
reflection on the character of Hermes, the poem seem to be speaking of the damage war does
to the more beautiful things of life.
-
Barb - A tribute:
King of Fruits
Luscious, succulent mango fruit!
How do we guard you from the brute?
King of fruits, without dispute
To you we all humbly salute!
Ripe, and unripe in forms many,
Enjoyed universally by all and any!
Ah., delicious and sweet as sugar cane,
Protecting you can be wildly insane!
Your name derives from the word "mAngaai"
You are linked to the legend of Surya Bai**!
Food of the gods! How you enchant!
O’ tangy Drupe! Wishes you grant!
Akin to Maya - you are the fruit of gold,
That sages in Arunachala have extolled;
Witness to battle and thunder storm
You let Soorapadman take your form!
O’ earthy, ripe "Sappattai" delight,
Envy of the "Alphonso" this starry night!
Gazing at onlookers from the compound wall,
How gracefully you sway amidst trees tall!
Then, in the quiet afternoon Chennai sun,
When the siesta of ladies has just begun,
Fearless street urchin and vagabond alike
Gear up towards you to aim and strike.
Alas! Shouting to protect is of no avail,
For the wily ones on the prowl prevail;
As adroitly they grab and you will snatch
Pray, can any match a more princely catch?
A well directed stone at you they throw
Following victory cries of "kokku"* ru kO!
Ah.. heavenly "kokku" sweet as cane,
Yes, protecting you is indeed in vain!
*Kokku is another name for mango tree
**Legend has it that the sun princess - Surya Bai, transformed
herself into a golden lotus to evade persecution of an
evil sorceress. The sorceress became angry when the
King of the land fell in love with the beautiful lotus,
and she burnt it to ashes. But as things would be in
the battle of good overcoming evil a magnificent mango
tree sprang from the ashes and Surya Bai
stepped out from a ripe mango that had fallen to the
ground.
The above verse is a variation from the original
Tamil poem by veNbA virumbi given below:
Rajeshwari Iyer
Profile of the author
Rajeshwari Iyer lives in Brampton, Ontario and teaches Chemistry at the College/University level in Toronto. She is the mother of a special needs child and enjoys reading, music and travel. She has contributed poems to SAWF (South Asian Women's Forum), Magazines such as KALA, Marina, quarterly publications based in Toronto. She has also contributed to e-zines such as Poetry.com, Thinnai, and Tamilonline.
-
OH my - Oh thanks you - it is a beautiful poem - so full of wonder - just wonderful - ;) and best all sorts of words for me to research... :-*
-
(http://seniorlearn.org/bookclubs/poetry/poetryspringgirl.jpg) J.W. Waterhouse - Famous Poets and Poems about Spring (http://famouspoetsandpoems.com/thematic_poems/spring_poems.html)
- Link to: Spring Poems (http://poetry.about.com/od/ourpoemcollections/a/springpoems.htm)
Discussion Leaders: Barb (augere@ix.netcom.com) & fairanna (fairanna@cox.net) | Join Us! For a Season of Spring Poetry
A Prayer in Spring
~ Robert Frost
Oh, give us pleasure in the flowers to-day;
And give us not to think so far away
As the uncertain harvest; keep us here
All simply in the springing of the year.
Oh, give us pleasure in the orchard white,
Like nothing else by day, like ghosts by night;
And make us happy in the happy bees,
The swarm dilating round the perfect trees.
And make us happy in the darting bird
That suddenly above the bees is heard,
The meteor that thrusts in with needle bill,
And off a blossom in mid air stands still.
For this is love and nothing else is love,
The which it is reserved for God above
To sanctify to what far ends He will,
But which it only needs that we fulfil.
|
-
Oh, my! That was my exact reaction, too, BARB. I shall certainly eat my mangos with much
more respect, now. :D
I like this one..despite it's iinclusion of a little historical note.
"This hill
crossed with broken pines and maples
lumpy with the burial mounds of
uprooted hemlocks (hurricane
of ’38) out of their
rotting hearts generations rise
trying once more to become
the forest
just beyond them
tall enough to be called trees
in their youth like aspen a bouquet
of young beech is gathered
they still wear last summer’s leaves
the lightest brown almost translucent
how their stubbornness has decorated
the winter woods"- Grace Paley, A Walk in March
-
Babi I mis-counted - it was time for a new heading and I missed it - so I copied and pasted your post in a second space so that it did not have to be tied to the heading but of course you can see it appears like I wrote the post - but that is only half of it - it looks like you copied and pasted the heading - oh dear - but it is easier to see your post and since you included a poem in your post I really think it needed to receive its space and not be an after thought to the heading.
Interesting that the poem you brought us is from Grace Paley - she is not someone I think of when we say poetry - but then maybe I am mixing her up with the news columnist for the NYTimes.
I do know about those burial mounds of uprooted trees - a few years ago the east coast had two very bad hurricanes in a row - come to think of it this was before Katrina - how time flies - anyhow, when I drive to my daughter's I often come back using I-10 which means going south from Atlanta to Mobile Alabama. I forget the Highway number - maybe I-75 - regardless it is just that for miles and miles the trees were blown down - after Montgomery you drive through what was a forest of trees and the hurricane wiped so many out that if they set the wood on fire it could probably be seen in outer space - and so the burial mounds that are still obvious always located in an area that I remeber as having been a thick forest and is now bare acreage.
Hmm it just occurred to me for the first time - these burial mounds built by native Americans and in Europe by early tribes - they are huge - and all accomplished by hand - now I wonder how they did it - how long did it take to create a burial mound I wonder. .
The Burial Mound
~ Fiona Colligan-Yano
In my mind, the glowing hump
Becomes illuminated by angry rays
Striking off the stone grey sea.
And for a moment
The discordant gulls
Weave as one with the receding day.
Voices of the long dead
Sweep upwards from the desecrated grave,
To keen with the flowing wind.
And, as eyelids flutter,
People gather in the gloom
And the gestalt sings awhile,
Despite times menstruum.
-
And then we can't forget Lucy's poem about the Pines.
Among the Pines
~ Lucy Maud Montgomery
Here let us linger at will and delightsomely hearken
Music aeolian of wind in the boughs of pine,
Timbrel of falling waters, sounds all soft and sonorous,
Worshipful litanies sung at a bannered shrine.
Deep let us breathe the ripeness and savor of balsam,
Tears that the pines have wept in sorrow sweet,
With its aroma comes beguilement of things forgotten,
Long-past hopes of the years on tip-toeing feet.
Far in the boskiest glen of this wood is a dream and a silence
Come, we shall claim them ours ere look we long;
A dream that we dreamed and lost, a silence richly hearted,
Deep at its lyric core with the soul of a song.
If there be storm, it will thunder a march in the branches,
So that our feet may keep true time as we go;
If there be rain, it will laugh, it will glisten, and beckon,
Calling to us as a friend all lightly and low.
If it be night, the moonlight will wander winsomely with us,
If it be hour of dawn, all heaven will bloom,
If it be sunset, it's glow will enfold and pursue us.
To the remotest valley of purple gloom.
Lo! the pine wood is a temple where the days meet to worship,
Laying their cark and care for the nonce aside,
God, who made it, keeps it as a witness to Him forever,
Walking in it, as a garden, at eventide.
-
Can't leave out a tribute to the maple - Robert Frost wrote one but it is forever long - here is a shorter poem about the maple - she is not sounding very joyful here however, finding a poem about maples NOT written about its autumn coloring is a trick - this was the best I could find. I wonder what happened in her life for her to write this poem...but then we do have so many kinds of poetry which gives us something to soothe ourselves when we hit a rough patch in our lives.
Red Maples
~ Sara Teasdale
In the last year I have learned
How few men are worth my trust;
I have seen the friend I loved
Struck by death into the dust,
And fears I never knew before
Have knocked and knocked upon my door--
"I shall hope little and ask for less,"
I said, "There is no happiness."
I have grown wise at last--but how
Can I hide the gleam on the willow-bough,
Or keep the fragrance out of the rain
Now that April is here again?
When maples stand in a haze of fire
What can I say to the old desire,
What shall I do with the joy in me
That is born out of agony?
-
Late Spring as Usual
~ — Marie Ponsot, poet
The green vine is moving.
The motion's too slow to be
visible but it is racing,
racing feeling for a way
across the wall of fence
it's scrawling on, inches added every day.
Forwarding, sunwarding, it claims
its place. Green states its claim. It writes
the lesson of the day: longing,
longing coming true while arcing
out and up according to the instruction
of desire. Sun-hungry its tip has tilted
toward sun-space. Already
it is speeding leaf-notes out of its root
all along the sprigless budless thread
still scribbling the deed of its location.
In two weeks or one or four
morning glory.
-
Oh, thanks for explaining, BARB. I was quite dumbfounded, trying to figure out how my
post got posted under your name.
I do like the Teasdale. She says hoping for nothing is wise, but the fresh rain and the trees and
the joy of spring are making nonsense of her 'wisdom'.
-
I really enjoyed Red Maples too. I've never seen a maple, I must look them up. In my suburb there's no visible sign that Autumn is underway, just a hint of crispness in the early morning air, and darkness coming a tad earlier. I'd like to see the seasons change, just once, except I can't stand the cold.
Here's another frog poem from Norman Maccaig, he was very fond of frogs :) and the natural world.
Frogs
Frogs sit more solid
than anything sits. In mid-leap they are
parachutists falling
in a free fall. They die on roads
with arms across their chests and
heads high.
I love frogs that sit
like Buddha, that fall without
parachutes, that die
like Italian tenors.
Above all, I love them because,
pursued in water, they never
panic so much that they fail
to make stylish triangles
with their ballet dancer's
legs.
-
Norman MacCaig also wrote more serious poems and this is one that quite well known.
Assissi
The dwarf with his hands on backwards
sat, slumped like a half-filled sack
on tiny twisted legs from which
sawdust might run,
outside the three tiers of churches built
in honour of St Francis, brother
of the poor, talker with birds, over whom
he had the advantage
of not being dead yet.
A priest explained
how clever it was of Giotto
to make his frescoes tell stories
that would reveal to the illiterate the goodness
of God and the suffering
of His Son. I understood
the explanation and
the cleverness.
A rush of tourists, clucking contentedly,
fluttered after him as he scattered
the grain of the Word. It was they who had passed
the ruined temple outside, whose eyes
wept pus, whose back was higher
than his head, whose lopsided mouth
said Grazie in a voice as sweet
as a child's when she speaks to her mother
or a bird's when it spoke
to St Francis.
-
A poem with a difference, Octavia. Vive la difference!
-
I like that "not being dead yet" some days you look around and wonder if you are or not...ah so...
Haven's Falling
~ by Valerie, age 15
A haven in the red night
A red knight in the dark
Huddling from haven’s fight
In the sad silence of the lark
The red knight loves her
Captured her in a cave
Her song was his haven
And his soul she saved
But as the days drew long
She slowly built a transparent wall
She wouldn’t sing her song
Wouldn’t sound freedom’s call
For freedom in a cage
Is a sad freedom indeed
The freedom of the lost
When freedom’s all you need
He fought fervently for her
Tried to force out a song
He struggled for a single note
Of the life he had loved so long
But his last haven is falling
The last note is dying
His last heartbeat is stalling
And at last, the lark is flying
-
Shardes of Glass
~ by Valerie, age 15
They fell like tears from heaven
And glistened in the grass,
Small speaks of crystal glitter
Floating in the wind,
The shardes of glass did shatter,
Like screeching in the night,
There's more than one way,
To brake a glass house,
Each and every stick and stone,
Struck a silver pain,
And made the slivers of glass fall
Down like Shining rain.
-
Ask No Quarter
~ by Bill Turner
Shadows of time are catching up with me
Icy fingers of darkness clutching at my soul
Battles long fought for what is me
Never bartering what is battered
I will leave with it tarnished and tattered
Freedom has never been free
A price is paid by us all
Some pay a heavier toll
We live, we fight, we do what is right
Pushing, defending, fighting off the night
Stalking through life giving no quarter
Knowing that none will be given in the end
It is the warrior way
Stand and deliver, vanquishing evil to the night
When death comes show no fright
Leave the world a better place
Touch someone's heart each day
Defend those who cannot defend themselves
Time is the most precious gift one can give
Give it all to others and truly live
Make someone smile each and every day
Leave your mark upon the lives of others
Never bending on matters of principle
As day slips into the dead of night
I smile, knowing I did it right
-
Were the poems all written by Bill Turner, Barbara?
These poems are lovely to read aloud, especially Shardes of Glass.
"Freedom has never been free", that's very relevant right now. The people of Libya are certainly paying their price.
I just threw my french verbs across the desk, I get so frustrated at times. I'll stop for a bit and remind myself how far I've come. Perhaps a chocolate biscuit will help.
I find it's often good to put things on the fridge, or the notice board in the kitchen, then the repetition of sight does the job for me.
-
Octavia I found the author - she is a young 15 year old girl who says she is a Black girl and who wrote both the first two poems I posted tonight.
Interesting how poetry can be read to fit so many incidents in life - I only read - and I forget the exact wording - but the message was that poetry is not an exact description and the words are vague but together with some un-named whisper they say things to us that a sentence, regardless how well constructed or a melodic tune cannot convey. I agree - there is most often something ethereal about a poem that is magical and there in lies its beauty. Most poems remind me of a single spider thread that we sometimes find stretching across great spaces or detached hanging in the breeze.
Oprah this month has a wonderful collection of pages about poetry, books of poetry, poets, and best of all five poems for going through hard times. Two of the contributers had poems that said so much to me - the one, Kim Rosen, in October 2008, invested all her savings in a small, local fund. Two months later, the friend who had told her about the fund left her a message: "Bernard Madoff was arrested today. The fund was a fraud. We've lost everything." Numb, not breathing, grasping the phone the only thing that went through her mind was a line from a poem that before she could call anyone or, before she could start the long uphill climb out of this darkness she had to go to the computer and find - this poem.
Kindness
—Naomi Shihab Nye
Before you know what kindness really is
you must lose things,
feel the future dissolve in a moment
like salt in a weakened broth.
What you held in your hand,
what you counted and carefully saved,
all this must go so you know
how desolate the landscape can be
between the regions of kindness.
How you ride and ride
thinking the bus will never stop,
the passengers eating maize and chicken
will stare out the window forever.
Before you learn the tender gravity of kindness,
you must travel where the Indian in a white poncho
lies dead by the side of the road.
You must see how this could be you,
how he too was someone
who journeyed through the night with plans
and the simple breath that kept him alive.
Before you know kindness as the deepest thing inside,
you must know sorrow as the other deepest thing.
You must wake up with sorrow.
You must speak to it till your voice
catches the thread of all sorrows
and you see the size of the cloth.
Then it is only kindness that makes sense anymore,
only kindness that ties your shoes
and sends you out into the day to mail letters and purchase bread,
only kindness that raises its head
from the crowd of the world to say
It is I you have been looking for,
and then goes with you everywhere
like a shadow or a friend.
There are many experiences in our life where the bottom drops out and Kim Rosen goes on with an essay how we can be saved by a poem. She outlines the way to own a poem till we are totally aligned with a poem. She says to choose one poem and repeat it over and over - then say it aloud many times during the day as a mantra or a prayer - then she says - and let me quote - "feel how the phrasing and rhythm of the poem affect the breath and physical pulsations of your body. Read it like a prayer before you go to sleep and upon waking. Notice how it changes the texture of your nights and mornings. Write it out and carry it around in your pocket to read again and again—on the bus or in line at the supermarket. Read it to a friend and watch the connection deepen between you instantly. Notice how those words change the texture of your life, bringing aliveness and passion to every moment."
I am about the business of choosing my poem that will become part of me...
-
My word, I never imagined someone could find so many interesting comparisons in writing about
frogs. I am enormoustly entertained at the idea of their dying "like Italian tenors". The
"ruined temple" that was the dwarf is a different, and poignant, image entirely. Thank you,
Octavia.
"Shardes of Glass" makes me think of the infamous "crystal night' of Jewish persecution in
Germany. On the other hand, Valerie's spelling looks medieval. I would think we will hear more
from this young lady.
Then, Bill Turner's 'warrior way' is powerful. I do think the last verse was a mistake, tho'.
His message was much more powerful before he ended with a 'the moral of the story is' addendum.
The Nye poem is wonderful, and also very powerful. The rare times (perhaps 3) that I was able
to write a poem it was always a thing that seemed to come to me all of a piece, out of whatever
inspired it. The only one that was preserved is in the keeping of the parents of the young
woman whose death inspired it.
Chocolate always helps, Octavia. ;)
-
Barb - Thanks so much for introducing me to Kim Rosen. Her words about how to be saved by a poem struck deeply for me. Her comments reminded me of a beautiful young Greek man called Pavlos (Paul) who was struck down at the age of 30 by an embolism. He used to wear a sprig of basil behind his ear amongst his wavy black hair and we used to recite Greek poetry to each other. How I miss him. Thanks for reminding me of him.
-
Kim Rosen it appears has affected all of us - Powerful poetry can do that and hurrah for those who include the powerful poetry in their anthologies -
I was not familiar with Jack Prelutsky but this poem I thought had more to say than the droll bit of fun it appears on the surface.
Last Night I Dreamed of Chickens
~ by Jack Prelutsky
Last night I dreamed of chickens,
there were chickens everywhere,
they were standing on my stomach,
they were nesting in my hair,
they were pecking at my pillow,
they were hopping on my head,
they were ruffling up their feathers
as they raced about my bed.
They were on the chairs and tables,
they were on the chandeliers,
they were roosting in the corners,
they were clucking in my ears,
there were chickens, chickens, chickens
for as far as I could see...
when I woke today, I noticed
there were eggs on top of me.
-
I don't think we did this one yet...
The Old Australian Ways
~ by Andrew Barton Paterson
The London lights are far abeam
Behind a bank of cloud,
Along the shore the gaslights gleam,
The gale is piping loud;
And down the Channel, groping blind,
We drive her through the haze
Towards the land we left behind --
The good old land of `never mind',
And old Australian ways.
The narrow ways of English folk
Are not for such as we;
They bear the long-accustomed yoke
Of staid conservancy:
But all our roads are new and strange,
And through our blood there runs
The vagabonding love of change
That drove us westward of the range
And westward of the suns.
The city folk go to and fro
Behind a prison's bars,
They never feel the breezes blow
And never see the stars;
They never hear in blossomed trees
The music low and sweet
Of wild birds making melodies,
Nor catch the little laughing breeze
That whispers in the wheat.
Our fathers came of roving stock
That could not fixed abide:
And we have followed field and flock
Since e'er we learnt to ride;
By miner's camp and shearing shed,
In land of heat and drought,
We followed where our fortunes led,
With fortune always on ahead
And always further out.
The wind is in the barley-grass,
The wattles are in bloom;
The breezes greet us as they pass
With honey-sweet perfume;
The parakeets go screaming by
With flash of golden wing,
And from the swamp the wild-ducks cry
Their long-drawn note of revelry,
Rejoicing at the Spring.
So throw the weary pen aside
And let the papers rest,
For we must saddle up and ride
Towards the blue hill's breast;
And we must travel far and fast
Across their rugged maze,
To find the Spring of Youth at last,
And call back from the buried past
The old Australian ways.
When Clancy took the drover's track
In years of long ago,
He drifted to the outer back
Beyond the Overflow;
By rolling plain and rocky shelf,
With stockwhip in his hand,
He reached at last, oh lucky elf,
The Town of Come-and-help-yourself
In Rough-and-ready Land.
And if it be that you would know
The tracks he used to ride,
Then you must saddle up and go
Beyond the Queensland side --
Beyond the reach of rule or law,
To ride the long day through,
In Nature's homestead -- filled with awe
You then might see what Clancy saw
And know what Clancy knew.
-
:) Prelutsky's poem sounds to me more like the thoughts that keep me awake than the
images of my dreams.
And through our blood there runs
The vagabonding love of change
That drove us westward of the range
And westward of the suns.
This sounds like the same urge that drove our pioneers West. I am not the first to see
parallels between the settlement of Australia and that of the American West. I remember people visiting Australia who said it reminded them (whichever part they visited) of Texas.
-
I like the "Banjo" Patterson poem. Yep. Australia is vast. Unlike the US most of the inland has not been settled as cities.
-
Oh, I love that Paterson poem too.
-
I had the great luck to grow up on a very large sheep station, and it was a wonderful life for a child. We spent our free time roaming paddocks, exploring creeks, playing in boredrains, raiding the station store for condensed milk and dried fruit. We grazed on grapes and dates, watermelons and oranges,and anything we could get away with, when the gardener wasn't looking.
Poor man, I feel sorry for him in retrospect.
-
Octavia - You lived my dream. I grew up in a country town, although strictly speaking it is a city owing to its cathedral. There was a GPS boys' school there. I had a b/f who went there and his folks owned a very very large property. My mother was keen, but I wasn't, so I let Ross and his money go. I must admit, shallow girl that I was, my fantasy of riding horses all day had something to do with my attractiion to Ross. I read all the "Norah of the Billabong" books and envied her lifestyle as well. Did you have to go to boarding school?
-
Carrie
~ by Ted Kooser, (http://www.tedkooser.net/)13th Poet Laureate of the United States
"There's never an end to dust
and dusting," my aunt would say
as her rag, like a thunderhead,
scudded across the yellow oak
of her little house. There she lived
seventy years with a ball
of compulsion closed in her fist,
and an elbow that creaked and popped
like a branch in a storm. Now dust
is her hands and dust her heart.
There's never an end to it.
-
Untitled [Each time I go outside]
~ by Ted Kooser and Jim Harrison
Each time I go outside
the world is different.
This has happened all my life.
*
The clock stopped at 5:30
for three months.
Now it's always time to quit work,
have a drink, cook dinner.
*
"What I would do for wisdom,"
I cried out as a young man.
Evidently not much. Or so it seems.
Even on walks I follow the dog.
*
Old friend,
perhaps we work too hard
at being remembered.
-
I wish an Aunt Carrie lived near me. With all the stuff my daughter has collected mixed
with my stuff, we need a compulsive duster!
How does one collaborate, I wonder, on a poem? Especially such a short poem. ??? Not that
much cannot be said in a few lines.
A gratitude-heart
Is to discover on earth
A Heaven-delivered rose.
Excerpt from My Sunrise-Heart, Part 1 by Sri Chinmoy
-
Vaguely remembering Babi - Ted Kooser had cancer and was taking a daily walk where he wrote a poem a day and his friend was either a neighbor or maybe a friend who also had cancer - that is what I am unclear about but Ted Kooser was very ill and it was thought he would not make it so the collaboration was his saving grace to getting things on paper.
-
Those poems are lovely Barbara, I'm sure I've read Ted Kooser but I can't bring the poems to mind. For a time I subscribed to that poem a day site by somebody called Garrison? Keillor or something like that?
Roshanarose, I think I read the Norah series. Was she the girl who was out in the bush one night, and was surrounded by dingos that kept circling, closer and closer.I had a vivid memory of that bit. She had a horse, I remember.
My husband said it was all Biggles when he was young.
Yes I did go to boarding school, two of them. I first went to a convent in Barcaldine, because my sister was already there. I was ten at the time, and used to play on people's sympathy because I was quite young. My mother used to spoil it all, by pointing out that I asked to go, because I was lonely.
Then when I was eleven I went to the Rockhampton Girls Grammar.
-
Octavia it sounds like both you and roshanarose know about living in a sparsely populated land - roshanarose do you still like the idea of living where you are free to ride horses all day?
Octavia, Garrison Keillor is planning to retire this year - he was on the PBS show with Evan Smith that originates from Austin telling us all about how he has found someone to take over his radio show Prairie Home Companion
I like this poem - it has several layers when you consider not letting anything, even a dream lie dormant -
Let Nothing Lie Dormant
~ by David Dominguez
At the farmer’s market in Rosarito, Mexico,
a man touched my arm.
He sat on a stool at a wooden table,
and in the center,
a blue pitcher of water beaded under the sun.
Hunkered over his lap,
he worked with a gouge on a block of walnut,
and he blew at the dust,
and the dust swirled in the breeze.
Done stripping the sapwood vulnerable to rot,
the man held the heart of the wood,
a purple wood hard against
the chisel’s cutting edge.
He looked up from his work,
and his gray eyes told me I must listen.
“This wood must be strong
or the heart cracks before the real work is done.
See this?” he asked softly,
and he lifted a mallet carved
from a branch of apple, “Strong wood,” he said.
“It wanted to be more than a tree.”
He rubbed fresh walnut dust between his palms.
We drank glasses of ice water,
talked about life in general,
and he used the pitcher,
billowed and wet like the sail of a boat,
to cool his neck.
Later, through the soft meat of an avocado,
I felt the pit longing to be free.
-
Back a few years ago we spent a month with the poetry of Ted Hughes -
The Horses
~ Ted Hughes
I climbed through woods in the hour-before-dawn dark.
Evil air, a frost-making stillness,
Not a leaf, not a bird -
A world cast in frost. I came out above the wood
Where my breath left tortuous statues in the iron light.
But the valleys were draining the darkness
Till the moorline - blackening dregs of the brightening grey -
Halved the sky ahead. And I saw the horses:
Huge in the dense grey - ten together -
Megalith-still. They breathed, making no move,
with draped manes and tilted hind-hooves,
Making no sound.
I passed: not one snorted or jerked its head.
Grey silent fragments
Of a grey silent world.
I listened in emptiness on the moor-ridge.
The curlew's tear turned its edge on the silence.
Slowly detail leafed from the darkness. Then the sun
Orange, red, red erupted
Silently, and splitting to its core tore and flung cloud,
Shook the gulf open, showed blue,
And the big planets hanging -
I turned
Stumbling in the fever of a dream, down towards
The dark woods, from the kindling tops,
And came to the horses.
There, still they stood,
But now steaming and glistening under the flow of light,
Their draped stone manes, their tilted hind-hooves
Stirring under a thaw while all around them
The frost showed its fires. But still they made no sound.
Not one snorted or stamped,
Their hung heads patient as the horizons,
High over valleys in the red levelling rays -
In din of crowded streets, going among the years, the faces,
May I still meet my memory in so lonely a place
Between the streams and the red clouds, hearing the curlews,
Hearing the horizons endure.
-
"This wood must be strong or the heart cracks before the real work is done."
What a wonderful thought. Isn't that a great encouragement for the times when the
heart is cracking?
And how vividly Ted Hughes describes his experience. I felt I was with him every step
of the way.
Octavia, Garrison Keillor is also the author of the Lake Woebegone stories. If you enjoyed
his site, you might like his books as well.
-
We Are Sisters For Life
~ © Lori A. Bitter
We are sisters for life, no matter what you say.
You may not be there everyday, but you’re in my heart.
You make mistakes as do I; you are forgiven as am I
We'll hold through till the death.
I hope when we're old we can look back and laugh.
I'll always be there for you and you can call on me for anything.
Always.
We may get into arguments and fights but no matter what you’re always forgiven.
I may not say it though but I love you always and forever.
-
In Praise of My Sister
~ Wislawa Szymborska, Nobel Prize for Poetry in 1996 -
translate. Stanislaw Baranczak and Clare Cavanagh
My sister doesn't write poems,
and it's unlikely that she'll suddenly start writing poems.
She takes after her mother, who didn't write poems,
and also her father, who likewise didn't write poems.
I feel safe beneath my sister's roof:
my sister's husband would rather die than write poems.
And, even though this is starting to sound as
repetitive as Peter Piper,
the truth is, none of my relatives write poems.
My sister's desk drawers don't hold old poems,
and her handbag doesn't hold new ones.
When my sister asks me over for lunch,
I know she doesn't want to read me her poems.
Her soups are delicious without ulterior motives.
Her coffee doesn't spill on manuscripts.
There are many families in which nobody writes poems,
but once it starts up it's hard to quarantine.
Sometimes poetry cascades down through the generations,
creating fatal whirlpools where family love may founder.
My sister has tackled oral prose with some success,
but her entire written opus consists of postcards from vacations
whose text is only the same promise every year:
when she gets back, she'll have
so much
much
much to tell.
-
Spring Wind in London
~ by Katherine Mansfield
I Blow across the stagnant world,
I blow across the sea,
For me, the sailor's flag unfurled,
For me, the uprooted tree.
My challenge to the world is hurled;
The world must bow to me.
I drive the clouds across the sky,
I huddle them like sheep;
Merciless shepherd-dog am I
And shepherd-watch I keep.
If in the quiet vales they lie
I blow them up the steep.
Lo! In the tree-tops do I hide,
In every living thing;
On the moon's yellow wings I glide,
On the wild rose I swing;
On the sea-horse's back I ride,
And what then do I bring?
And when a little child is ill
I pause, and with my hand
I wave the window curtain's frill
That he may understand
Outside the wind is blowing still;
...It is a pleasant land.
O stranger in a foreign place,
See what I bring to you.
This rain--is tears upon your face;
I tell you--tell you true
I came from that forgotten place
Where once the wattle grew,--
All the wild sweetness of the flower
Tangled against the wall.
It was that magic, silent hour....
The branches grew so tall
They twined themselves into a bower.
The sun shown... and the fall
Of yellow blossom on the grass!
You feel that golden rain?
Both of you could not hold, alas,
(both of you tried, in vain)
A memory, stranger. So I pass....
It will not come again
-
We may have included this poem by George MacDonald in an earlier post or maybe it was last year at this time - however with the wind blowing as it did today it was too perfect a poem.
The Wind and the Moon
~ by George MacDonald
Said the Wind to the Moon, "I will blow you out.
You stare in the air
Like a ghost in a chair,
Always looking what I am about.
I hate to be watched; I will blow you out."
The Wind blew hard, and out went the Moon.
So, deep on a heap
Of clouds, to sleep
Down lay the Wind, and slumbered soon--
Muttering low. "I've done for that Moon."
He turned in his bed; she was there again.
On high in the sky,
With her one ghost eye,
The Moon shone white and alive and plain.
Said the Wind, "I will blow you out again."
The Wind blew hard, and the Moon grew dim.
"With my sledge and my wedge
I have knocked off her edge.
If only I blow right fierce and grim,
The creature will soon be dimmer than dim."
He blew and he blew, and she thinned to a thread.
"One puff more's enough
To blow her to snuff!
One good puff more where the last was bred,
And glimmer, glimmer glum will go the thread."
He blew a great blast, and the thread was gone;
In the air nowhere
Was a moonbeam bare;
Far off and harmless the shy stars shone;
Sure and certain the Moon was gone!
The Wind he took to his revels once more:
On down, in town,
Like a merry-mad clown,
He leaped and hallooed with whistle and roar--
"What's that?" The glimmering thread once more.
He flew in a rage--he danced and blew;
But in vain was the pain
Of his bursting brain;
For still the broader the moon-scrap grew,
The broader he swelled his big cheeks and blew.
Slowly she grew--till she filled the night,
And shone on her throne
In the sky alone,
A matchless, wonderful, silvery light,
Radiant and lovely, the queen of the night.
Said the Wind: "What a marvel of power am I
With my breath, good faith,
I blew her to death--
First blew her away right out of the sky--
Then blew her in; what a strength am I!"
But the Moon she knew nothing about the affair,
For, high in the sky,
With her one white eye,
Motionless, miles above the air,
She had never heard the great Wind blare.
-
I will be leaving Wednesday morning before Dawn to take care of my sister after her surgery - I will be back April 15, a little more than a week from now - please enjoy poetry and share the poems that you find - If I can take a minute to pop in while I am gone I will - but frankly I doubt it - my sister is going to need all my attention - she is alone - her surgery is scheduled for Thursday.
I will be posting a few more poems unless y'all come along and post a few - In only 3 more posts a new page starts - I am anxious to get a new heading up before I leave so y'all will be set while I'm gone. And so I will be updating us during the day tomorrow. I guess it is already tomorrow - well...you know what I mean.
-
Go safely, Barbara, and take care.
I enjoyed the wind poems and the pictures they evoke.
"Huddle them like sheep", that's so accurate. At an earlier stage of my Mum's alzheimers, she was obsessed with clouds, and I spent a fair bit of time with her, studying the skies. I enjoyed it a lot, as soon as I learnt to be still and not fret about what I could be doing.
She's over clouds now, unfortunately.
Nobody in my family reads poetry, except for me :( .It's a pity, because if I'm busting to tell someone, about a poet I've found and love, there's no one to share it with.
My Dad used to read it, or perhaps he remembered from his school days. He used to quote Robbie Burns and CJ Dennis.
"A son to bear me name when I am gone". My sister and I were racked with guilt.
-
Thanks Octavia - I know it is not the same sharing online as having a close friend or family member to share with - I know what you mean though - neither of my sisters nor my children read or want to hear poetry - my daughter is polite but she is not into literature either - and even my best friend will tolorate poetry - but she has just a meager few she appreciates and that is all - oh I can share and she is polite and then brings up how it reminds her of Dickinson - what can you say - ah so -
I have decided that a poem is as close as anything to a prayer - some folks pray prayers written hundreds of years ago and then some of us read poetry - either hundreds of years old or written yesterday.
So glad you join us - it is nice to read posts from those who see the wisdom and enjoy the music of a poem.
-
Well here it is and I can then start the next page...
Liu Yung
~ Billy Collins
This poet of the Sung dynasty is so miserable.
The wind sighs around the trees,
a single swan passes overhead,
and he is alone on the water in his skiff.
If only he appreciated life
in eleventh-century China as much as I do —
no loud cartoons on television,
no music from the ice cream truck,
just the calls of elated birds
and the steady flow of the water clock.
-
(http://seniorlearn.org/bookclubs/poetry/poetryspringgirl.jpg) J.W. Waterhouse - Famous Poets and Poems about Spring (http://famouspoetsandpoems.com/thematic_poems/spring_poems.html)
- Link to: Spring Poems (http://poetry.about.com/od/ourpoemcollections/a/springpoems.htm)
Discussion Leaders: Barb (augere@ix.netcom.com) & fairanna (fairanna@cox.net) | Join Us! For a Season of Spring Poetry
A Prayer in Spring
~ Robert Frost
Oh, give us pleasure in the flowers to-day;
And give us not to think so far away
As the uncertain harvest; keep us here
All simply in the springing of the year.
Oh, give us pleasure in the orchard white,
Like nothing else by day, like ghosts by night;
And make us happy in the happy bees,
The swarm dilating round the perfect trees.
And make us happy in the darting bird
That suddenly above the bees is heard,
The meteor that thrusts in with needle bill,
And off a blossom in mid air stands still.
For this is love and nothing else is love,
The which it is reserved for God above
To sanctify to what far ends He will,
But which it only needs that we fulfil.
|
-
Here's a poem for a thoughtful read...
We live in deeds, not years; in thoughts, not breaths
by Philip James Bailey
We live in deeds, not years; in thoughts, not breaths;
In feelings, not in figures on a dial.
We should count time by heart-throbs. He most lives
Who thinks most, feels the noblest, acts the best.
And he whose heart beats quickest lives the longest:
Lives in one hour more than in years do some
Whose fat blood sleeps as it slips along their veins.
Life's but a means unto an end; that end,
Beginning, mean, and end to all things—God.
The dead have all the glory of the world.
And here's another....
Another Song [Are they shadows that we see?]
by Samuel Daniel
Are they shadows that we see?
And can shadows pleasure give?
Pleasures only shadows be
Cast by bodies we conceive,
And are made the things we deem,
In those figures which they seem.
But these pleasures vanish fast,
Which by shadows are exprest:
Pleasures are not, if they last,
In their passing, is their best.
Glory is most bright and gay
In a flash, and so away.
Feed apace then greedy eyes
On the wonder you behold.
Take it sudden as it flies
Though you yake it not to hold:
When your eyes have done their part,
Thought must length it in the heart.
-
Babi - We should count time by heart-throbs. He most lives
Who thinks most, feels the noblest, acts the best.
And he whose heart beats quickest lives the longest:
Lives in one hour more than in years do some
Poem interrupted, but still says what I need to hear. Let us hope that Barb's sister recovers well. We will all miss Barb - come back soon.
-
'Amen' to that, ROSE.
-
Here's one that seems most suitable for us...
"O Day after day we can't help growing older.
Year after year spring can't help seeming younger.
Come let's enjoy our winecup today,
Nor pity the flowers fallen."-
Wang Wei, On Parting with Spring
-
Babi - What other choice do we have? All too true.
-
You would think so, ROSHANA. But I have known individuals who can never enjoy 'today'.
They live in constant discontent or regrets for far-past yesterdays. By happy coincidence, I
found a poem this morning that fits perfectly.
Morning Poem
Every morning
the world
is created.
Under the orange
sticks of the sun
the heaped
ashes of the night
turn into leaves again
and fasten themselves to the high branches ---
and the ponds appear
like black cloth
on which are painted islands
of summer lilies.
If it is your nature
to be happy
you will swim away along the soft trails
for hours, your imagination
alighting everywhere.
And if your spirit
carries within it
the thorn
that is heavier than lead ---
if it's all you can do
to keep on trudging ---
there is still
somewhere deep within you
a beast shouting that the earth
is exactly what it wanted ---
each pond with its blazing lilies
is a prayer heard and answered
lavishly,
every morning,
whether or not
you have ever dared to be happy,
whether or not
you have ever dared to pray. from Dream Work (1986) by Mary Oliver
-
I love the idea of a fresh world every day, the slate wiped clean.
-
A clean slate it is - feels good to be back...
Away from Home are some and I
~ by Emily Dickinson
Away from Home are some and I --
An Emigrant to be
In a Metropolis of Homes
Is easy, possibly --
The Habit of a Foreign Sky
We -- difficult -- acquire
As Children, who remain in Face
The more their Feet retire.
A Home Song
~ by Henry Van Dyke
I read within a poet's book
A word that starred the page:
"Stone walls do not a prison make,
Nor iron bars a cage!"
Yes, that is true; and something more
You'll find, where'er you roam,
That marble floors and gilded walls
Can never make a home.
But every house where Love abides,
And Friendship is a guest,
Is surely home, and home-sweet-home:
For there the heart can rest.
-
Come Home!
~ by Mary Elizabeth Coleridge
When wintry winds are no more heard,
And joy's in every bosom,
When summer sings in every bird,
And shines in every blossom,
When happy twilight hours are long,
Come home, my love, and think no wrong!
When berries gleam above the stream
And half the fields are yellow,
Come back to me, my joyous dream,
The world hath not thy fellow!
And I will make thee Queen among
The Queens of summer and of song.
The Old Home Calls
~ by Lucy Maud Montgomery
Come back to me, little dancing feet that roam the wide world o'er,
I long for the lilt of your flying steps in my silent rooms once more;
Come back to me, little voices gay with laughter and with song,
Come back, little hearts beating high with hopes, I have missed and mourned you long.
My roses bloom in my garden walks all sweet and wet with the dew,
My lights shine down on the long hill road the waning twilights through,
The swallows flutter about my eaves as in the years of old,
And close about me their steadfast arms the lisping pine trees fold.
But I weary for you at morn and eve, O, children of my love,
Come back to me from your pilgrim ways, from the seas and plains ye rove,
Come over the meadows and up the lane to my door set open wide,
And sit ye down where the red light shines from my welcoming fireside.
I keep for you all your childhood dreams, your gladness and delights,
The joy of days in the sun and rain, the sleep of carefree nights,
All the sweet faiths ye have lost and sought again shall be your own,
Darlings, come to my empty heartI am old and still and alone!
-
Home
~ by Anne Bronte
How brightly glistening in the sun
The woodland ivy plays!
While yonder beeches from their barks
Reflect his silver rays.
That sun surveys a lovely scene
From softly smiling skies;
And wildly through unnumbered trees
The wind of winter sighs:
Now loud, it thunders o'er my head,
And now in distance dies.
But give me back my barren hills
Where colder breezes rise;
Where scarce the scattered, stunted trees
Can yield an answering swell,
But where a wilderness of heath
Returns the sound as well.
For yonder garden, fair and wide,
With groves of evergreen,
Long winding walks, and borders trim,
And velvet lawns between;
Restore to me that little spot,
With grey walls compassed round,
Where knotted grass neglected lies,
And weeds usurp the ground.
Though all around this mansion high
Invites the foot to roam,
And though its halls are fair within --
Oh, give me back my HOME!
-
BARB!!!! So happy you are back Home! We missed you :) and your beautiful poetry, of course. I love the Bronte.
I was IT in "Author, Author" and my chosen author was Thomas Hardy; the novel "Far From the Madding Crowd". Hardy was not always appreciated by his Victorian readership. I think he was a bit too earthy, honest in getting inside his characters' heads, and perhaps a little too risque. This poem, which I adore is Hardy at his most arch - I love it!
"The Ruined Maid"
Thomas Hardy c1901
"O 'Melia, my dear, this does everything crown!
Who could have supposed I should meet you in Town?
And whence such fair garments, such prosperi-ty?"
"O didn't you know I'd been ruined?" said she.
"You left us in tatters, without shoes or socks,
Tired of digging potatoes, and spudding up docks;
And now you've gay bracelets and bright feathers three!"
"Yes: that's how we dress when we're ruined," said she.
-"At home in the barton you said 'thee' and 'thou,'
And 'thik oon,' and 'theäs oon,' and 't'other'; but now
Your talking quite fits 'ee for high compa-ny!"
"Some polish is gained with one's ruin," said she.
"Your hands were like paws then, your face blue and bleak
But now I'm bewitched by your delicate cheek,
And your little gloves fit as on any la-dy!"
"We never do work when we're ruined," said she.
"You used to call home-life a hag-ridden dream,
And you'd sigh, and you'd sock; but at present you seem
To know not of megrims or melancho-ly!"
"True. One's pretty lively when ruined," said she.
"I wish I had feathers, a fine sweeping gown,
And a delicate face, and could strut about Town!"
"My dear a raw country girl, such as you be,
Cannot quite expect that. You ain't ruined," said she.
I love Hardy's use of irony with this poem. He thumbs his nose at Victorian society who were outraged by his books and sums it all up in this wee masterpiece. I liked it all the more because my mother often used the word "ruined" as a euphemism for girls who had, well, you know.....
-
BARB, I think I got the message. You're glad to be home! :D
I've read "The Ruined Maid" before, ROSHANA, and definitely got a grin out of it. It was fun to
see it again.
-
OH yes, glad to be back - back to the comfort that those of you who visit this site love the words, the music and the message in poetry.
Hardy is doing his best isn't he but oh how sad that women most often with little to no control over the ruination that affected their entire life had to label themselves and believe they were ruined women. And it still goes on... but like Babi suggests, Hardy could make us smile and maybe that is our only defense. The thought of the day is - 'we can only be ruined if we feel ruined' - so maybe that is the late twentieth century pop psychology that give women some power...
This is an interesting poem - who is missing - George, John, Ringo and...?
Catching up, with the butterflies
~ by Arunansu
We used to scamper after them,
immersed in burnished gold of the Sun.
We used to jostle through
spanks of tall grasses
spattering our cackle
all over the verdant meadow.
One morning, George brought
some age-old nets, borrowed from his Uncle.
He told, "I know how
to catch those colorful wings,
first hold the loop high.
Then chase,
see how the nets gobble them up!"
John winked at me, quipped,
"What's new with that?
Ringo, get ready
. . . Steady!
. . . and here we Go! . . ."
Then started the mad rush
down the field, leaving
an archaic barn way behind
with George yelling "Hold
it high!", at times.
We scurried past
signposts of years
searching "colorful wings" of illusive dreams,
jostling against each other.
Nowadays, a daybreak gets tired
rather quickly.
Yesterday, daylight hours
flitted into my room
bringing along
a swarm of adorable butterflies.
They fluttered around me, a few
even landed on my stooping shoulders.
I glanced at our tarnished photograph
above the mantelpiece,
and said, Look George,
I don't have to run,
I need not "hold it high",
any more.
-
Yes, Barb - So many well-meant euphemisms. And even more worrying (and insulting) was the word nymphomaniac when it was finally discovered that there was no such thing - a manufactured word and condition invented by hopeful men. Now we see the term "sex addict" more and more in the media. I haven't seen a woman labelled as that yet, but any number of men are pleased to label themselves thus. I think that they take the view that it pays to advertise. :)
On the word "ruined" - After I had asked my mother what it meant, and she had told me (with tongue in cheek) an aunt then told me and my mother that I was "ruined". I was so upset at this proclamation that I burst into tears. I was about 12, I guess. My aunt was shocked and said she hadn't meant to upset me. My aunt explained that when she said "ruined" it meant I was very spoilt. I was equally upset as I didn't think I was spoilt enough :)
The power of words! A silly little saying which is probably also sexist, but I will risk it:
Why don't men have hisnias and women herterectomies.
You probably already know about "hysterectomy" and also "hysterical". Hysterical is extremely sexist, if you check the original Greek word "hyster" which means womb. So that means you can only be hysterical if you have a womb. How often have you heard the word hysterical used to describe a man.
-
had no clue the origination of Hysteria - soooo another put down... Eliot has a poem - let me see if I can find it - it was not exactly a complimentary look at laughter as I recall - but then Eliot was a poet I had issues with so that it affected my ability to enjoy his poetry - anyone who has his wife committed for acting in a displeasing way - as I recall she was gay and frivolous - however, he was able to control her life and actually had her committed - we talking 1920s - snake-pit kind of asylums - sheesh...beyond sheesh - scary...
Here it is:
Hysteria
~ by T. S. Eliot
As she laughed I was aware of becoming involved in her laughter and being part of
it, until her teeth
were only accidental stars with a talent for squad-drill. I was drawn in by short
gasps, inhaled at
each momentary recovery, lost finally in the dark caverns of her throat, bruised by
the ripple of
unseen muscles. An elderly waiter with trembling hands was hurriedly spreading a
pink and white
checked cloth over the rusty green iron table, saying: “If the lady and gentleman
wish to take their
tea in the garden, if the lady and gentleman wish to take their tea in the garden...” I
decided that if
the shaking of her breasts could be stopped, some of the fragments of the
afternoon might be
collected, and I concentrated my attention with careful subtlety to this end.
-
Here is something that leaves us in better cheer
Ode to Gaiety
~ -James Broughton
Go gloom
Begone glum and grim
Off with drab, drear and grumble
It’s time
It’s pastime
To come undone and come out laughing
Time to wrap killjoys in wet blankets
And feed them to the sourpusses.
Come frisky pals
Come forth wily wags
Loosen your screws and get off your rocker
Untie the straight laces
Tie up the smartypants
Tickle the crosspatch with josh and guffaw
Share quips and pranks with every victim
Of grouch, pomposity or blah.
Woe to the bozo who says No to
Teehee, hoho and haha
Boo to the cleancut klutz who
Wipes the smile off of his face
Without gaiety
Freedom is a chastity belt
Without gaiety
Life is a wooden kimono
Come cheerful chums
Cut up and carry on
Crack your pots and split your sides
Boggle the bellyacher
Convulse the worrywart
Pratfall the prissy poos and the fuddy duds
Take drollery to heart or end up a deadhead
At the guillotine of the mindless.
Be wise and go merry round
Whatever you cherish
What you love to enjoy, what to live to exert
And when the high spirits
Call your number up
Count on merriment all the way to the countdown
Long live hilarity, euphoria and flumadiddle
Long live gaiety
For all the laity
-
Especially long live flumadiddle!
-
but then Eliot was a poet I had issues with so that it affected my ability to enjoy his poetry - anyone who has his wife committed for acting in a displeasing way - as I recall she was gay and frivolous - however, he was able to control her life and actually had her committed
Eliot's wife Vivienne Haigh-Wood Eliot may have been 'gay and frivolous' and was indeed committed but I rather thought it was her brother Maurice who actually did the deed. Hers is a very sad story - she had suffered with mental instability for many years - even before she met Eliot - later she was diagnosed with 'hysteria' - but the underlying problem related to her menstrual cycle - pre menstrual tension and irregular and heavy periods which coupled with her instability made things considerably worse for her.
Eliot himself endured much on her behalf and sought the best of medical treatment for her as had her family before him but of course in her time there was little known about her real condition either in regard to the mentstrual problem or her mental condition - and little was able to be done to alleviate her suffering.
Roshanarose - thanks for 'hysteria' notes -I love the derivation of words.
-
Time to wrap killjoys in wet blankets
And feed them to the sourpusses.
Oh, what a terrific idea! Don't you wish? :D
-
Gum ;) it is according to which book and which movie and which PBS special you read or see as to Eliot's involvement with his wife's incarceration and the nature of her acting out - but then many in the States think he abandoned his roots to pretend to be English so there is a mixed bag of attitudes towards the man... I just have this thing where I see too much "special" treatment afforded women throughout history by men just because they can and they want women to be controlled...by them! With too many women supporting the system...ah so ::)
There is in every true woman's heart, a spark of heavenly fire, which lies dormant in the broad daylight of prosperity, but which kindles up and beams and blazes in the dark hour of adversity. ~ WASHINGTON IRVING, The Sketch Boo
The great question that has never been answered, and which I have not yet been able to answer, despite my thirty years of research into the feminine soul, is “What does a woman want?” ~ SIGMUND FREUD, Ernest Jones' Sigmund Freud: Life and Work
A woman cannot be herself in the society of the present day, which is an exclusively masculine society, with laws framed by men and with a judicial system that judges feminine conduct from a masculine point of view. ~ HENRIK IBSEN, From Ibsen's Workshop
Everything about woman is a riddle, and everything about woman has a single solution: that is, pregnancy. ~ FRIEDRICH NIETZSCHE, Thus Spake Zarathustra
I am so glad I live now when women can celebrate their womanhood - when they can freely go to college equal to the boys in the family - when they are no longer suspect for living above or below the mainstream - when they, in some parts of the world, are not blamed for all of men's bad behavior. That attitude of male superiority is the biggest crush that still remains...
Here she is in all her Glory; Maya Angelou...
PHENOMENAL WOMAN
Pretty women wonder where my secret lies.
I'm not cute or built to suit a fashion model's size
But when I start to tell them,
They think I'm telling lies.
I say,
It's in the reach of my arms,
The span of my hips,
The stride of my step,
The curl of my lips.
I'm a woman
Phenomenally.
Phenomenal woman,
That's me.
I walk into a room
Just as cool as you please,
And to a man,
The fellows stand or
Fall down on their knees.
Then they swarm around me,
A hive of honey bees.
I say,
It's the fire in my eyes,
And the flash of my teeth,
The swing in my waist,
And the joy in my feet.
I'm a woman
Phenomenally.
Phenomenal woman,
That's me.
Men themselves have wondered
What they see in me.
They try so much
But they can't touch
My inner mystery.
When I try to show them,
They say they still can't see.
I say,
It's in the arch of my back,
The sun of my smile,
The ride of my breasts,
The grace of my style.
I'm a woman
Phenomenally.
Phenomenal woman,
That's me.
Now you understand
Just why my head's not bowed.
I don't shout or jump about
Or have to talk real loud.
When you see me passing,
It ought to make you proud.
I say,
It's in the click of my heels,
The bend of my hair,
The palm of my hand,
The need for my care.
'Cause I'm a woman
Phenomenally.
Phenomenal woman,
That's me.
-
In line with some good humor - I do get on my bandwagon when it comes to my opinion about women...
The Laughter of Women
~ By Mary-Sherman Willis Mary-Sherman Willis
From over the wall I could hear the laughter of women
in a foreign tongue, in the sun-rinsed air of the city.
They sat (so I thought) perfumed in their hats and their silks,
in chairs on the grass amid flowers glowing and swaying.
One spoke and the others rang like bells, oh so witty,
like bells till the sound filled up the garden and lifted
like bubbles spilling over the bricks that enclosed them,
their happiness holding them, even if just for the moment.
Although I did not understand a word they were saying,
their sound surrounded me, fell on my shoulders and hair,
and burst on my cheeks like kisses, and continued to fall,
holding me there where I stood on the sidewalk listening.
As I could not move, I had to hear them grow silent,
and adjust myself to the clouds and the cooling air.
The mumble of thunder rumbled out of the wall
and the smacking of drops as the rain fell everywhere.
-
Butterfly Laughter
~ by Katherine Mansfield
In the middle of our porridge plates
There was a blue butterfly painted
And each morning we tried who should reach the
butterfly first.
Then the Grandmother said: "Do not eat the poor
butterfly."
That made us laugh.
Always she said it and always it started us laughing.
It seemed such a sweet little joke.
I was certain that one fine morning
The butterfly would fly out of our plates,
Laughing the teeniest laugh in the world,
And perch on the Grandmother's lap
-
The Laughter Of Women
~ by Lisel Mueller
The laughter of women sets fire
to the Halls of Injustice
and the false evidence burns
to a beautiful white lightness
It rattles the Chambers of Congress
and forces the windows wide open
so the fatuous speeches can fly out
The laughter of women wipes the mist
from the spectacles of the old;
it infects them with a happy flu
and they laugh as if they were young again
Prisoners held in underground cells
imagine that they see daylight
when they remember the laughter of women
It runs across water that divides,
and reconciles two unfriendly shores
like flares that signal the news to each other
What a language it is, the laughter of women,
high-flying and subversive.
Long before law and scripture
we heard the laughter, we understood freedom.
-
Studying Linguistics I encountered one Otto Jesperson, a Danish Philologist of adequate fame. He often cited women as "empty vessels because they made the most noise". I really bit on this little piece of MCP. Evidently Plato said something similar, but he didn't nominate just women, he included anyone who blathered too much. Jesperson had taken Plato's words and deliberately changed them to advance his theory.
If you are interested in male/women speak read Dale Spender. I have met her, a feisty lovely lady who never wears any colour other than purple ;)
-
Barbara: I was just trying to make the point that we will never really know the situation between Tom and Viv Eliot . As you say, there are many conflicting stories - the one strand that runs through them all is Vivienne's lifelong mental instability whatever the cause may have been. Tom probably didn't handle it well and nor did her brother, Maurice but given the era they no doubt believed they were doing what was best for Vivienne given that her illness had rendered her incapable.
Whilst I admire Eliot's work, I too, have mixed feelings about Tom and his 'defection' to England to become an Englishman and also how that led him to convert his religion. However there are many others who did much the same - Henry James for instance. Australians are well acquainted with this phenomenon as so many of our writers, artists, musicians, performers have also abandoned their homeland to make a life and career
elsewhere and to escape what we call the cultural cringe. The best of them use their country and their Australian experience to feed their art and eventually return to their roots.
I noticed the Katherine Manfield poem - she too escaped her New Zealand roots to make a life in what she saw as the very hub of artistic endeavour - sadly, it cost her her life as she contracted tuberculosis soon after her 'defection'
-
Seems like there were a group of poets who headed for England during this time in history - I am guessing it is where they could mingle with one another just as there was the mingling of artists in France -
Having seen a PBS special a few years ago that showed her illness as more of a party girl personality rather than any sort of emotional or psychological illness and knowing how she visited him whenever he allowed her out it was hard to have much sympathy for the man - ah so - as I say - it is a conflicting story and according to how the story was told when we read or saw it on film does adjust our viewpoint - plus as I say - I know - it is a problem at times - I do have this knee jerk reaction when I see or even imagine any put down of women - what can I say... another poet, old Homer is doing me in on that score...
But then Gum, you have a different perspective about Eliot and I am so glad you brought it to our attention - that way folks can do their own research and make up their own minds - like so many in history whose morality we question they often have brought to us gifts of their various skills that have only enriched the world. Eliot certainly has brought to us some incomparable poetry.
Here is one we do not read as often:
RHAPSODY ON A WINDY NIGHT
~ by: T.S. Eliot (1888-1965)
TWELVE o'clock.
Along the reaches of the street
Held in a lunar synthesis,
Whispering lunar incantations
Dissolve the floors of memory
And all its clear relations,
Its divisions and precisions,
Every street lamp that I pass
Beats like a fatalistic drum,
And through the spaces of the dark
Midnight shakes the memory
As a madman shakes a dead geranium.
Half-past one,
The street lamp sputtered,
The street lamp muttered,
The street lamp said, "Regard that woman
Who hesitates towards you in the light of the door
Which opens on her like a grin.
You see the border of her dress
Is torn and stained with sand,
And you see the corner of her eye
Twists like a crooked pin."
The memory throws up high and dry
A crowd of twisted things;
A twisted branch upon the beach
Eaten smooth, and polished
As if the world gave up
The secret of its skeleton,
Stiff and white.
A broken spring in a factory yard,
Rust that clings to the form that the strength has left
Hard and curled and ready to snap.
Half-past two,
The street lamp said,
"Remark the cat which flattens itself in the gutter,
Slips out its tongue
And devours a morsel of rancid butter."
So the hand of a child, automatic,
Slipped out and pocketed a toy that was running along the quay.
I could see nothing behind that child's eye.
I have seen eyes in the street
Trying to peer through lighted shutters,
And a crab one afternoon in a pool,
An old crab with barnacles on his back,
Gripped the end of a stick which I held him.
Half-past three,
The lamp sputtered,
The lamp muttered in the dark.
The lamp hummed:
"Regard the moon,
La lune ne garde aucune rancune,
She winks a feeble eye,
She smiles into corners.
She smoothes the hair of the grass.
The moon has lost her memory.
A washed-out smallpox cracks her face,
Her hand twists a paper rose,
That smells of dust and old Cologne,
She is alone
With all the old nocturnal smells
That cross and cross across her brain."
The reminiscence comes
Of sunless dry geraniums
And dust in crevices,
Smells of chestnuts in the streets,
And female smells in shuttered rooms,
And cigarettes in corridors
And cocktail smells in bars."
The lamp said,
"Four o'clock,
Here is the number on the door.
Memory!
You have the key,
The little lamp spreads a ring on the stair,
Mount.
The bed is open; the tooth-brush hangs on the wall,
Put your shoes at the door, sleep, prepare for life."
The last twist of the knife.
-
Oh, my. I've read very little of T. S. Eliot. I'm beginning to be glad that is so.
With all the tornado news, I've been concerned about some of our friends in their path. I
have heard from Mahlia in North Carolina; she and her husband are safe. It's a wonder, isn't it,
how people I know only from our conversations here have become friends? I found a couple of
quotes I like.
Thomas Jefferson
But friendship is precious, not only in the shade, but in the sunshine of life, and thanks to a benevolent arrangement the greater part of life is sunshine.
C. S. Lewis
Friendship is unnecessary, like philosophy, like art... It has no survival value; rather it is one of those things that give value to survival.
-
Oh, my. I've read very little of T. S. Eliot. I'm beginning to be glad that is so.
Babi: That sounds as though you don't care for Eliot. I must admit that he sometimes takes getting used to. I find that I like his work more and more as I grow older though I don't read him so very often.
Barbara: thanks for posting Rhapsody on a Windy Night - I haven't read that one in years - he was a master of imagery and this poem shows that to the nth degree...
The reminiscence comes
Of sunless dry geraniums
And dust in crevices,
Smells of chestnuts in the streets,
And female smells in shuttered rooms,
And cigarettes in corridors
And cocktail smells in bars."
I read those words and the smells are almost palpable - so it is with his images of sight, sound etc.
Although it is not the season to post it one of my favourite Eliot poems is the Journey of the Magi
The Journey of the Magi (T.S. ELIOT)
"A cold coming we had of it,
Just the worst time of the year
For a journey, and such a long journey:
The ways deep and the weather sharp,
The very dead of winter."
And the camels galled, sore-footed, refractory,
Lying down in the melting snow.
There were times we regretted
The summer palaces on slopes, the terraces,
And the silken girls bringing sherbet.
Then the camel men cursing and grumbling
And running away, and wanting their liquor and women,
And the night-fires going out, and the lack of shelters,
And the cities hostile and the towns unfriendly
And the villages dirty, and charging high prices.:
A hard time we had of it.
At the end we preferred to travel all night,
Sleeping in snatches,
With the voices singing in our ears, saying
That this was all folly.
Then at dawn we came down to a temperate valley,
Wet, below the snow line, smelling of vegetation;
With a running stream and a water-mill beating the darkness,
And three trees on the low sky,
And an old white horse galloped away in the meadow.
Then we came to a tavern with vine-leaves over the lintel,
Six hands at an open door dicing for pieces of silver,
And feet kicking the empty wine-skins.
But there was no information, and so we continued
And arrived at evening, not a moment too soon
Finding the place; it was (you may say) satisfactory.
All this was a long time ago, I remember,
And I would do it again, but set down
This set down
This: were we lead all that way for
Birth or Death? There was a Birth, certainly,
We had evidence and no doubt. I have seen birth and death,
But had thought they were different; this Birth was
Hard and bitter agony for us, like Death, our death.
We returned to our places, these Kingdoms,
But no longer at ease here, in the old dispensation,
With an alien people clutching their gods.
I should be glad of another death.
I have this poem on an old tape read by Alec Guiness whose reading of it is just wonderful - I should find it out and transfer it to CD.
-
By Alec Guiness Wow! And Kathryn Manfield died and was buried in France - she was a busy girl after she left New Zealand - Gum, you have prompted me to start looking at the bio's for some of the poets we love to quote.
Babi I found this lovely on friendship -
Love and Friendship
~ by Emily Bronte
Love is like the wild rose-briar,
Friendship like the holly-tree --
The holly is dark when the rose-briar blooms
But which will bloom most contantly?
The wild-rose briar is sweet in the spring,
Its summer blossoms scent the air;
Yet wait till winter comes again
And who wil call the wild-briar fair?
Then scorn the silly rose-wreath now
And deck thee with the holly's sheen,
That when December blights thy brow
He may still leave thy garland green.
-
Ah, yes, I haven's seen that one in a long time. I am reminded of a short story by Alcott on
a similar theme, that I particularly liked. "Mountain-Laurel and Maiden-Hair", that was the title,
from a volume of short stories..."A Garland for Girls". Lord, that was so long ago.
-
MOUNTAIN--LAUREL
~ Louisa May Alcott
My bonnie flower, with truest joy
Thy welcome face I see,
The world grows brighter to my eyes,
And summer comes with thee.
My solitude now finds a friend,
And after each hard day,
I in my mountain garden walk,
To rest, or sing, or pray.
All down the rocky slope is spread
Thy veil of rosy snow,
And in the valley by the brook,
Thy deeper blossoms grow.
The barren wilderness grows fair,
Such beauty dost thou give;
And human eyes and Nature's heart
Rejoice that thou dost live.
Each year I wait thy coming, dear,
Each year I love thee more,
For life grows hard, and much I need
Thy honey for my store.
So, like a hungry bee, I sip
Sweet lessons from thy cup,
And sitting at a flower's feet,
My soul learns to look up.
No laurels shall I ever win,
No splendid blossoms bear,
But gratefully receive and use
God's blessed sun and air;
And, blooming where my lot is cast,
Grow happy and content,
Making some barren spot more fair,
For a humble life well spent.
And here is a link to the entire short story - a charming story as we would expect from Alcott :)
http://www.readbookonline.net/readOnLine/11335/
-
Haha...trust you, BARB. You went right out and found me some mountain laurel! Maidenhair is,
I find, more useful than I thought. The maidenhair tree, opposed to the fern, is the ginkgo
biloba!
Above all things in nature, I love trees. Have you read this poet? He's new to me.
The Presence of Trees
by Michael S. Glaser
I have always felt the living presence
of trees
the forest that calls to me as deeply
as I breathe,
as though the woods were marrow of my bone
as though
I myself were tree, a breathing, reaching
arc of the larger canopy
beside a brook bubbling to foam
like the one
deep in these woods,
that calls
that whispers home
A Blessing for the Woods
by Michael S. Glaser
Before I leave, almost without noticing,
before I cross the road and head toward
what I have intentionally postponed—
Let me stop to say a blessing for these woods:
for crows barking and squirrels scampering,
for trees and fungus and multi-colored leaves,
for the way sunlight laces with shadows
through each branch and leaf of tree,
for these paths that take me in,
for these paths that lead me out.
-
Babi I especially like The Presence of Trees lyrical with just the right amount of sentiment to see the metaphor - wonderful... thanks.
-
Igor Severyanin, pen name of Igor Vasilyevich Lotaryov (1887-1941), Russian poet who presided over the circle of the so-called Ego-Futurists.
Spring Apple Tree
~ By Igor Severyanin
Aquarelle
An apple-tree in Spring shakes me,—to see it grow,
Its branches whitely weighted with unmelting snow.
So might a hunch-backed girl stand, beautiful and dumb,
As trembling, the tree stands, and strikes my genius
numb. . . .
It looks into the wide, pale shallows, mirror-clear,
Seeking to shed the dews that stain it like a tear;
And stilled with horror, groans like a rude, rusty cart,
Seeing the dismal hunch mocked by the pool’s bright art.
When steely sleep alights upon the silent lake
For the bent apple-tree, as for a sick girl’s sake,
I come to offer tenderness the boughs would miss,
I press upon the petal-perfumed tree a kiss.
Then trustingly, with tears, the tree confides her care
To me, and brushes with a touch my back-blown hair.
Her boughs encircle me, her little twigs enlace,
And I lift up my lips to kiss her flowering face.
-
Good afternoon,
A Season of Spring Poetry??? I would love to read along. Don't have much to say. Would luv to read along. Hi buddies.
-
Oh for heaven's sake how are you hats - glad you are joining us - please read along but let's hear from you from time to time please - as I recall you had a natural way of phrasing things so that is was poetry without the formalities - but just knowing you are with us is wonderful. - the regulars are, Babi who is from Houston and Gumtree, from Perth, Australia - roshanarose from a town along the eastern coast of Australia and I forgot now the name of the Town and Octavia who is also from Australia - JoanK stops by every so often as does a few others - Anna had an accident a few weeks ago after a bad time last year so we seldom see her but she is in our hearts and minds - email is wonderful for keeping up with each other - come to think of it I need to find one of Anna's poems and post it here - her poetry was as good as it gets.
-
HATS Hello again. I was hoping you'd find your way into the Poetry.
As you probably know Barbara puts up some wonderful pieces as do the other posters - I'm really flattered that Barbara has me shown as a 'regular' - I guess I am - but I'm really only a 'lurker' though I sometimes foist my opinions on others here....
Barbara: How surprising that Aussies are out in force in this discussion. I don't think there are any other Aussies in SL at present so you've got 100% of us!
Roshanarose is in Brisbane which is the capital city in Queensland and Octavia also a Queenslander, lives in the town of Rockhampton which is much further to the north.
I really am honoured to be classed as a 'regular' - I guess I'll have to contribute a little more...
-
HATS! How wonderful to hear from you again. Please don't stay away so long; it's great
to have you here.
Foist away, GUM. I always enjoy reading your thoughts/opinions. Not to mention that I've
learned so much more about Australia, esp. the writers and poets, from you and the other
Aussies.
BARB, Sevaryanin's poem about the apple tree disturbs me. His reference to his genius, and
his images of being 'kind' to a sick, bent girl and...to my mind...taking advantage of her gratitude. My antenna are up, not to mention my hackles!
-
Oh Babi - I hear you and yet, looking at his life span we forget how common before the days of WWII know of many deformed young girls and boys - I think maybe they did not have a long life because you seldom saw a deformed adult - however, deformities were hidden away and deformed children were considered an outcaste - where as today we have children in regular public schools with all sorts of deformities that we now understand as an illness or birth defect - and so I am thinking it was a kindness to at least compare this young girl to an apple tree rather than the treatment she would typically receive during that time in history. That plus so much Russian literature and poetry includes a brutal look at life more than we are used to hearing. I think their existence was far more brutal than we experience in even the worst of times.
Thanks Gumtree for placing the hometowns for both Octavia and roshanarose - I remember a month or so ago having a great time with a virtual visit to all your hometowns by way of the Google map that shows a video as if driving down most of the streets all over the world. I get a kick out of it since it is like a travelogue.
Busy busy this morning and so I will be back later with a poem - .
-
(http://seniorlearn.org/bookclubs/poetry/poetryspringgirl.jpg) J.W. Waterhouse - Famous Poets and Poems about Spring (http://famouspoetsandpoems.com/thematic_poems/spring_poems.html)
- Link to: Spring Poems (http://poetry.about.com/od/ourpoemcollections/a/springpoems.htm)
Discussion Leaders: Barb (augere@ix.netcom.com) & fairanna (fairanna@cox.net) | Join Us! For a Season of Spring Poetry
A Prayer in Spring
~ Robert Frost
Oh, give us pleasure in the flowers to-day;
And give us not to think so far away
As the uncertain harvest; keep us here
All simply in the springing of the year.
Oh, give us pleasure in the orchard white,
Like nothing else by day, like ghosts by night;
And make us happy in the happy bees,
The swarm dilating round the perfect trees.
And make us happy in the darting bird
That suddenly above the bees is heard,
The meteor that thrusts in with needle bill,
And off a blossom in mid air stands still.
For this is love and nothing else is love,
The which it is reserved for God above
To sanctify to what far ends He will,
But which it only needs that we fulfil.
|
-
GOOD FRIDAY
~ by George Herbert
(Notice how each stanza roughly resembles the shape of a cross.)
Oh my chief good,
How shall I measure out thy blood?
How shall I count what thee befell,
And each grief tell?
Shall I thy woes
Number according to thy foes?
Or, since one star show’d thy first breath,
Shall all thy death?
Or shall each leaf,
Which falls in Autumn, score1 a grief?
Or cannot leaves, but fruit, be sign,
Of the true vine?
Then let each hour
Of my whole life one grief devour;
That thy distress through all may run,
And be my sun.
Or rather let
My several sins their sorrows get;
That, as each beast his cure doth know,
Each sin may so.
-
“THE PASSION”
– by George Herbert
Since blood is fittest, Lord, to write
Thy sorrows in, and bloody fight;
My heart hath store; write there, where in
One box doth lie both ink and sin:
That when sin spies so many foes,
Thy whips, thy nails, thy wounds, thy woes,
All come to lodge there, sin may say,
No room for me, and fly away.
Sin being gone, oh fill the place,
And keep possession with thy grace;
Lest sin take courage and return,
And all the writings blot or burn.
-
George Herbert was born on April 3, 1593, the fifth son of an eminent Welsh family. His mother, Magdalen Newport, held great patronage to distinguished literary figures such as John Donne, who dedicated his Holy Sonnets to her. Herbert's father died when he was three, leaving his mother with ten children, all of whom she was determined to educate and raise as loyal Anglicans. Herbert left for Westminster School at age ten, and went on to become one of three to win scholarships to Trinity College, Cambridge.
Herbert received two degrees (a B.A. in 1613 and an M.A. in 1616) and was elected a major fellow of Trinity. Two years after his college graduation, he was appointed reader in Rhetoric at Cambridge, and in 1620 he was elected public orator—a post wherein Herbert was called upon to represent Cambridge at public occasions and that he described as "the finest place in the university." In 1624 and 1625 Herbert was elected as a representative to Parliament. He resigned as orator in 1627, married Jane Danvers in 1629, and took holy orders in the Church of England in 1630. Herbert spent the rest of his life as rector in Bemerton near Salisbury. While there, he preached, wrote poetry, and helped rebuild the church out of his own funds.
Herbert's practical manual to country parsons, A Priest to the Temple (1652), exhibits the intelligent devotion he showed to his parishoners. On his deathbed, he sent the manuscript of The Temple to his close friend, Nicholas Ferrar, asking him to publish the poems only if he thought they might do good to "any dejected poor soul." He died of consumption in 1633 at the age of forty and the book was published in the same year. The Temple met with enormous popular acclaim—it had been reprinted twenty times by 1680.
Herbert's poems have been characterized by a deep religious devotion, linguistic precision, metrical agility, and ingenious use of conceit. Samuel Taylor Coleridge wrote of Herbert's diction that "Nothing can be more pure, manly, or unaffected," and he is ranked with Donne as one of the great Metaphysical poets.
-
THE QUIDDITY
~ by George Herbert
MY God, a verse is not a crown,
No point of honour, or gay suit,
No hawk, or banquet, or renown,
Nor a good sword, nor yet a lute.
It cannot vault, or dance, or play ;
It never was in France or Spain ;
Nor can it entertain the day
With a great stable or domain.
It is no office, art, or news ;
Nor the Exchange, or busy Hall :
But it is that which, while I use,
I am with Thee : and Most take all
-
How strange it is that only yesterday I read those very poems by George Herbert - not so strange really considering the season. Herbert's work fell into neglect for quite a time but I think he is one of the more accessible of the metaphysical poets to read today.
Here's one by John Donne - one of Herbert's contemporaries.
CRUCIFYING.
By miracles exceeding power of man,
He faith in some, envy in some begat,
For, what weak spirits admire, ambitious hate :
In both affections many to Him ran.
But O ! the worst are most, they will and can,
Alas ! and do, unto th' Immaculate,
Whose creature Fate is, now prescribe a fate,
Measuring self-life's infinity to span,
Nay to an inch. Lo ! where condemned He
Bears His own cross, with pain, yet by and by
When it bears him, He must bear more and die.
Now Thou art lifted up, draw me to Thee,
And at Thy death giving such liberal dole,
Moist with one drop of Thy blood my dry soul.
-
Barbara - we were posting more or less together as I see you've added another poem and biography of Herbert. Thanks for that - it's good to have the refresher on his life. I'd forgotten that Herbert's mum was patroness to Donne...
-
Hello, I've been offline and there's so much here to catch up with, I've just skimmed through the last couple of pages, but I'll go through them properly tomorrow. Son is going to the beautiful Keppel Island for the day with friends.
Gum, I have the Magi poem memorised, it was like meeting up with an old friend :). Soe beautiful new ones(to me) to read carefully.
I'm going to down load this one by Barbara Smith from Ireland before I lose it. Often happens!
On Not Seeing Inside the Sistine Chapel
You were a sky-gazer, a cloud-watcher,
seeing within those steamed puff-pillows
the forms of fabulous beings.
Just now I saw a fisherman, his white head
turned away, his finger flung
behind him pointing at infinity.
His rag-rolled head streamed to the west,
clothes rippling in the high sky-wind.
And when my lazy eye looked again
he morphed into a huge ornamental E,
whose top lintel was a crocodile’s mouth,
snapping at the blue. This too bleeds,
feeds into a sterling pound sign. You
must have spent afternoons on your back
gazing at patterns forming and merging,
dissipating where the mind dragged it.
You took your pigments and pulled them,
your art fixing a borderless sky inside
a broad high vault, peopling the heavens.
Ah, Michelangelo, I know why the sky
became your backdrop, why you loved shades
from azurite to smalt to cobalt blue .
-
Octavia - thanks for Barbara Smith from Ireland - I don't know of her but she jolted me out of my chair with the use of 'smalt' in the last line... haven't heard the term for years - its a pigment made from powdered glass and cobalt used during the Renaissance? - I would never use it in a million years because of the danger of inhaling the glass - but then perhaps I would have in those days - I do sometimes use a glasspaper for my pastels and that's always ready to bite me - takes the skin off my hands if I don't watch it. Ah! Anything for art ;D
-
All this time, GUM, and I hadn't realized you are an artist! Have you mentioned it before,
and I just wasn't paying attention? It's a wonderful thing to be able to create..or re-create..
beauty. Could you show us any of your art? It has been so great to share FairAnna's poems; I'd enjoy seeing some of your work as well.
-
OH my to come in today and learn from two of you something new - I was not familiar with the poet Barbara Smith and found her online - what a busy lady - raising 6 children, she will soon have published her second book of poetry all the while teaching Creative Writing - she has an MA in Creative Writing from Queens University, Belfast.
And then I have seen often the word 'smalt' and never knew this meaning - I always assumed it had something to do with metalwork or Alchemy and here it is a pigment made from powdered glass and cobalt. Gumtree what is glasspaper that you use for your pastels?
Good Friday silence starts for me in just a few minutes - so let me upload these poems so I can offer my 3 hours of contemplative silence.
Here is one of our Annafair's poems that she shared with us in the Spring of 2006 although written the year before.
Not because the light sifting through
the new born leaves is softer
Not because my daffodils bloomed
last week and now are gone
Not because my plum tree in its lacy gown
dropped its buds like snow upon the greening lawn
Not because the lilacs await their turn
and the iris green swards heralds
the coming of the Empress in her royal gown
Not because the birds are searching
for just the place to build their nests
Always it seems in some tree I had
Hoped to remove or vines that need tearing down
Not because the world looks cleaner
washed by warmer rains instead of snow
Not because the earth smells new and robins
pull worms from newly turned sod
No all these things tell me it is here
BUT still …
it is the sound this Saturday morning
Of my neighbors gasoline mower
Being pushed in precision across his lawn
The first of many Saturday forays
Until once again Autumn sings her song.
anna alexander 4/9/05©
-
here is another Barbara Smith poem:
Sea Horses
Curlicued inside her head —
her own album of the past,
smoothed out grooves of inverted
submerged horns — the hippocampus.
Where significant events are stored
to be replayed and glossed at will.
Like a three year old’s yellow
trousers: blue wellingtons,
the fuzziness of losing a sibling,
not owning a single face-shot
of his blondness; or hiding
beneath a brown-barred bed
to escape tan coloured brogues.
And inside the matter of the brain,
twigs, branches, boughs,
(a sturdy trunk for now)
all contained within a nutcase.
Dutch Elm disease the fiercest threat —
spreading within the whorled passages,
cuckolding the present sense.
-
And then this is an entire post from Annafair
annafair
March 25, 2006 - 03:15 pm
Require a bit of thought and I suspect each person reading one will say OH YES that is what it means,.
Before the kite plunges down into the wood
and this line goes useless
take in your two hands, boys, and feel
the strumming, rooted, long-tailed pull of grief.
You were born fit for it.
Stand in here in front of me
and take the strain.
The kits is soaring , enjoying the life it has but like all of us soon it will plunge down...and the line that held it aloft is useless. I think he is telling the boys to grab life, they were born for it and it wont be easy but take it and run with it ...that is what comes to my mind...the only way to enjoy life is to run with it. and if it isn't easy take it anyway ,,,,we are given life and the only way to make it meaningful is live it ...annafair
-
Anna's reply was her understanding from the post that MarjV wrote - Both Marj and Anna are discussing a poem written by --Seamus Heaney during our month long in-depth discussion and sharing of his poetry. Here is MarjV's post so that Anna's post makes sense.
MarjV
March 25, 2006 - 01:40 pm
"A Kite for Michael and Christopher"
All through that Sunday afternoon
a kite flew above Sunday,
a tightened drumhead, an armful of blown chaff.
I'd seen it grey and slippy in the making,
I'd tapped it when it dried out white and stiff,
I'd tied the bows of newspaper
along its six-foot tail.
But now it was far up like a small black lark
and now it dragged as if the bellied string
were a wet rope hauled upon
to lift a shoal.
My friend says that the human soul
is about the weight of a snipe,
yet the soul at anchor there,
the string that sags and ascends,
weigh like a furrow assumed into the heavens.
Before the kite plunges down into the wood
and this line goes useless
take in your two hands, boys, and feel
the strumming, rooted, long-tailed pull of grief.
You were born fit for it.
Stand in here in front of me
and take the strain.
- - - - - -
There are certainly many things to look at in this poem. First of course is the image of the boys flying their kite. And then we see the soul is brought into play as an image/metaphor. Our soul does soar. It also bears grief.
And at the end he tells the boys they were born fit for it; fit for the strain. The strain of having a soul? Some days>br? it does strain.
I do remember that feeling of the heavy weight of the kite and that "bellied string". Kites way up there bouncing around are such a light looking sight. Not heavy at all to the eye.
Having fun rambling around here. That's all I know to mention right now.
-
Could not find a poem with the word Smalt used however, this is a lovely article about Smalt in Vermeer paintings.
http://www.essentialvermeer.com/palette/palette_smalt.html
-
Gum, I thought 'smalt' was a misprint when I first read the poem, so went searching and read the same website, that Barb's brought up. There is everything to learn on the Internet, and not enough lifetimes to do it in.
Ouch, glass and hands, not a good mix!
I've always loved Anna's work, there were some really touching ones she wrote on Seniornet, I'd really like to read again.
There was one on grief or death, that moved us all.
I wouldn't know all these poems without my laptop, it's a godsend.
The poems are piling up here, and I type so slowly, I'm having trouble keeping my head above water in here.
-
Another beautiful poem by ANNA. I could just cry thinking that all those wonderful
poems could be lost. Anna cannot do all that would be necessary now to get them published,
even if she would. I can only hope that her family will.
Ah, Ms. Smith. My bane is the 'significant events' that insist on being replayed and
refuse to be glossed, whether I will it or not. "contained within a nutcase". How apt!!
-
Babi l'artiste? C'est moi! I daresay I've mentioned it in passing once or twice. I mainly do oil on canvas or pastels and am partial toward the conte crayon a trois coleurs. I do all sorts of subjects - land sea and rockscapes, still lifes, portraits in a relaxed realist style and like to work on large canvases though I do small stuff as well. I'd be happy to put up some images if ever I get my head around how to do it. Actually, I'm something of a moron when it comes to photos.
Barbara The glasspaper for pastels is a fine art paper impregnated with fine glass particles which gives more texture to the paper and holds the pastel rather well so that one can apply many layers before the support becomes saturated. It is actually similar to the 'sand' paper used in carpentry etc to smooth down wooden surfaces before applying paints or varnishes etc. Some artists do in fact use a heavyweight hardware variety of glasspaper especially when they want a more textured support for their work. Sand and glass papers are perhaps known by other names in your country.
-
aha - found a video with a lesson in various papers including glass paper
http://www.mindbites.com/lesson/2021-painting-an-autumn-pastel-on-glasspaper
-
Good Morning - Easter morning here - I think you have already experienced Easter morning in Australia - if not than I am really confused about the International clock. But Easter is one of the days that takes a few days to feel the beginnings of the new season... We in the States are looking towards turning up the AC and digging in our gardens where as Australian's are looking to make a fire in the grate and pull out the cookbooks to try a new stew.
And yet again, Herbert goes for the shape of things - it appears the words outline the shape of two wings.
Easter Wings
~ by George Herbert
Lord, who createdst man in wealth and store,
Though foolishly he lost the same,
Decaying more and more,
Till he became
Most poor:
With thee
O let me rise
As larks, harmoniously,
And sing this day thy victories:
Then shall the fall further the flight in me.
My tender age in sorrow did begin:
And still with sicknesses and shame
Thou didst so punish sin,
That I became
Most thin.
With thee
Let me combine
And feel this day thy victory:
For, if I imp my wing on thine,
Affliction shall advance the flight in me.
-
Yes, Barbara you've got the clock right - already it is late afternoon here in West Aust. We are exactly 12 hours ahead of your eastern time (without Daylight saving). Octavia and Roshanarose are both a couple of hours ahead of me.
The Herbert poem is a Shape Poem where the lines and even the choice of words are chosen to fit a predetermined shape on the page. One of my sons was enraptured of this form when he was a boy and wrote all sorts of stuff to fit the shape he had drawn.
Resurrection - John Donne
Moist, with one drop of thy blood, my dry soule
Shall (though she now be in extreme degree
Too stony hard, and yet too fleshly) be
Freed by that drop, from being starved, hard, or foul,
And life, by this death abled, shall control
Death, whom thy death slew; nor shall to me
Fear of first or last death, bring misery,
If in thy little book my name thou enroll,
Flesh in that long sleep is not putrified,
But made that there, of which, and for which 'twas;
Nor can by other means be glorified.
May then sins sleep, and deaths soon from me pass,
That waked from both, I again risen may
Salute the last, and everlasting day.
-
As one with absolutely no artistic talent, I can only bring admiration to the viewing
of beautiful paintings. I do know a pastel from an oil painting; for the most part I am
a moron about the details. Photos, too. The only artistic thing I ever did successfully
was cross-stitch...and couldn't do that as well as my daughters.
Yes, I imagine Australia would definitely lend itself to large canvases.
Intriguing...shaping the poem into wings. But...can you tell me what he means by "if
I imp my wing on thine"? imp??
-
I think in this instance imp means to graft one thing on to another. It's probably an obsolete term these days.
Ah Ha! Cross Stitch - I'm a fanatic too - love it. I'm a member of a group which meets weekly and try to get there as often as I can though since my eyes started playing up I haven't been quite so regular. Some of the 'girls' do beautiful work.
-
It is fascinating how people see shapes differently. I didn't see wings, although I do now, but much less poetic, I saw a capital E for Easter.
This time of year in Queensland - Brisbane and Rocky in this instance - is a time when the powers in charge of the weather stubbornly refuse to end Summer. There is a hopeful exchange of clothes from Summer to Winter. I don't know about Octavia, but I think that Gumtree and I are looking forward to much cooler weather soon. Autumn and Spring are not always well defined in warmer climes. I find myself comparing our temperatures every night, Gum, watching for which state is going to be the coolest first.
Brisbane, my city, is very humid. I hate humidity, it does terrible things to my skin. I seem to have rashes constantly. Even after so many years of acclimatising: mother's side landed in Sydney in 1854; father's c.1911, my skin still remains European. I have also had Malignant Melanoma, but survived, as you can probably tell ;)
-
:D :D ::) Funny because I kept looking and looking - how in the world does she get an E out of that - Maybe E looks different in other languages - then no wait - they speak English in Australia - hahaha oh dear - then when I saw it I couldn't stop laughing.
And yes, Imp is not a word we see used today - took a stretch of the imagination to get it but a look at the dictionary repeats your explanation for imp Gumtree
imp
–noun
1.a little devil or demon; an evil spirit.
2.a mischievous child.
3.Archaic . a scion or offshoot of a plant or tree.
4.Archaic . an offspring.
–verb (used with object)
5.Falconry .
a.to graft (feathers) into a wing.
b.to furnish (a wing, tail, etc.) with feathers, as to make good losses or deficiencies and improve powers of flight.
6.Archaic . to add a piece to; mend or repair.
Origin:
before 900; (noun) Middle English impe, Old English impa, impe shoot, graft < Late Latin impotus, imputus grafted shoot < Greek émphytos planted, implanted, verbal adjective of emphŷein to implant ( em- em-2 + phŷein to bring forth);
(v.) Middle English impen to plant, graft, Old English impian, geimpian, derivative of the noun (compare Old High German impfōn, impitōn > German impfen to inoculate); sense “demon” < phrase imp of the devil
Hope y'all get your cool breezes but while you are doing your weather dance please include us for rain - the rest of the nation is soaking including all sorts of storms but we are dry as fossilized bones.
-
Thanks to this site and your careful editing Barb, my English is improving! :D
-
:D :D :D ;) :-*
-
Barbara - Thanks for checking out imp - I was too lazy to get to the dictionaries. My knowledge of the sense of the word comes (I think) from horticulture - the graft - but I also know it in the sense of 'mend or repair'
which I note is archaic .... Just shows how old I am :D
Roshanarose - who is winning in the race for cooler weather? you or me?
It's not too bad here at present - typical late summer weather but without the sea breezes to freshen the air - temps up to mid 30s. I don't compare our temps with Qld but always check out Sydney where one of my sons abides - now I guess I'll be looking for yours and Octavia's as well ;D
As for rain - like Barbara we're still waiting and waiting for a drop or two. We did actually have a light a sprinkle for a few minutes yesterday -but not enough to wet the pavement under the trees. As for a real downpour - it's been several months since that happened - Water storage is at crisis levels as our dams and resevoirs are almost empty and levels in the aquifers are dropping appreciably.
-
Today, 25th April is ANZAC day when we commemorate and honour all Australians and New Zealanders who have served in our armed forces many of whom gave their lives in the cause of freedom.
Here's a poem or two...
The Soul of Australia
In the light of dawn, the break of day,
Through the waters chill they fought their way;
Like their sires of old, to the Motherland
They came o’er the sea, and they sprang to the strand;
And the blood of the Angles, the Scot, and the Celt
Grew hot in their veins as the war fire they felt.
In the light of noon, in the bright sunlight,
They fought up the cliffs from height to height;
And the sun shone down on that scene of strife
Where the ‘Soul of Australia’ came to life,
As the blood of Australians was shed on the sod,
For Australia, for Britain, Humanity, God.
Shall Australia mourn for the sons she has lost-
Should Australians weep? Nay! Great though the cost,
Joy mingles with grief, and pride mingles with pain,
For our boys died like heroes, and died not in vain.
And the ‘Soul of Australia’, new-born on that day
When her sons died at ANZAC, shall never decay.
J.H.M.
The Brisbane Courier, 25 April 1916
-
A Tribute to ANZAC Day
With their hair a little whiter, their step not quite so sure
Still they march on proudly as they did the year before.
Theirs were the hands that saved us, their courage showed the way
Their lives they laid down for us, that we may live today.
From Gallipoli's rugged hillsides, to the sands of Alamein
On rolling seas and in the skies, those memories will remain.
Of airmen and the sailors, of Lone Pine and Suvla Bay
The boys of the Dardenelles are remembered on this day.
They fought their way through jungles, their blood soaked desert sands
They still remember comrades who rest in foreign lands.
They remember the siege of old Tobruk, the mud of the Kokoda Trail
Some paying the supreme sacrifice with courage that did not fail.
To the icy land of Korea, the steamy jungles of Vietnam
And the heroic battle of Kapyong and that epic victory at Long Tan.
Fathers, sons and brothers, together they fought and died
That we may live in peace together, while at home their mothers cried.
When that final bugle calls them to cross that great divide
Those comrades will be waiting when they reach the other side.
Ken Bunker
LEST WE FORGET
-
Oh, sad poems! Even knowing the battle was necessary, the losses seem too much
to bear.
GUM, I've definitely reached the point where I had to drop the cross-stitch. Last time
I tried it I kept getting off-track. I still have a couple I saved and hung, so there's
something to enjoy and remember. And I have some from my two daughters, too.
ROSE, your weather sounds exactly like mine, here on the Gulf Coast, near Houston. Always
high humidity, with my favorite seasons...spring and autumn...all too brief.
Falconry, is it?!! Old poetry does have it's small puzzles, halting us in mid-stride.
A Day in a Texas Heat Wave, Jeff Haby
After sunrise-
The air feels sticky,
Like honey drying and thick.
Texas heat gradually builds
As noontime approaches-
Heat such as in a warming oven
Or a roaring fire.
The heat and humidity combine
To a heat index of one-o-nine.
Sweat drips from every brow.
How a normal human can handle it-
I don't know how.
The sun is still only halfway
Across the sky.
Weak grass and bushes
Begin to wilt and die.
The temperature reaches 100 again.
Only sunset gives relief
From the red hot
Sunburning thief.
Praying tomorrow will be the day
That there will be rain
Because another 14 hours of the sun's ray
Will send a few more people insane.
-
I love it Babi - it made me chuckle with the truth of a Texas Heat only I wouldn't say Wave - it sounds to me like a typical summer's day.
And yes Gumtree, the poems are filled with sadness, noble bravery, love as well as, the foolishness of man all rolled into words that stir the reader's emotions. Sounds like your ANZAC Day is similar to our Memorial Day which comes the last weekend of May.
The two extremes of poetry reminded me of this un-named with each stave given a name...
Corinne Roosevelt Robinson (1861-1933)
Comedy
I AM the Comic Muse,
Soft as the summer rain,
Come the children I bear
Out of the breath of my brain;
Love,—and Laughter that lifts,
Joy with the lilt of a song,
Beauty that's born of praise,
And Faith that has righted wrong.
I am the heart of a child,
I am the trust of a maid,
Spirit and passion of man,
Love that is unbetrayed;
I am the Muse that smiles,
Lo ! and gladness is rife,
Comedy, I am called,
I am the mirror of Life.
Tragedy
I am the Tragic Muse;
Born of the web of my brain,
Lo ! my children shall pass,
Poverty, Pathos, and Pain;
Labor,—and Love forsworn,
Each in their turn I name.
Jealousy, evil born
Sorrow, and Sin and Shame.
I am the World's despair,
I am the heart's despite,
Woven of me is fear,
Shadow of mine is night;
I am the Muse that weeps,
Out of my grief is Strife,
Tragedy, I am called,
I am the mirror of Life!
-
Babi, Texas heat sounds exactly like Queensland :).
It's the Anzac Day holiday today, so I'll put a last war poem here.
Beach Burial.
Softly and humbly to the Gulf of Arabs
The convoys of dead sailors come;
At night they sway and wander in the waters far under,
But morning rolls them in the foam.
Between the sob and clubbing of the gunfire
Someone, it seems, has time for this,
To pluck them from the shallows and bury them in burrows
And tread the sand upon their nakedness;
And each cross, the driven stake of tidewood,
Bears the last signature of men,
Written with such perplexity, with such bewildered pity,
The words choke as they begin -
'Unknown seaman' - the ghostly pencil
Wavers and fades, the purple drips,
The breath of wet season has washed their inscriptions
As blue as drowned men's lips,
Dead seamen, gone in search of the same landfall,
Whether as enemies they fought,
Or fought with us, or neither; the sand joins them together,
Enlisted on the other front.
Kenneth Slessor
-
I'm having trouble with the posting box. After a certain amount of writing,it starts jumping, and it's very difficult to keep typing.
Kenneth Slessor was an Australian war correspondent.
he line 'sob and clubbing ' for the sound of the gunfire sends shivers up my spine. Another evocative line is Wilfred Owen's 'stuttering rifle's rapid rattle'.
Different sounds conveying the same deadly message.
-
Octavia the line that caught my breath
At night they sway and wander in the waters far under,
I could see it in my minds eye - like so much flotsam, light enough not to sink but rather to remain a few feet from the surface swaying with the tide. Hunting like driftwood that reminds us of what was - not how mothers want to think their babies will mark the journey they both started when the first movement of life took hold in their womb. Then, maybe there is peace in a circle of waiting in the waters of life for birth and then burial. Imagining a metaphor is the only weapon to the intolerable sadness that is a picture of this truth.
-
Octavia - trouble with the jumping screen can be fixed - If you have IE there's a 'compatibility' icon up on the browser bar - it looks like a torn piece of paper and is to the left of the 'refresh' icon. Just click on that when you come in each time and it should be OK. Don't click on it halfway through a post or you'll lose it. - the post I mean...
Otherwise you might have to ask Jane for help.
-
I like the poem about comedy and tragedy. Poetry and drama...the good ones...do reflect life for
us, and say for us the things we feel but cannot express.
-
May Baskets
~ by Evaleen Stein
Let us take our baskets early
To the meadows green,
While the wild-flowers still are pearly
With the dewdrops' sheen.
Fill them full of blossoms rosy,
Violets and gay
Cowslips, every pretty posy
Welcoming the May.
Then our lovely loads we'll carry
Down the village street,
On each door, with laughter merry,
Hang a basket sweet.
Hey-a-day-day! It is spring now,
Lazy folks, awake!
See the pretty things we bring now
For the May Day's sake!
-
May Basket
~ By Dorothy Butts
From “The Passers-by”
I LOVE you, dear;
And all the little world
Loves my simplicity.
For in my love
There are no passions whirled
In wild complexity.
No mystery
Of “Does she love?” and “Whom?”
Needs fathoming.
I gather love,
And ever find more room
For gathering.
Will you take this basketful today,
Of old love and new flowerets, and say,
“This much she loved me during May?”
-
Poems by Louisa May Alcott
A little bird I am,
Shut from the fields of air,
And in my cage I sit and sing
To Him who placed me there:
Well pleased a prisoner to be,
Because, my God, it pleases Thee!
"Naught have I else to do;
I sing the whole day long;
And He whom most I love to please
Doth listen to my song,
He caught and bound my wandering wing,
But still He bends to hear me sing.
TO MY LADY
There are no flowers in the fields,
No green leaves on the tree,
No columbines, no violets,
No sweet anemone.
So I have gathered from my pots
All that I have to fill
The basket that I hang to-night,
With heaps of love from Jill.
Little Verse
To one who teaches me
The sweetness and the beauty
Of doing faithfully
And cheerfully my duty.
-
(http://seniorlearn.org/bookclubs/poetry/poetryspringgirl.jpg) J.W. Waterhouse - Famous Poets and Poems about Spring (http://famouspoetsandpoems.com/thematic_poems/spring_poems.html)
- Link to: Spring Poems (http://poetry.about.com/od/ourpoemcollections/a/springpoems.htm)
Discussion Leaders: Barb (augere@ix.netcom.com) & fairanna (fairanna@cox.net) | Join Us! For a Season of Spring Poetry
A Prayer in Spring
~ Robert Frost
Oh, give us pleasure in the flowers to-day;
And give us not to think so far away
As the uncertain harvest; keep us here
All simply in the springing of the year.
Oh, give us pleasure in the orchard white,
Like nothing else by day, like ghosts by night;
And make us happy in the happy bees,
The swarm dilating round the perfect trees.
And make us happy in the darting bird
That suddenly above the bees is heard,
The meteor that thrusts in with needle bill,
And off a blossom in mid air stands still.
For this is love and nothing else is love,
The which it is reserved for God above
To sanctify to what far ends He will,
But which it only needs that we fulfil.
|
Here's a pleasant little tidbit...
"'Tis like the birthday of the world,
When earth was born in bloom;
The light is made of many dyes,
The air is all perfume:
There's crimson buds, and white and blue,
The very rainbow showers
Have turned to blossoms where they fell,
And sown the earth with flowers."- Thomas Hood
-
:-* Looks like you are in the heading Babi - I cannot believe I did that - posted several poems so I could start the new page and then completely forgot to upload the heading for the new page - however the green font you chose is so pretty in the heading it looks like it belongs. And I love the idea of the 'Birthday of the World' what a neat turn of phrase that brings up the most pleasant of images.
It is so easy for us to forget Babi that north of here coats are still required and spring tulips are only now opening to the sun. Here we are many days already with the AC on and tulips in the rear view mirror of the year. Having lived so many years in Kentucky which is where my children were born I am remembering the Kentucky Derby, which is next Saturday as being a day that could be hot with many attending bringing their coolers along with their picnic blankets but many more times it is cool enough for a coat and a mint julep was fun but a shot of Bourbon was warming.
Here is the Bard himself with words about Spring.
Spring
~ by William Shakespeare
When daisies pied, and violets blue,
And lady-smocks all silver-white,
And cuckoo-buds of yellow hue
Do paint the meadows with delight,
The cuckoo then, on every tree,
Mocks married men, for thus sings he:
'Cuckoo!
Cuckoo, cuckoo!' O word of fear,
Unpleasing to a married ear.
When shepherds pipe on oaten straws,
And merry larks are ploughmen's clocks,
When turtles tread, and rooks, and daws,
And maidens bleach their summer smocks,
The cuckoo then, on every tree,
Mocks married men, for thus sings he:
'Cuckoo!
Cuckoo, cuckoo!' O word of fear,
Unpleasing to a married ear.
-
Just a quick visit. My mum had a bad fall at her nursing home, smashing her head on the end of her bed.My sister and I have spent days up there. She's battered and bruised and has regressed so much. Not long ago, she had a lovely period when she was bright and with it, and delighted in our visits.
I've always thought life was to be cherished whatever it's form, but to see your loved one stripped of dignity and all that made them 'them', I'm changing my mind.
Thanks Gum, for your hint :).
So sorry for all the tornado victims in America.
-
Oh Octavia - heartbreaking - end of life is not easy for anyone is it...
Contemplating Our Point of Existence in My Slippers
~ by Weeping Wolf
I wander through reality
And don't watch the news
I forget the days...and remember the years.
That remind me of who I am,
And I make sure to teach myself, and to not become
What I was conditioned, who I was taught to be.
And maybe that leads me into making more mistakes,
That I may end up repeating, but I still learn all the same,
Because I'm yearning to be stronger, but dreading of being older.
And I think of when I was a swinging 17,
But my friends still say I'm a dancing queen,
And men still say I'm beautiful, but do I believe any of them?
And who will still love me once I've lost my graces?
And how long will I have to wait till I'm in your arms,
Who are you anyways? Who will choose me in the end?
When I try so hard to make them all love me, for a while,
Till I search out some new adventure, then come back to you.
Over and over and over again.
So I sit outside in our makeshift garden and look up at the canopy
That hides the fact that we can no longer see the stars
I contemplate the point of our existence, and how
The element that which we run on is our demise,
We are creating our own suicide.
And I think of you, God, my love of all time.
How you love me even though every day, I sin.
And how I feel closer to you when I do wrong,
How I plead with you and shy away from you and love you,
And cannot wait to finally see you.
I ponder upon how I will turn back to dust when you take me,
How much longer I will stay to watch this city change,
These relationships begin and end, and the world's last breath.
And who will really come into our minds at the end of it all?
Looking up, I see a spaceship fly by our window,
Think of how much I miss you, and who I want hold hands with
At the end of the world, or at least our lives.
I don't know who you are. But I hope you come for me so I know.
Because my heart is in love too many times over to know.
And Time...
Time...always on my mind...
The times I didn't say everything I wanted to,
And the times I had to say goodbye.
I see the image of her beauty in my mind,
Never diminishing,
How lovely she is,
Oh how I want her to be loved.
But Time...
Keeps me from her
But Love,
Sustains her memory.
So I simply go on...distant from her.
And I crave to go to distant lands,
And share kisses and hold hands
With those I may never see again...
Oh, but tis' a shame, in the world of communication
How we have distorted what we really feel
Or what we really want to do with our lives
And now all that's left is to consume everything
Until there is nothing left. It is too late for us.
So I will pray for those who are to come to save us.
-
remember the years.
That remind me of who I am,
We do do that, don't we?
-
That's lovely, Babi. Barb, I don't know where you found that beautiful poem, but it holds so much.
Octavia - So sorry to hear about your Mum's fall. Maybe for her we can rework those lovely words posted by Babi.
remember the years.
That remind you of who she is,
I wish I didn't cry so easily.
-
Here is an old friend who we spent a month with a few years back
"Remember"
~ by Joy Harjo
Remember the sky that you were born under,
know each of the star's stories.
Remember the moon, know who she is. I met her
in a bar once in Iowa City.
Remember the sun's birth at dawn, that is the
strongest point of time. Remember sundown
and the giving away to night.
Remember your birth, how your mother struggled
to give you form and breath. You are evidence of
her life, and her mother's, and hers.
Remember your father. He is your life also.
Remember the earth whose skin you are:
red earth, black earth, yellow earth, white earth
brown earth, we are earth.
Remember the plants, trees, animal life who all have their
tribes, their families, their histories, too. Talk to them,
listen to them. They are alive poems.
Remember the wind. Remember her voice. She knows the
origin of this universe. I heard her singing Kiowa war
dance songs at the corner of Fourth and Central once.
Remember that you are all people and that all people are you.
Remember that you are this universe and that this universe is you.
Remember that all is in motion, is growing, is you.
Remember that language comes from this.
Remember the dance that language is, that life is.
Remember.
-
"Poetry, is a dream filled with language."
Jo Harjo
Born: May 9, 1951, in Tulsa, Oklahoma, a member of the Muscogee Creek Tribe.
IN PRAISE OF EARTH
We kept on dancing last summer though the dancing had been called subversive.
We weren't alone at the end of this particular world and knew
it wouldn't be the last world, though wars
had broken out on all sides.
We kept on dancing and with us were the insects who had gathered at the grounds
in the grasses and the trees. And with us were the stars and
a few lone planets who had been friends
with the earth for generations.
And with us were the spirits who wished to honor this beloved earth in any beautiful manner. And with us at dawn was the Sun who took the lead
and then we broke for camp, for stickball
and breakfast.
We all needed praise made of the heart's tattoo as it inspired our feet or wings, someone to admire us despite our tendency to war, to terrible
stumbles. So does the red cliff who is the heart
broken to the sky.
So do the stones who were the first to speak when we arrived. So does the flaming mountain who harbors the guardian spirits who refuse to abandon
us. And this Earth keeps faithfully to her journey, carrying us
around the Sun,
All of us in our rags and riches, our rages and promises, small talk and suffering. As we go to the store to buy our food and forget to plant, sing so
that we will be nourished in turn. As we walk out
into the dawn,
With our lists of desires that her gifts will fulfill, as she turns our tears
into rivers of sweet water, we spiral between dusking and
dawn, wake up and sleep in this lush palace of creation,
rooted by blood, dreams, and history.
We are linked by leaf, fin, and root. When we climb through the sky to each
new day our thoughts are clouds shifting weather within us.
When we step out of our minds into ceremonial
language we are humbled and amazed,
at the sacrifice. Those who forget become the people of stone who guard
the entrance to remembering. And the Earth keeps up her
dancing and she is neither perfect nor exactly in time.
She is one of us.
And she loves the dance for what it is. So does the Sun who calls the Earth
beloved. And praises her with light.
-
Amazing.
When we climb through the sky to each
new day our thoughts are clouds shifting weather within us.
I had to stop again and again to re-read something. This woman is a wonder.
-
The Passionate Shepherd to His Love
~ Christopher Marlowe (1598)
Come live with me and be my love,
And we will all the pleasures prove
That valleys, groves, hills, and fields,
Woods or steepy mountain yields.
And we will sit upon the rocks,
Seeing the shepherds feed their flocks,
By shallow rivers to whose falls
Melodious birds sing madrigals.
And I will make thee beds of roses
And a thousand fragrant posies,
A cap of flowers, and a kirtle
Embroidered all with leaves of myrtle;
A gown made of the finest wool
Which from our pretty lambs we pull;
Fair lined slippers for the cold,
With buckles of th purest gold;
A belt of straw and ivy buds,
With coral clasps and amber studs:
And if these pleasures may thee move,
Come live with me and be my love.
The shepherds’ swains shall dance and sing
For thy delight each May morning:
If these delights thy mind may move,
Then live with me and be my love.
-
A Love Song from the North
~ Sarojini Naidu (1879 - 1949)
Tell me no more of thy love, papeeha*,
Wouldst thou recall to my heart, papeeha,
Dreams of delight that are gone,
When swift to my side came the feet of my lover
With stars of the dusk and the dawn?
I see the soft wings of the clouds on the river,
And jewelled with raindrops the mango-leaves quiver,
And tender boughs flower on the plain.....
But what is their beauty to me, papeeha,
Beauty of blossom and shower, papeeha,
That brings not my lover again?
Tell me no more of thy love, papeeha,
Wouldst thou revive in my heart, papeeha
Grief for the joy that is gone?
I hear the bright peacock in glimmering woodlands
Cry to its mate in the dawn;
I hear the black koel's slow, tremulous wooing,
And sweet in the gardens the calling and cooing
Of passionate bulbul and dove....
But what is their music to me, papeeha
Songs of their laughter and love, papeeha,
To me, forsaken of love?
* The papeeha is a bird that wings into the northern plains of India in the mango season, and calls " 'Pi-kahan, Pi-kahan' - Where is my love?"
-
Ah, BARB, I see that May has indeed turned you mind to thouhts of love. :-*
"The young May moon is beaming, love.
The glow-worm's lamp is gleaming, love.
How sweet to rove,
Through Morna's grove,
When the drowsy world is dreaming, love!
Then awake! -- the heavens look bright, my dear,
'Tis never too late for delight, my dear,
And the best of all ways
To lengthen our days
Is to steal a few hours from the night, my dear!"-
Thomas Moore, The Young May Moon
-
ahhh - I have never read The Young May Moon - lovely Babi just lovely, even the title - reminds me of how in May we often have our windows open to catch the night breeze - I can just see the sheer curtains stirring in the quiet breeze with the moon shining as if a very low lamp was turned on. .
~ By William Hamilton Hayne
MOONLIGHT SONG OF THE MOCKING-BIRD
EACH golden note of music greets
The listening leaves, divinely stirred,
As if the vanished soul of Keats
Had found its new birth in a bird.
NIGHT MISTS
SOMETIMES, when Nature falls asleep,
Around her woods and streams
The mists of night serenely creep—
For they are Nature’s dreams.
-
So many lovely poems here of late! Last night our Library Friends, face to face book group held our annual Poetry Night. It was to have been in February, for Valentine Day, but we got "bad weathered" out (snow, etc.) So we switched it to May, as our March, April books and moderators had already been chosen. We can bring poems by Poets, and/or poems we have written. Usually, we have each person read one each. We had some lovely readings. The husband of one of our regular members brought two of his originals, and although "very long" they were beautiful! We had partial reading of Poe's "The Raven", "Invictus", "St. Peter at the Golden Gate", "A Remedy for Insomnia" by Vera Pavlova; "Mirror" by Mark Strand; several by e.e.cummings, one by Billy Collins (love his work!) and a couple more originals. There was laughter, ( the librarian came and shut the door to the room we were in!) there were tears. We enjoy this night so very much. We had more people last year, but it was February last year, and I suspect a lot of folks are already in trip/vacation mode and couldn't be there! If any of you are in a f2f group, this of this as a suggestion. I believe it will be a success!
-
That sounds like a really lovely evening, TOME. (I'm so glad the 'very long' poems were also
very good poems.) I have no idea what kind of turn-out a poetry night would get around here.
Small gems, those two poems, BARB. I do think our mockingbird isn't appreciated enough. He
is such a merry, resourceful fellow.
-
Thanks Barb and Roshanarose, for your kind thoughts.
Rose, since I've got older I cry at the drop of a hat. Just looking into a dog's eyes will bring a lump to my throat.
We're all sharing a virus in my family, I'm the lucky last, to be coughing and sniffling.
I just realised I've never seen a picture of a mocking bird, so I'll look it up.
The koel is our storm bird, a harbinger of the 'Wet', or rainy season.
I love Thomas Moore's idea of stealing time. I was up at 5:00 am, and went outside to enjoy the cool, quiet dawn.
It's been 20 years, but I'm still coming to terms with living in a town :).
-
In honor of Octavia with her sniffles and cough. Hope you soon feel better!
When you get the Flu
When you get the Flu
What should you do?
Go to the Doctor?
I would rather stay in bed
For the tickle in my throat
Is now in my Head!
I have this travelling ache
Through My Body
Oh- my hands have gone numb-
I'm cold all over
My temperature is 103.1!!
All I can do is SLEEP
Besides the cough,
and sniffle
I am unable to sing a peep.
Everyone I came in
contact with
Had a sniffle or a sneeze.
I did not prepare for
The worst-
My stomach got queasy-
Then I developed a thirst.
Acetaminophen please,
Ginger Ale, too,
And later I'll sip some
Lemony tasting "Thera-Flu".
Then by eleven pm, my temp
Went down to 99.6
But I started to cough
Still contagious with this!
"Cover your mouth with the
Crook of the sleeved arm",
The Health Department states,
Will cut down transference
Of germs (with charm).
I made sure I ate healthy
when my fever did break
I ate a fresh green salad
And then pasta with ground steak!
I drank plenty of fluids,
Probably a liter,
Which has Flushed down the
Pipes!
NOW I DO FEEL MUCH BETTER!!
-
I Went to the Doctor
~ Karen Nesbitt
Child:
I went to the doctor,
all covered in bumps.
He said,
Doctor:
You’ve got whooping cough,
tetanus, rubella,
digestive dysfunction
from green salmonella.
You’re covered with head lice,
mosquitoes, and fleas.
You’ve even got pinkeye
and mad cow disease.
What’s more, you’ve got cooties,
a cold, and the flu,
but don’t be upset;
I know just what to do.
Child:
He told me,
Doctor:
I promise
this won’t hurt a bit.
Child:
Then grabbed a syringe
like a barbecue spit.
He made me bend over
the seat of my chair,
then plunged that big needle
in my you-know-where.
So now I’m all cured
of my cooties and fleas,
my whooping cough, measles,
and mad cow disease.
He cured me of every last
sniffle and bump,
and now I’m all better—
except for my rump.
THE END!
-
The Mocking-Bird
~ by Sidney Lanier
Superb and sole, upon a plumed spray
That o'er the general leafage boldly grew,
He summ'd the woods in song; or typic drew
The watch of hungry hawks, the lone dismay
Of languid doves when long their lovers stray,
And all birds' passion-plays that sprinkle dew
At morn in brake or bosky avenue.
Whate'er birds did or dreamed, this bird could say.
Then down he shot, bounced airily along
The sward, twitched in a grasshopper, made song
Midflight, perched, prinked, and to his art again.
Sweet Science, this large riddle read me plain:
How may the death of that dull insect be
The life of yon trim Shakespeare on the tree?
-
Street Cries
~ Sidney Lanier
Oft seems the Time a market-town
Where many merchant-spirits meet
Who up and down and up and down
Cry out along the street
Their needs, as wares; one THUS, one SO:
Till all the ways are full of sound:
-- But still come rain, and sun, and snow,
And still the world goes round.
-
Tomereader this is what Dylan would add to your group poetry reading...
Notes on the Art of Poetry
by Dylan Thomas
I could never have dreamt that there were such goings-on
in the world between the covers of books,
such sandstorms and ice blasts of words,,,
such staggering peace, such enormous laughter,
such and so many blinding bright lights,, ,
splashing all over the pages
in a million bits and pieces
all of which were words, words, words,
and each of which were alive forever
in its own delight and glory and oddity and light.
-
Barb - What's a cootie?
-
When I was a kid it referred to bed bugs - for some, all the tiny nasties like bed bug bites, lice, fleas - later, when my children were young, few children had bugs bouncing off them and their clothes so the word took on a broader meaning as a nickname for any infectious disease especially, if someone looked ragged and not a part of the community as in a homeless person that then were few and did a lot of illegal train hopping - the expression was used as a warning or as a statement why you did not want to get near or shake someone's hand because you might catch the cooties - meaning their germs if only social germs or 'poverty germs'.
-
There is a mournful old folk song called "Listen to the Mockingbird". I can
remember my Dad singing it. It was written by someone named Septimus
Winner, under the pseudonym of Alice Hawthorne.
Listen to the Mockingird
I'm dreaming now of Hally, sweet Hally, sweet Hally;
I'm dreaming now of Hally,
For the thought of her is one that never dies:
Shes sleeping in the valley, the valley, the valley
She's sleeping in the valley,
And the mocking bird is singing where she lies.
[Chorus]
Listen to the mocking bird,
Listen to the mocking bird,
The mocking bird still singing o'er her grave;
Listen to the mocking bird,
Listen to the mocking bird,
Still singing where the weeping willows wave.
Ah! well I yet remember, remember, remember
Ah! well I yet remember,
When we gather'd in the cotton side by side;
'Twas in the mild September, September, September,
'Twas in the mild September,
And the mocking bird was singing far and wide.
[Chorus]
When the charms of spring awaken, awaken, awaken,
When the charms of spring awaken,
And the mocking bird is singing on the bough.
I feel like one forsaken, forsaken, forsaken.
I feel like one forsaken,
Since my Hally is no longer with me now.
[Chorus] <
-
Thanks Barb - My education regarding US vernacular grows apace. :D
-
Me too, Roshanarose. I always thought cooties were nits! Live and learn.
Thanks Barb, that's exactly how I felt. I set off to do some food shopping yesterday, but halfway there I abandoned the trip, bought 3 or 4 packets of throat lozenges at FoodWorks and came home again.
That's a lovely poem by Thomas. He's really captured the joy of reading.
I was reading Gerard Manly Hopkins yesterday, I was going to post The Windhover poem for it's sheer over the top exuberance, but I had a feeling it's been done.
Reading his lesser known work(to me anyway) I was impressed by his environmental awareness, especially at a time when preserving beauty wasn't really a priority.
Not a side of him I remembered from High School English.
-
Yes nits too - the word just has a broader meaning and according to where in the country you live there is a colloquial definition - can be various bugs that we associate with unclean habits or as I say it can be the invisible disease of the great unwashed - that today, we agree are those living in poverty.
Please, do not hesitate to post a poem even if you suspect we read it in the past - poetry says something to us everytime we read it - for that matter I have been reading the same poem several times a day for a month now and with each reading a new insight reaches my mind and heart.
And so here is the Hopkins...
The Windhover
~ By Gerard Manley Hopkins 1844–1889
To Christ our Lord
I CAUGHT this morning morning’s minion, king-
dom of daylight’s dauphin, dapple-dawn-drawn Falcon, in his riding
Of the rolling level underneath him steady air, and striding
High there, how he rung upon the rein of a wimpling wing
In his ecstasy! then off, off forth on swing,
As a skate’s heel sweeps smooth on a bow-bend: the hurl and gliding
Rebuffed the big wind. My heart in hiding
Stirred for a bird,—the achieve of; the mastery of the thing!
Brute beauty and valour and act, oh, air, pride, plume, here
Buckle! AND the fire that breaks from thee then, a billion
Times told lovelier, more dangerous, O my chevalier!
No wonder of it: shéer plód makes plough down sillion
Shine, and blue-bleak embers, ah my dear,
Fall, gall themselves, and gash gold-vermillion.
-
Oh, my, such lovely phrases. "blue bleak embers" "dappling-drawn-dawn".[/i]
But so many old terms that I don't recognize. I'd have to haunt my computer to dig out all the meanings of this poem. "wimpling" "plod" "sillion" ??? I'll
definitely have to come back to this one again.
-
Okay, here we go...
wimpling..rippling (rippling wings, I can see that. )
Sillion: The thick, voluminous, and shiny soil turned over by a plow
I couldn't find a definition for plod that seems to fit the poem, but with that
marking over the 'o', I wonder if was simply a shortened version of plowed?
-
When I was the director of a Head Start center years ago, cooties were definitely head lice. The note we sent home said, "It's no shame to have them but it's a shame to keep them' along with the instruction sheet and the name of the drugstore remedy, which was called A-200. it usually did the job.
-
plod (pld)
v. plod·ded, plod·ding, plods
v.intr.
1. To move or walk heavily or laboriously; trudge: "donkeys that plodded wearily in a circle round a gin" (D.H. Lawrence).
2. To work or act perseveringly or monotonously; drudge: plodding through a mountain of paperwork.
v.tr.
To trudge along or over.
n.
1. The act of moving or walking heavily and slowly.
2. The sound made by a heavy step.
-
see the marks above these two words - shéer plód - that is a key to realize they are not English words - possibly Old French - knowing Hopkins most likely words used during the middle Ages.
Like his father, Hopkins was steeped in the lore and language of the Middle Ages as well as in the Welsh language - they were both strong silent supporters of the dauphin, Charles - there is a lot going on in this poem - not only is it religious but it has touchstones of subterfuge against a English Protestant Monarchy to a Catholic Monarchy that Charles would wage war on Edward, the Black Prince.
I did not attend a Jesuit school - Hopkins was a Jesuit - I attended a Carmelite High School however, we discussed, studied - take your pick - Hopkins along with many other 'Catholic' poets - Hopkins wrote this poem in or near a Tavern called the Buckle and Crump and the Kestrel was the image on the Tavern sign. The Kestrel in parts of Britain is called a Windhover. Regardless the image that may have started the poem - many of the words in this poem are straight out of a Middle Age dictionary and the poem is written with more than one meaning behind each phrase.
For instance the word rung- has to do with falconry where a bird circles, going higher and higher floating in tight winding circles on the thermals - And then in the poem the bird swings off this appearing ecstasy of effortless flight toward the heavens to hurl itself taking the wind, as is its nature, with full force.
shéer plód we were given to understand was like the very earliest part of a creation or a bringing to life - so that as the plowing of the field turns over the first layer of soil that has a black slick shine (thanks Babi, yes, sillion) as well, you can still see the shine on the plough since it has not dug as deeply in this first turn of the earth - that process and what it allows or prepares for is the earliest part of creation - the word embryo was not used when I was in High School but that would be the closest to expressing the meaning of shéer plód.
There are many interpretations for this poem - those with a background in Welsh, the history of the Middle Ages and the 'English Language' of the Middle Ages, an understanding of the Victorian and the Medieval Catholic Church are going to be closer to a good interpretation.
And Yes, Bellemere - cooties can mean head lice - there are various meanings for the word according to where you live and what the popular use of the word is in your area. My old 1950s Britannica Dictionary says, Body louse - and a small wooden bowl used in the kitchen. Now that is a new one to me.
Babi the words are magical aren't they - I always feel transported to another time and space when words not used in everyday speech are part of a poem. And you picked up the alliteration - dappling-drawn-dawn - I love it how some folks simply and naturally have the ability to speak their mind using alliteration - they draw me in like ants on honey.
-
Spring Plowing
~ Ted Kooser
West of Omaha the freshly plowed fields
steam in the night like lakes.
The smell of the earth floods over the roads.
The field mice are moving their nests
to the higher ground of fence rows,
the old among them crying out to the owls
to take them all. The paths in the grass
are loud with the squeak of their carts.
They keep their lanterns covered.
-
Grandpa's Plow
~ Terry Sledge
When Grandpa put his hands to the plow he walked a country mile,
Sometimes I ran alongside or sat under a shade tree to watch,
I would listen to Grandpa’s words about life he told with a smile,
To plow a straight furrow, focus up ahead and there you watch.
He never looked behind while the plow was still in the ground,
And when plowing the same furrow he'd plow it a little deeper,
Removing all rocks in his path he taught me not to plow around.
Grandpa died, I grew up and the farm was finally sold,
The lesson's Grandpa taught me were not just how to plow,
But truth on how to live life if I used what I was told,
Although learned many years ago truth is always for the now.
If you ever hope to make your mark you must look straight ahead,
And refuse to be detoured by the many distractions in life,
Don't look back to see where you were but always look ahead.
-
Prairie Spring
FROM: O PIONEERS
~ By Willa Cather
Evening and the flat land,
Rich and sombre and always silent;
The miles of fresh-plowed soil,
Heavy and black, full of strength and harshness;
The growing wheat, the growing weeds,
The toiling horses, the tired men;
The long empty roads,
Sullen fires of sunset, fading,
The eternal, unresponsive sky.
Against all this, Youth,
Flaming like the wild roses,
Singing like the larks over the plowed fields,
Flashing like a star out of the twilight;
Youth with its insupportable sweetness,
Its fierce necessity,
Its sharp desire,
Singing and singing,
Out of the lips of silence,
Out of the earthy dusk.
-
Pied Beauty (1877)
~ Gerard Manley Hopkins
GLORY be to God for dappled things—
For skies of couple-colour as a brinded cow;
For rose-moles all in stipple upon trout that swim;
Fresh-firecoal chestnut-falls; finches’ wings;
Landscape plotted and pieced—fold, fallow, and plough;
And áll trádes, their gear and tackle and trim.
All things counter, original, spare, strange;
Whatever is fickle, freckled (who knows how?)
With swift, slow; sweet, sour; adazzle, dim;
He fathers-forth whose beauty is past change:
Praise him.
-
Before Spring disappears entirely into summer, here's one I like...
Three Spring Notations on Bipeds
by Carl Sandburg
1THE DOWN drop of the blackbird,
The wing catch of arrested flight,
The stop midway and then off: off for triangles, circles, loops of new hieroglyphs—
This is April’s way: a woman:
“O yes, I’m here again and your heart
knows I was coming.”
2White pigeons rush at the sun,
A marathon of wing feats is on:
“Who most loves danger? Who most loves wings? Who somersaults for God’s sake in the name of wing power in the sun and blue on an April Thursday.”
So ten winged heads, ten winged feet, race their white forms over Elmhurst.
They go fast: once the ten together were a feather of foam bubble, a chrysanthemum whirl speaking to silver and azure.
3The child is on my shoulders.
In the prairie moonlight the child’s legs hang over my shoulders.
She sits on my neck and I hear her calling me a good horse.
She slides down—and into the moon silver of a prairie stream
She throws a stone and laughs at the clug-clug.
-
Barb, you give us so much information. The story behind the story, or poem in this folder.
I must say, I get overwhelmed sometimes by the volume of poetry on here. I like to take a couple of days to savour a poem, read it at different times, and aloud, to hear how that sounds.
Mull over the meaning, look up the author, get a feel for the place and time of writing.
What the poet's circumstances, and state of mind were.
I'm always going back to re-read some poem or another. I do appreciate them, even if I don't comment much at the time.
-
Babi what a joy you found for us in Sandburg - each of the three is more wonderful with each reading.
I love -
"Who somersaults for God’s sake in the name of wing power in the sun and blue on an April Thursday."
However, just as delightful is and moving is -
"the child’s legs hang over my shoulders.
She sits on my neck and I hear her calling me a good horse.
She slides down—and into the moon silver of a prairie stream"
Then you just have to start reading all over and that is when you realize the first line is a wonder -
"THE DOWN drop of the blackbird"
And yes, Octavia - poems do invite us to read and ponder and read again. We have an anthology here on Senior Learn with our years of posting poetry don't we.
Well I had poetry born in my side yard to day - for the fifteenth year and a row I had fawns born - this year there were two - twins - most often many think there are twins when it is really that one Doe early within the second day or so takes on the complete care and nursing of more than one fawn - this time it all happened in mid-morning and the second fawn had his problems - the mama rolled it and licked it and nudged it for quite awhile before it finally perked its head up and the ears were like two waving banners. The second one is smaller so that it looks almost as if it was born a week later rather than simply a half hour later.
I need to learn to use my digital camera and learn how to upload photos and see if I can take some photos to share in the next week or so...
-
The Fawn
Edna St. Vincent Malay
There it was I saw what I shall never forget
And never retrieve.
Monstrous and beautiful to human eyes, hard to
believe,
He lay, yet there he lay,
Asleep on the moss, his head on his polished cleft
small ebony hoves,
The child of the doe, the dappled child of the deer.
Surely his mother had never said, "Lie here
Till I return," so spotty and plain to see
On the green moss lay he.
His eyes had opened; he considered me.
I would have given more than I care to say
To thrifty ears, might I have had him for my friend
One moment only of that forest day:
Might I have had the acceptance, not the love
Of those clear eyes;
Might I have been for him in the bough above
Or the root beneath his forest bed,
A part of the forest, seen without surprise.
Was it alarm, or was it the wind of my fear lest he
depart
That jerked him to his jointy knees,
And sent him crashing off, leaping and stumbling
On his new legs, between the stems of the white
trees?
|
-
(http://seniorlearn.org/bookclubs/poetry/poetryspringgirl.jpg) J.W. Waterhouse - Famous Poets and Poems about Spring (http://famouspoetsandpoems.com/thematic_poems/spring_poems.html)
- Link to: Spring Poems (http://poetry.about.com/od/ourpoemcollections/a/springpoems.htm)
Discussion Leaders: Barb (augere@ix.netcom.com) & fairanna (fairanna@cox.net) | Join Us! For a Season of Spring Poetry
A Prayer in Spring
~ Robert Frost
Oh, give us pleasure in the flowers to-day;
And give us not to think so far away
As the uncertain harvest; keep us here
All simply in the springing of the year.
Oh, give us pleasure in the orchard white,
Like nothing else by day, like ghosts by night;
And make us happy in the happy bees,
The swarm dilating round the perfect trees.
And make us happy in the darting bird
That suddenly above the bees is heard,
The meteor that thrusts in with needle bill,
And off a blossom in mid air stands still.
For this is love and nothing else is love,
The which it is reserved for God above
To sanctify to what far ends He will,
But which it only needs that we fulfil.
|
-
Barb - We only have fawns in the zoo here. They are such enchanting creatures. I love their spots and their beautiful little faces with big brown eyes. Why don't you write us a poem about them?
I have seen a mob of kangaroos in the wild in full flight - an amazing sight. Also a very disgruntled koala up a tree in a park surrounded by tourists. I have had a very fleeting look at a platypus - fairly rare - an extraordinary creature indeed. It seems so sad to me that many city children ever know what the bush has to offer. They have never sat on the edge of a granite gorge looking at a waterfall after rain. They have never smelled the ozonic air mixed with eucalypt that you find in the bush. I grew up in the country. After Winter I think I will go home again.
-
I love the Millay poem, too. And like her, I find myself wondering,'Where
is the doe?', and hoping that gangly small fawn is not on his own.
ROSHANA, you write a very poetic prose. I find I want to sit on the edge of that gorge, see that waterfall and smell that clear air. Do you still have a house out there...or family? I do hope
you get to go there come Spring.
-
Babi - Unfortunately I have neither house or family in Armidale, the place I described. My parents and my mother's first husband are both buried in the graveyard there. My mother's first husband contracted TB whilst they were living very poorly in Armidale, and died at the age of 34. I am glad they are close now, in death.
-
Perhaps such a lovely place has a bed-and-breakfast or a small inn? What I think I would enjoy
is somethng I've never done. Take a small sea voyage, and cruise. It's a shame, but year by
year the lists of 'possibles' on a bucket list gets shorter and shorter. :-\
-
Babi - I am sure I will find somewhere to lay my head. If I could take a "cruise" it would be along the Rhine in one of the long, low boats, or around the beautiful Greek islands. I haven't seen all of them yet!
-
A Dream
~ William Blake
Once a dream did weave a shade
O'er my angel-guarded bed,
That an emmet lost its way
Where on grass methought I lay.
Troubled, wildered, and forlorn,
Dark, benighted, travel-worn,
Over many a tangle spray,
All heart-broke, I heard her say:
'Oh my children! do they cry,
Do they hear their father sigh?
Now they look abroad to see,
Now return and weep for me.'
Pitying, I dropped a tear:
But I saw a glow-worm near,
Who replied, 'What wailing wight
Calls the watchman of the night?
'I am set to light the ground,
While the beetle goes his round:
Follow now the beetle's hum;
Little wanderer, hie thee home!'
-
Greek Island
by Mark Rickerby
Raven hair falling across the pillow.
Denim hanging over a wooden chair.
Half-written poems litter the table.
The village is dancing, everywhere.
This frenetic crossroads of the world,
bursting with life, is heaven to me.
So many people I haven't met yet!
So many places I've yet to see!
The wind is cool but the sun is rising.
Bikes are waiting, tickets to anywhere.
We'll ride this morning through the hills
then relax in the sand without a care.
Tropical oils are carried by ancient winds
as life-loving hedonists deepen their tans.
A girl weaves bright threads into your hair.
A radio plays melodies from faraway lands.
I dive from a cliff into the bright blue Aegean
and return to you, fresh as a newborn child.
We lie together on rocks 'til we're golden brown,
then rush back home to heed the call of the wild.
On the way, a smiling man sells us homemade red wine
as a spectacular sunset ends one more perfect day.
The yellow lights of the village flicker and twinkle
inviting everyone to come and eat, dance and play.
What else could we need in life? What else but this?
Reveling in all that it is to be human and young.
How many live lifetimes never knowing this feeling?
How many die with their sweetest songs unsung?
So come with me, now - not tomorrow or "someday".
Right now! Pack your bags. We're leaving tonight.
The wide world is throbbing outside our windows.
It's time to do EVERYTHING we said that we might!
-
Old man you offer me the gift
by John Alter
Old man you offer me the gift of
recurrence the way the wind through the
curtains brings with it tonight the fragrance
of kites as if in some library a
blind poet is moving the pages of
a beloved book that is you we watched
your eyes turn away from us at the end
of your days with us you were bored already
with that nonsense about a king and
a one-eyed man with all the nonsense of
moderation and sometimes only we
heard you speak to us from where you are now
-
Count your blessings, ROSE. I haven't seen any of them.
What a lovely fancy of Blake's...a glow-worm lighting the way home for lost
insect wanderers.
And this is a poignant line...How many die with their sweetest songs unsung?As is John Alter's poem. An especially rich feast this morning. Thank you, BARB.
-
Barb - Thanks for Blake - he is a true master of poesie and art.
I had seen that Greek poem before - it has a couple of lines that capture the magic of Greece perfectly. Thank you.
-
How many die with their sweetest songs unsung?
Yes.
-
The Truly Great
~ By Stephen Spender 1909–1995
I think continually of those who were truly great.
Who, from the womb, remembered the soul’s history
Through corridors of light, where the hours are suns,
Endless and singing. Whose lovely ambition
Was that their lips, still touched with fire,
Should tell of the Spirit, clothed from head to foot in song.
And who hoarded from the Spring branches
The desires falling across their bodies like blossoms.
What is precious, is never to forget
The essential delight of the blood drawn from ageless springs
Breaking through rocks in worlds before our earth.
Never to deny its pleasure in the morning simple light
Nor its grave evening demand for love.
Never to allow gradually the traffic to smother
With noise and fog, the flowering of the spirit.
Near the snow, near the sun, in the highest fields,
See how these names are fêted by the waving grass
And by the streamers of white cloud
And whispers of wind in the listening sky.
The names of those who in their lives fought for life,
Who wore at their hearts the fire’s centre.
Born of the sun, they travelled a short while toward the sun
And left the vivid air signed with their honour.
-
"I know that all beneath the moon decays"
~ By William Drummond of Hawthornden 1585–1649
I know that all beneath the moon decays,
And what by mortals in this world is brought,
In Time’s great periods shall return to nought;
That fairest states have fatal nights and days;
I know how all the Muse’s heavenly lays,
With toil of spright which are so dearly bought,
As idle sounds of few or none are sought,
And that nought lighter is than airy praise.
I know frail beauty like the purple flower,
To which one morn oft birth and death affords;
That love a jarring is of minds’ accords,
Where sense and will invassal reason’s power:
Know what I list, this all can not me move,
But that, O me! I both must write and love.
-
Hearke, Hearke, the Larke at Heauens Gate Sings
~ By William Shakespeare 1564–1616
Hearke, hearke, the Larke at Heauens gate sings,
and Phoebus gins arise,
His Steeds to water at those Springs
on chalic'd Flowres that lyes:
And winking Mary-buds begin to ope their Golden eyes
With euery thing that pretty is, my Lady sweet arise:
Arise, arise.
-
The Storm
~ by Theodore Roethke
1
Against the stone breakwater,
Only an ominous lapping,
While the wind whines overhead,
Coming down from the mountain,
Whistling between the arbors, the winding terraces;
A thin whine of wires, a rattling and flapping of leaves,
And the small street-lamp swinging and slamming against
the lamp pole.
Where have the people gone?
There is one light on the mountain.
2
Along the sea-wall, a steady sloshing of the swell,
The waves not yet high, but even,
Coming closer and closer upon each other;
A fine fume of rain driving in from the sea,
Riddling the sand, like a wide spray of buckshot,
The wind from the sea and the wind from the mountain contending,
Flicking the foam from the whitecaps straight upward into the darkness.
A time to go home!--
And a child's dirty shift billows upward out of an alley,
A cat runs from the wind as we do,
Between the whitening trees, up Santa Lucia,
Where the heavy door unlocks,
And our breath comes more easy--
Then a crack of thunder, and the black rain runs over us, over
The flat-roofed houses, coming down in gusts, beating
The walls, the slatted windows, driving
The last watcher indoors, moving the cardplayers closer
To their cards, their anisette.
3
We creep to our bed, and its straw mattress.
We wait; we listen.
The storm lulls off, then redoubles,
Bending the trees half-way down to the ground,
Shaking loose the last wizened oranges in the orchard,
Flattening the limber carnations.
A spider eases himself down from a swaying light-bulb,
Running over the coverlet, down under the iron bedstead.
Water roars into the cistern.
We lie closer on the gritty pillow,
Breathing heavily, hoping--
For the great last leap of the wave over the breakwater,
The flat boom on the beach of the towering sea-swell,
The sudden shudder as the jutting sea-cliff collapses,
And the hurricane drives the dead straw into the living pine-tree.
-
Tornado
~ May Williams Ward.
Leaves stood still, and our hearts stood still,
But the sky was a-boil with clouds,
A coppery wrack, and the greenish black
Of shrouds.
We dove for shelter and none too soon.
The universe swayed and swirled,
And the monstrous horn of a unicorn
Gored the world.
-
Barb - both of these poems are unfortunately apt. Natural disasters - GO AWAY! My thoughts are also with those poor people in Missouri.
-
With the major climate changes taking place, there's no telling what we may
have to deal with. It may take only a brief adjustment, but I suspect it's going
to be far more than that.
-
The Temporary The All
~ Thomas Hardy
CHANGE and chancefulness in my flowering youthtime,
Set me sun by sun near to one unchosen;
Wrought us fellowly, and despite divergence,
Friends interblent us.
'Cherish him can I while the true one forthcome-
Come the rich fulfiller of my prevision;
Life is roomy yet, and the odds unbounded.'
So self-communed I.
Thwart my wistful way did a damsel saunter,
Fair not fairest, good not best of her feather;
'Maiden meet,' held I, 'till arise my forefelt
Wonder of women.'
Long a visioned hermitage deep desiring,
Tenements uncouth I was fain to house in;
'Let such lodging be for a breath-while,' thought I,
'Soon a more seemly.
'Then, high handiwork will I make my life-deed,
Truth and Light outshow; but the ripe time pending,
Intermissive aim at the thing sufficeth.'
Thus I… But lo, me!
Mistress, friend, place, aims to be bettered straightway,
Bettered not has Fate or my hand's achieving
Sole the showance those of my onward earth-track-
Never transcended!
-
Ah Thomas, how I lovest thy poesy and thee.
"Thwart my wistful way did a damsel saunter,
Fair not fairest, good not best of her feather;
'Maiden meet,' held I, 'till arise my forefelt
Wonder of women.'"
-
Would you all like our Robert Frost in a whimsical vein?
The Objection to Being Stepped On
At the end of the row
I stepped on the toe
Of an unemployed hoe.
It rose in offence
And struck me a blow
In the seat of my sense.
It wasn't to blame
But I called it a name.
And I must say it dealt
Me a blow that I felt
Like malice prepense.
You may call me a fool
But was there a rule
The weapon should be
Turned into a tool?
And what do we see?
The first tool I step on
Turned into a weapon.
-
hehe oh how I love to come into this discussion - any day from the sublime to the silly - the Frost is a giggle and Hardy makes us all sound like frustrated Victorian school girls...but we would be lost without his silver tongued words. The Frost sent my mind in a whirl over trust - we are so easily annoyed or fooled or charmed when something or someone acts differently than we expect - we trust that this or that would be an expected show of their being -
How do we accumulate so many trusted views - do we do ourselves a disfavor having expectations - trust between people that is broken is so painful and yet, do we expect everyone has plighted their trust to carry out certain behavior -
Do we have expectations that are based in our views and sensibility but unknowing to us are really impractical for others and therefore, we create an expectation that we feel wounded if our trust in outcome is not as we expected...
I think of the Tao and that is a system of thinking that does not encourage trust in our expectations but rather it is a system dependant on our living in the now without expectations. Even the Christian Mystic and Doctor of the Church, St. John of the Cross speaks in his tome The Dark Night of the Soul that to have hope for something we can imagine or know is having memory - that hope is to have no expectation - However, trust and expectations are about trying to have a controlled view of unknown possibilities which does not include change to the laws of physics - is that it - are there laws so to speak like the laws of physics that we can apply to the behavior of mankind?
Yes, I know, free will - but is there really an infinite number of responses or behaviors or are there a finite number that could be cataloged now that we have computers that can shuffle more data than a human can in their lifetime. Yep, I've had my coffee - what can I say - my thoughts often take me down these paths especially when I read a poem...ah so... ::)
-
BARB, I really think we must have reasonable expectations for our daily lives,
don't you? How could we manage if we approached everything and everybody in
a state of apprehension, wondering what was going to happen next?! I don't
doubt at all that some of expectations are impractical and unrealistic. Ask
any newly married couple. So many things we expected from observing our own
parents, simply aren't going to happen with the spouse we married. I guess
it's all part of growing up and maturing.
Reading that definition of hope from St. John of the Cross, I find that I
can't really agree with it. But I do understand that he is saying we should
live without expecting anything; simply accepting what comes. I think the
kind of inner peace that permits that comes only with age, if at all.
An infinite number of behaviors and responses. No, probably not. But in
combination? We're not simple creatures, certainly. The combination of
emotions, behaviors, responses on multiple levels...that might possibly be
close to infinite. Especially in the female, who always responds on multiple
levels, anyway. ;)
See, you got me started and I don't even drink coffee!
-
Been a couple of days - getting our new Summer heading started and continuing the clearing out of this house is eating up days and days.
Spring Cleaning
by Susan Reiner
March bustles in on windy feet
And sweeps my doorstep and my street.
She washes and cleans with pounding rains,
Scrubbing the earth of winter stains.
She shakes the grime from carpet green
Till naught but fresh new blades are seen.
Then, house in order, all neat as a pin,
She ushers gentle springtime in.
-
From Waldon's Pond - Thoreau
As every season seems best to us in its turn, so the coming in of spring
is like the creation of Cosmos out of Chaos and the realization of the
Golden Age.--
"Eurus ad Auroram Nabathaeaque regna recessit,
Persidaque, et radiis juga subdita matutinis."
"The East-Wind withdrew to Aurora and the Nabathean kingdom,
And the Persian, and the ridges placed under the morning rays.
......
Man was born. Whether that Artificer of things,
The origin of a better world, made him from the divine seed;
Or the earth, being recent and lately sundered from the high
Ether, retained some seeds of cognate heaven."
A single gentle rain makes the grass many shades greener. So our
prospects brighten on the influx of better thoughts. We should be
blessed if we lived in the present always, and took advantage of every
accident that befell us, like the grass which confesses the influence
of the slightest dew that falls on it; and did not spend our time in
atoning for the neglect of past opportunities, which we call doing our
duty.
-
Memorial Day
As we stand here looking
At the flags upon these graves
Know these flags represent
A few of the true American brave
They fought for their Country
As man has through all of time
Except that these soldiers lying here
Fought for your country and mine
As we all are gathered here
To pay them our respect
Let's pass this word to others
It's what they would expect
I'm sure that they would do it
If it were me or you
To show we did not die in vein
But for the red, white and blue.
Let's pass on to our children
And to those who never knew
What these soldiers died for
It's the least we can do
Let's not forget their families
Great pain they had to bear
Losing a son, father or husband
They need to know we still care
No matter which war was fought
On the day that they died
I stand here looking at these flags
Filled with American pride.
So as the bugler plays out Taps
With its sweet and eerie sound
Pray for these soldiers lying here
In this sacred, hallowed ground.
Take home with you a sense of pride
You were here Memorial Day.
Celebrating the way Americans should
On this solemnest of days.
-
More from Waldon's Pond
Early in May, the oaks, hickories, maples, and other trees, just putting
out amidst the pine woods around the pond, imparted a brightness like
sunshine to the landscape, especially in cloudy days, as if the sun were
breaking through mists and shining faintly on the hillsides here and
there.
On the third or fourth of May I saw a loon in the pond, and
during the first week of the month I heard the whip-poor-will, the brown
thrasher, the veery, the wood pewee, the chewink, and other birds. I had
heard the wood thrush long before. The phoebe had already come once more
and looked in at my door and window, to see if my house was cavern-like
enough for her, sustaining herself on humming wings with clinched
talons, as if she held by the air, while she surveyed the premises.
The sulphur-like pollen of the pitch pine soon covered the pond and the
stones and rotten wood along the shore, so that you could have collected
a barrelful. This is the "sulphur showers" we bear of. Even in Calidas'
drama of Sacontala, we read of "rills dyed yellow with the golden dust
of the lotus." And so the seasons went rolling on into summer, as one
rambles into higher and higher grass.
Thus was my first year's life in the woods completed; and the second
year was similar to it. I finally left Walden September 6th, 1847.
-
" And so the seasons went rolling on into summer, as one
rambles into higher and higher grass."
-
I read Walden's Pond, but I'm sorry to say I didn't remember those quotes. I
guess one reading, ..and so long ago.. is simply not enough to absorb the
beauty. I do remember reading about the Spring appearance of the birds.
-
I stumbled on this Melville Poem that I have never read - like most Melville poems it is long so I will break it up into several posts - I was looking for something that had to do with the life and death of a fawn -
Drama in my backyard - about 3 weeks ago twin fawns were born as I watched the Mom during the second birth with the twin right next to her on its feet. She used the backyard like a pen, coming and going as they do to nurse and give the fawns a chance to run and play leaving usually within about a half hour when the fawns would settle down in a pile of oak leaves - perfect camouflage and why I do not rake and blow my leaves till sometime in July - rarely do the mother does settle down on the ground but as the fawns were growing older she did just that a few times and stayed each time for over an hour.
Four days ago she was acting strange - as if trying to eliminate with no success - squatting so that I thought she was trying to empty some of her milk when low and behold she had another fawn - well she would have nothing to do with this fawn - then a yearling from last year and a buck yearling were trying to intercept her as the new fawn on shaky legs tried to get to safety - the circling and chase was on after the yearling licked and licked the new fawn and tried to nurse it but of course she had no milk. The mother was so angry she got between and rolled and stomped the new fawn - they finally chased the mother away and the new fawn took refuge on the patio under the chase where the mother could not reach it - the mother would leave and hours later come back so that even the twin fawns were staying out of her way -
The chasing away of the mother went on for over a day and finally she came - nosed out the twins and took off with them trotting they down the side yard and around the corner - still later she was back and the new fawn was still hiding under the chase = I grew very worried last evening that it would make it - I noticed the yearling the young buck and another doe that appeared older were parked on my front lawn to intercept the mother.
I was all set in my mind to call a friend who I hoped knew the name of some guy who lives in the area and would take the fawn and nurse it feeding it with bottles etc. However, Alleluia - about 7:30 this morning before the traffic for the kids picking up their final report card on this last day of school there was that older doe that I saw last night in the back with the young fawn nursing - They are still back there - no real mother is sight - so they must have signaled her enough to go away -
Hate it that I do not see the twin fawns back there any longer but so relieved to see this new one taken care of - now if it was human, can you imagine the trauma to carry though life - I wonder if animals carry that kind of trauma and if I will notice behavioral differences a year from now with this fawn.
Next few posts is Melville's poem, The Nymph Complaining For The Death Of Her Fawn. that I understand was a poem about the politics of the day.
-
THE NYMPH COMPLAINING FOR THE
DEATH OF HER FAWN.
THE wanton troopers riding by
Have shot my fawn, and it will die.
Ungentle men ! they cannot thrive
Who killed thee. Thou ne'er didst alive
Them any harm, alas ! nor could
Thy death yet do them any good.
I'm sure I never wished them ill ;
Nor do I for all this, nor will :
But, if my simple prayers may yet
Prevail with Heaven to forget
Thy murder, I will join my tears,
Rather than fail. But, O my fears !
It cannot die so. Heaven's king
Keeps register of everything,
And nothing may we use in vain ;
Even beasts must be with justice slain,
Else men are made their deodands.
Though they should wash their guilty hands
In this warm life-blood which doth part
From thine, and wound me to the heart,
Yet could they not be clean ; their stain
Is dyed in such a purple grain.
There is not such another in
The world, to offer for their sin.
Unconstant SYLVIO, when yet
I had not found him counterfeit,
One morning (I remember well),
Tied in this silver chain and bell,
Gave it to me : nay, and I know
What he said then, I'm sure I do :
Said he, “ Look how your huntsman here
Hath taught a fawn to hunt his deer.”
But SYLVIO soon had me beguiled ;
This waxèd tame, while he grew wild,
And quite regardless of my smart,
Left me his fawn, but took his heart.
-
Thenceforth I set myself to play
My solitary time away,
With this ; and very well content,
Could so mine idle life have spent ;
For it was full of sport, and light
Of foot and heart, and did invite
Me to its game : it seemed to bless
Itself in me ; how could I less
Than love it ? O, I cannot be
Unkind to a beast that loveth me.
Had it lived long, I do not know
Whether it too might have done so
As SYLVIO did ; his gifts might be
Perhaps as false, or more, than he ;
But I am sure, for aught that I
Could in so short a time espy,
Thy love was far more better then
The love of false and cruel men.
With sweetest milk and sugar first
I it at mine own fingers nursed ;
And as it grew, so every day
It waxed more white and sweet than they.
It had so sweet a breath ! And oft
I blushed to see its foot more soft
And white, shall I say than my hand ?
Nay, any lady's of the land.
It is a wondrous thing how fleet
'Twas on those little silver feet ;
With what a pretty skipping grace
It oft would challenge me the race ;
And, when 't had left me far away,
'Twould stay, and run again, and stay ;
For it was nimbler much than hinds,
And trod as if on the four winds.
-
I have a garden of my own,
But so with roses overgrown,
And lilies, that you would it guess
To be a little wilderness ;
And all the spring-time of the year
It only lovèd to be there.
Among the beds of lilies I
Have sought it oft, where it should lie,
Yet could not, till itself would rise,
Find it, although before mine eyes ;
For, in the flaxen lilies' shade,
It like a bank of lilies laid.
Upon the roses it would feed,
Until its lips e'en seem to bleed
And then to me 'twould boldly trip,
And print those roses on my lip.
But all its chief delight was still
On roses thus itself to fill,
And its pure virgin limbs to fold
In whitest sheets of lilies cold :
Had it lived long, it would have been
Lilies without, roses within.
O help ! O help ! I see it faint
And die as calmly as a saint !
See how it weeps ! the tears do come
Sad, slowly, dropping like a gum.
So weeps the wounded balsam ; so
The holy frankincense doth flow ;
The brotherless Heliades
Melt in such amber tears as these.
I in a golden vial will
Keep these two crystal tears, and fill
It till it do o'erflow with mine,
Then place it in DIANA'Sshrine.
Now my sweet fawn is vanished to
Whither the swans and turtles go ;
In fair Elysium to endure,
With milk-like lambs, and ermines pure.
O do not run too fast : for I
Will but bespeak thy grave, and die.
First, my unhappy statue shall
Be cut in marble ; and withal
Let it be weeping too ; but there
The engraver sure his art may spare ;
For I so truly thee bemoan,
That I shall weep, though I be stone,
Until my tears, still dropping, wear
My breast, themselves engraving there ;
There at my feet shalt thou be laid,
Of purest alabaster made ;
For I would have thine image be
White as I can, though not as thee.
-
"The Nymph Complaining for the Death of Her Fawn" has two background allusions, the first to the classics: Virgil's Aeneid VII, in which the Trojans are brought to open war with the Latins when Aeneas' son, Ascanius, while hunting, slays a stag which he does not realize is the tame pet of Silvia, daughter of the warden of the king's game. The passage is from John Dryden.
The other allusive reference is the (female) soul's lament for the slain Innocent who was crucified by Man. In both instances, men are "wild" when they are untrue (see Sylvio's behavior, ll. 33-36) but the garden is another form of "wilderness" in which natural relations are properly observed. Her behavior can be compared with a medieval saint's worship, including the relics and reliquary she constructs to hold them.
This link has a nice analysis of the poem that shows its allusions to both the English Civil War and the Classic as well as Christian references. http://www.crossref-it.info/textguide/Metaphysical-Poetry/4/283
-
here is another lovely Thoreau
Low-Anchored Cloud [Mist]
Low-anchored cloud,
Newfoundland air,
Fountain-head and source of rivers,
Dew-cloth, dream-drapery,
And napkin spread by fays;
Drifting meadow of the air,
Where bloom the daisied banks and violets,
And in whose fenny labyrinth
The bittern booms and heron wades;
Spirit of lakes and seas and rivers,
Bear only perfumes and the scent
Of healing herbs to just men's fields!
-
June
O MONTH whose promise and fulfilment blend,
And burst in one! it seems the earth can store
In all her roomy house no treasure more;
Of all her wealth no farthing have to spend
On fruit, when once this stintless flowering end.
And yet no tiniest flower shall fall before
It hath made ready at its hidden core
Its tithe of seed, which we may count and tend
Till harvest. Joy of blossomed love, for thee
Seems it no fairer thing can yet have birth?
No room is left for deeper ecstacy?
Watch well if seeds grow strong, to scatter free
Germs for thy future summers on the earth.
A joy which is but joy soon comes to dearth.
Helen Hunt Jackson
-
June
THE empress of the year, the meadows' queen,
Back from the East, with all her goodly train,
Is come, to glorify the world again
With length of light and middle Summer-Sheen.
In every plot, upon her throne of green,
Bright blooms the rose; with birds and blossom-rain
And perfume ecstacied are wood and plain
And Winter is as if it ne'er had been.
Oh June, liege-lady of the flowering prime,
Now that thrush, finch, lark, linnet, ousel, wren
Thy praises pipe, to the Iranian bard
How shall we harken, who, the highwaymen
Autumn and Winter, warns us, follow hard
On thy fair feet and bide their baleful time?
John Payne
-
SONG
I WENT down the ways of the roses this noon,
The birds were in tune with the infinite skies,
And all my heart sang, "It is June, it is June,"
And all my soul teemed with the lovely sur-prise,
As I went down the ways of the roses this noon.
And into my garden the shades bade them come,
The wayfaring dreams that came forth of the sun:
"Come, rest," said the roses, "ere further ye roam;"
"Be my guests" said my heart, "till the day it be done,"
As into my garden the shades bade them come.
O long the dreams tarried within that sweet place,
And unto my heart and the roses they told,
How on their long travel they met with a face
All clouded with hair of the sun's fairest gold --
And my heart and the roses sighed in the sweet place.
William Stanley Braithwaite
-
BY AN INLAND LAKE
LONG drawn, the cool, green shadows
Steal o'er the lake's warm breast,
And the ancient silence follows
The burning sun to rest.
The calm of a thousand summers,
And dreams of countless Junes,
Return when the lake-wind murmurs
Thro' golden, August noons.
William Stanley Braithwaite
-
(http://seniorlearn.org/bookclubs/poetry/springpoetry.jpg)
| Join Us! For a Summer of PoetryFlowers~ Jessi Lane Adams
Have you ever seen a flower down
Sometimes angels skip around
And in their blissful state of glee
Bump into a daisy or sweet pea.
- Famous Poets and Poems about Summer (http://famouspoetsandpoems.com/thematic_poems/summer_poems.html)
- Link to: Summer Poems (http://poetry.about.com/od/ourpoemcollections/a/summerpoems.htm)
~~~ Discussion Leaders: Barb (augere@ix.netcom.com) & Fairanna (fairanna@cox.net) |
-
Oh, my, I am stuffed, sated. I couldn't read another word.
I love the picture you found for the summer heading, BARB. It's beautiful.
-
I've tried to read here, but I'm afraid I've temporarily lost the ability to focus and concentrate.
My virus came back with a vengeance, or perhaps it's a whole new version. Everything is too much effort, so I just go back to bed :'(
-
ahhh I am sorry Octavia - no fun being down - but sometimes a bed is just the comfort we need - too bad we have to be sick to take to our bed.
Lots of posts needed to start the new season Babi - glad you had your fill
-
Here's a bit by Robert Louis Stevenson..
St. Martin's Summer by Robert Louis Stevenson
AS swallows turning backward
When half-way o'er the sea,
At one word's trumpet summons
They came again to me -
The hopes I had forgotten
Came back again to me.
I know not which to credit,
O lady of my heart!
Your eyes that bade me linger,
Your words that bade us part -
I know not which to credit,
My reason or my heart.
But be my hopes rewarded,
Or be they but in vain,
I have dreamed a golden vision,
I have gathered in the grain -
I have dreamed a golden vision,
I have not lived in vain.
-
Babi thanks - this one I will visit a few times today if only to read aloud
They came again to me -
The hopes I had forgotten
Came back again to me.
-
BABI: YES.
-
Barb - That picture is so beautiful, as is the poem. Sweet Peas are one of my favourites. They grew in my home town, my mother had lots, but they don't like the sub tropics.
Octavia - How awful that you have the dreaded virus. I don't know if you live alone, but being alone with no one to take care of you, even if it is just for a comforting word or cup of tea, is not good at all. I have the cat, and she is so soft and warm, and that helps. Please get well soon.
A sweet william, sweet pea poem I liked:
Sweet Pea, Sweet William
-Henry Powderly
Sweet William
at home in a hole
dug by dirty fingers
in earth forked loose
and cleared of roots and rocks
twists its mane of pink and red
in breezes
with the other garden blooms.
Proud flower,
watered by underground pipes
by spouts and hoses
drinks under sunlight
and drops, from its scented sunburst,
pearls of water
on dark soil,
on sour mulch,
on Miracle Grow,
for a season.
…
Sweet pea, dragon faced
big-nosed and veined,
quenched in thunderstorms,
climbs a sapling that
rises from a rotting stump.
Shy weed-blossom,
having wrestled with thorny twigs
and strangling weeds,
thumbs its purple beak to the
spring sun, and summer sun,
to the mud of wet June,
to the split soil of August drought,
and fans the fall breeze
that sways the ghost of Sweet William
-
Ah, sweetpeas and sweet william. What lovely old flowers those are. I rarely see them anymore.
Here, we start out the spring with redbuds, then mimosas. And then, all summer long, the
glorious crepe myrtles and the azaleas. Every once in a while you just have to stop and acknowledge, "Great work, GOD!!"
-
:D
-
Yes, the color and glory of it all - hard to imagine living where you have to spend time in a park to see nature in its finery -
Well here is another view of humanity and our losses as our spirits is likened to the very examples of nature we admire.
CORONACH
by: Sir Walter Scott (1771-1832)
E is gone on the mountain,
He is lost to the forest,
Like a summer-dried fountain,
When our need was the sorest.
The font reappearing
From the raindrops shall borrow;
But to us comes no cheering,
To Duncan no morrow!
The hand of the reaper
Takes the ears that are hoary,
But the voice of the weeper
Wails manhood in glory.
The autumn winds rushing
Waft the leaves that are searest,
But our flower was in flushing
When blighting was nearest.
Fleet foot on the correi,
Sage counsel in cumber,
Red hand in the foray,
How sound is thy slumber!
Like the dew on the mountain,
Like the foam on the river,
Like the bubble on the fountain,
Thou art gone--and for ever!
-
that's a poignant poem, Barbara."to us comes no cheering, to Duncan no morrow." We should never take our life for granted.
Here is a sad poem about our aboriginals fate, by Dame Mary Gilmore.
The Waradgery Tribe
Harried we were, and spent,
broken and falling,
ere as the cranes we went,
crying and calling.
Summer shall see the bird
backward returning;
never shall there be heard
those, who went yearning.
Emptied of us the land;
ghostly our going;
fallen like spears the hand
dropped in the throwing.
We are the lost who went,
like the cranes, crying;
hunted, lonely and spent
broken and dying.
-
It is always sad to hear of the permanent loss of an entire people.
It is something irreplaceable, and who knows how much we may have lost
with them.
-
Octavia - The poem says it all. I suspect Gilmore would have been delighted to witness the Nukkan Ya Ruby concert.
About a week ago on TV I stayed up to watch a documentary of a concert by famed Aboriginal singers. Three of my favourites were there: Ruby Hunter, Archie Roach and Dan Sultan. They all have extraordinary talent. Nukkan Ya Ruby. Vale Ruby, 2010.
-
Roshanarose, I was very surprised to see this poem here ??? I tried to post it last night, but the internet seemed paralysed, so I gave up. I thought that meant it was lost in the ether.
I have a little anecdote about Mary Gilmore. One lunchtime, I was near a pie shop and decided to ignore my cholesterol for once and have a sausage roll.The shop was full of working men, all fluorescent strips and lace up boots.
One young bloke was waving his $10 note around and proclaiming that nobody knew who these old fogey's were on our banknotes. "Who the b****Y heck is Mary Gilmore?"
I'm pretty shy but I thought someone had to stick up for Mary, so I told him she was a famous poet and activist for the Worker's Union. She was one of the Australians who went to Paraguay to start a new colony where everyone would have equal rights. Unsuccessfully, of course.
He took it very well, and thanked me for explaining :). I thought he might have said, mind your own business!
-
I don't want to turn anyone off with too much sadness, but I'd just like to add Henry Kendall's The Last Of His Tribe, because it has a lovely, albeit melancholy rhythm. Haunting, I think.
The Last of His Tribe
He crouches, and buries his face on his knees,
And hides in the dark of his hair;
For he cannot look up to the storm-smitten trees,
Or think of the loneliness there --
Of the loss and the loneliness there.
The wallaroos grope through the tufts of the grass,
And turn to their coverts for fear;
But he sits in the ashes and lets them pass
Where the boomerangs sleep with the spear --
With the nullah, the sling and the spear.
Uloola, behold him! The thunder that breaks
On the tops of the rocks with the rain,
And the wind which drives up with the salt of the lakes,
Have made him a hunter again --
A hunter and fisher again.
For his eyes have been full with a smouldering thought;
But he dreams of the hunts of yore,
And of foes that he sought, and of fights that he fought
With those who will battle no more --
Who will go to the battle no more.
It is well that the water which tumbles and fills,
Goes moaning and moaning along;
For an echo rolls out from the sides of the hills,
And he starts at a wonderful song --
At the sound of a wonderful song.
And he sees, through the rents of the scattering fogs,
The corroboree warlike and grim,
And the lubra who sat by the fire on the logs,
To watch, like a mourner, for him --
Like a mother and mourner for him.
Will he go in his sleep from these desolate lands,
Like a chief, to the rest of his race,
With the honey-voiced woman who beckons and stands,
And gleams like a dream in his face --
Like a marvellous dream in his face?
-
Octavia - enjoyed reading The Last of his Tribe - haven't seen it for years...
I like Kendall - something about the rhythms I think...
Love the story about the guy waving the note around. Good for you for responding to him - he was asking - you knew - a happy arrangment. A friend of ours wrote a small pamphlet about the Australian banknotes and the people depicted on them - I have a couple of copies somewhere - it was just a limited run though he's done a few reprints since as it is very popular and raises a small amount of funding for a seniors learning centre here. Fascinating about the poems like Man from Snowy River being on the notes in microdots - trouble is the guy runs a quiz at the centre sometimes and occasionally drops in a question such as, - who is on the front of the XX note or who is on the reverse of the XXX note. In the heat of battle it's sometimes hard to keep them all straight.
Hi Barbara and Babi - so many wonderful poems and so much emotion conveyed - thank you
-
Shucks, OCTAVIA, he did ask!! I am pleased he was gracious enough to
thank you.
"The Last of His Tribe" is a beautiful poem. I do want to know what the
corroboree is, and the lubra.
-
I have alot of catching up to do with Poetry. You all amaze me with the breadth of your interests and the scope of your resources, finding so many gems.
Today is my trip to Emily Dickinson's house in Amherst; ;my companion is a friend and former professor of English. The house has been spruced up, and hopefully the gardens, too. In prep, I got out my Dickinson book, "Final Harvest", supposedly a complete collection. Just for a change, I started at the end, to see what I might have missed, and found this:
If all the griefs I am to have
Would come to me today,
I am so happy I believe
They'd laugh and run away.
If all the joys I am to have
Would come to me today
They could not be so big as this
That happens to me now.
Pretty cheerful for a phase when she was preoccupied with Death.
But how come she didn't rhyme the last verse? Does it add or detract?
She could have easily done so; she knew more words than Webster
s Dictionary, and wasn't afraid to use them. One more Emily mystery.
Will report back after trip. If timepermits, the Amherst Cinema is showing "Louder than a Bomb"< a documentary covering the citywide poetry slam of Chicago high schools. If not today, I intend to see it soon!
-
Babi he did ask,but it was a rhetorical question! He was having a good old whinge.
A corroboree is an aboriginal dance, sometimes sacred with no outsiders allowed to watch, or just for entertainment. They paint their bodies with ochre and act out events, such as a kangaroo hunt with mime and song. Wonderful to watch, they are incredible mimics.
A lubra is an aboriginal girl or woman. It's not used much nowadays, perhaps it's regarded as racist.
-
Aboriginal tribes have what is called "Secret Men's Business" and "Secret Women's Business" and there is etiquette involved as well. Nicole Kidman unwittingly breached that etiquette by attempting to play the didgeridoo on TV. Women are forbidden to play the didgeridoo, it is "Secret Men's Business".
I have had the experience of whistling when some men from certain countries in Africa were around. Whistling to them is most definitely "Secret Men's Business". I think in Australia one of our cultural (or rather feminist) taboos has been broken too. Now men are allowed to watch their wives/partners giving birth. They were forbidden to go near the delivery room once.
-
Thanks, OCTAVIA. I had the impression lubra referred to a woman. For some reason the
word made me think of a sad or crying woman.
I can still remember those occasions when families/friends gathered here in Texas. The men
gathered in one place and talked while the women gathered in another place to talk. It was
taken for granted that the women would not be interested in the men's subjects and the men
certainly were not interested in the women's topics. I once, as a young woman, found the women's topics boring and went to listen on the men's topics. When I interjected a comment,
I was stared at by a group of bewildered men's faces, reacting as though a doorpost had spoken!
-
Amherst, MA
June 7, 2011
All is well at the Homestead and the Evergreens, Emily's family home and that of her brother and his wife next door. Her little desk in her bedroom and her writing instruments still there, but the White Dress is out for preservation techniques and replaced by a replica. The gardens are better and we came across two young womenstudents of Amherst College whose work study job for the summer was weeding and watering. They are not big fans of Emily, but like the job because they could plug in their music ipods while they worked. They were weeding away and doing a good job.
"Louder Than a Bomb"
oh, what can I say? this is a poetry contest that is based on teams and requires all participants to develop relationships of trust and support as they work on their poems individually and collectively. To most of these inner city kids, this is an unknown concept in an academic setting. Their poems are raw, powerful, shaped by the lives they lead. the competition is exhilarating and sometimes heartbreaking, I think because the reveal, in their poems, so much of them selves that they have tried to hide from people. Since the poem recitals resembles a rappin' contest in ambiance, this is not for everbody. It changed my mind about rap. And I have to confess, i loved the music in the background! Go see it, I double dare you!
-
Babi - ..."like a doorpost had spoken". I love that comparison. I do what you do also, but I tend to persuade a couple of other ladies to join me.
My little wildlife story - Yesterday morning when I went to the shops, I saw a rather large kookaburra regarding me intently from my neighbour's letter box. This morning I got up and looked out my window and the kookaburra was now sitting on my letterbox. They are such an imposing bird. He/she was all fluffed up. They have beautiful colouring imho. Not bright colours, like some of our parrots. But with a soft off-white breast and light to dark brown markings, a lovely effect. See pix in link below.
birdsinbackyards.net/species/Dacelo-novaeguineae
I chose this particular poem because the poet concentrates on colour.
Oh Kookaburra
Oh fluffy cuddly-looking bird against the sunny ceiling,
content in trees you brave the breeze in heights that'd have me wheeling.
As if a branch you camouflage a feathered grain of timber
until you lift and spread aloft your thin weight light and limber.
Your colors blend in whipping winds with stick and bough and leafage
until departure frees your clasp from off your swinging brief edge.
The black of under drooping umber rich in verdant green,
taunts brush and earthy pigment to paint your parlor scene.
And you oh fluffy cuddly-looking bird in tawns and 'keens,
what a painter couldn't do to make you any artist's dream!
I wonder now why you were made of cotton, down, and fur;
to tease the bone of human flesh, entice the heart with lure;
to put a fondness and a pine to hold and fondle you
with all your thick and plush disguise, caress your brown and blue?
Stand firm, fly far; look hard upon the dirt
and be that soft yet rigid thing who knows no disconcert.
If only you would stay so still just long enough for me
to hold your trembling grasping claws and embrace your shaky knee.
Cathe Ferguson
-
http://birdsinbackyards.net/species/Dacelo-novaeguineae
I had to copy and paste to get to your kookaburra, ROSAHANA, but it was worth it. The poem
is right on.. I longed to hold and caress that fluffly little thing. I put the link in here as well;
maybe it will transfer properly this time.
Emily Dickinson wrote several bird poems. Here's her Hummingbird.
THE HUMMING-BIRD - A route of evanescence
BY
Emily Dickinson
A route of evanescence
With a revolving wheel;
A resonance of emerald,
A rush of cochineal;
And every blossom on the bush
Adjusts its tumbled head, --
The mail from Tunis, probably,
An easy morning's ride.
-
Love The hummingbird, Babi! "A rush of cochineal", that's such a striking line, and so unique.
Roshanrose, I've not long been feeding 3 kookaburras and I don't think Cathe Ferguson would want to cuddle one if she got very close to it. From a few centimetresaway there's nothing more intimidating than those sharp eyes and incredible beak.
There's something very sexist about them too, but it's a bit hazy. Making a daughter bring up the babies, or something?
Where's Barbara? Have I missed her going away?
-
Octavia - I agree that that head is quite awesome, even out of proportion. But they look so sweet when they are fluffed up. I am having a warm and fuzzy morning this am. Is it cold in Rocky? Bloody cold here? What about Perth, Gum? Coldest Brisbane has been for 10 years. I am determined not to turn the heater on. I was brought up in Armidale, NSW, where it really IS cold. I would privately scorned people from Brisbane who rushed to their heaters at the first sign of "coolness". My knees and thighs are telling me to rethink that notion and go and buy myself one of those heated throws.
Babi - Thanks for fixing that link. I am not always very successful with links. Dickinson always seems to get it right. A poet of genius.
Yes. Where is Barb?
-
Roshanarose: Yes it IS cold in Perth - down to about 3 or 4 regularly overnight and doesn't often make 20 in the daytime - no rain about either.
Loved the Kookaburra site - really good photos. Strange that I don't think of them as cuddly at all - they're such strong looking birds and that beak could really do some damage. - They use my backyard as a training field for the fledglings -They sit on my fence or clothesline waiting for me to turn a sod so they can pounce on the lizards and worms - great to watch. They are also the hardest bird to draw or paint - I've never had any result I liked and can't say I've seen any depiction that really captures the intrinsic nature of the bird.
Babi: 'Lubra' can be any kind of woman - it's very often accompanied by words such as - young, lissome, nubile etc. - but sad and crying - even old are equally valid.
-
Yes, it's cold in Rocky! The words brass monkey come to mind :)
On saying that, I know that our 17degrees would be scoffed at in Ipswich or Toowoomba, but they're prepared. I don't own winter clothes, because they're so rarely needed.
-
I loved the kookaberra page too. But you can't just look at one, you have to HEAR one (this site, PunkClown, is the best I've found for Australian bird calls, maybe because the name is easy to remember. If you want something pretty, listen to the Bell bird)).
http://home.iprimus.com.au/punkclown/Punkclown/Kooka.htm (http://home.iprimus.com.au/punkclown/Punkclown/Kooka.htm)
-
"and softer than slumber, and sweeter than singing,
the notes of the bellbirds are running and ringing."
Henry Kendall.
-
Octavia: You took the words right out of my mouth!
-
ROSHANA, on my computer the links automatically are clickable when the transfer is
made from 'Reply' to the Post. I was puzzled as to why yours didn't. I don't think it
would be anything you did. Marcie would probably be able to explain it.
And here I thought of Australia as largely hot wilderness type country. Must be the
books I've read, though logically it is much closer to Antarctica down there.
-
Babi - Many overseas travellers are surprised at the diversity of Australia's temperatures. I often am myself!. I you wanted to simplify the general trend of how hot it is, you could take as a general idea that the further west inland you went, the hotter it got. The east coast of Australia's temperatures may vary, but in general they are much milder than inland. So, using that reasoning, we could say that the Western side of Australia, where Gum lives, is the hottest. This is not always the case, because Perth is relatively close to the Atlantic. So if you think of Australia as having it's East Coast on the Pacific Ocean and it's West Coast on the Atlantic Ocean you should get some idea.
If you look on the climate map I have found at National Geographic (link below), you will see how the map turns from green to red the further west you go. The Red Centre really is red, and in general you can expect it to be hot there as well. Queensland is not red on the map, it is a bit of both red and green. Green along the east cost and red further west. Queensland is hotter than the southern states and ranges from Sub Tropical to Tropical. Octavia lives in Rockhampton, close to the Queensland coast, but north, so she lives in an area that is more tropical than I live. I live in Brisbane which you will see is southern Queensland, about an hour from the east coast, and is regarded as sub-tropical.
It used to snow where I grew up in New South Wales in Armidale, which you can also see on the map. Mainly because it is high country and part of the Great Dividing Range which runs the length of the East Coast, Armidale gets very cold. Canberra, which is further south than Armidale is extremely cold during the winter, they locals say the winds come straight off the Antarctic and I agree with them having spent some time there. There is a lot more to explain to you, but I am no expert. The internet will help. I will ask Gum to describe her neck of the woods for you.
When you look at the map click on 2D, Aerial and labels, and use the zoom buttons for states and then towns.
travel.nationalgeographic.com/travel/countries/australia-map
-
I found the site, but didn't find the map with the red-green temp. indicators. Still, I get the idea.
The Gulf Coast of Texas would, I think , be considered sub-tropical. But tropical to winds off the
Antarctic...that must be about as wide a range as one can get.
I don't know this poet, Archibald Lampman. He is Canadian, and by our standards his 'heat' is likely pretty mild. The poem is long, but I really like it.
Heat
From plains that reel to southward, dim,
The road runs by me white and bare;
Up the steep hill it seems to swim
Beyond, and melt into the glare.
Upward half-way, or it may be
Nearer the summit, slowly steals
A hay-cart, moving dustily
With idly clacking wheels.
By his cart's side the wagoner
Is slouching slowly at his ease,
Half-hidden in the windless blur
Of white dust puffiing to his knees.
This wagon on the height above,
From sky to sky on either hand,
Is the sole thing that seems to move
In all the heat-held land.
Beyond me in the fields the sun
Soaks in the grass and hath his will;
I count the marguerites one by one;
Even the buttercups are still.
On the brook yonder not a breath
Disturbs the spider or the midge.
The water-bugs draw close beneath
The cool gloom of the bridge.
Where the far elm-tree shadows flood
Dark patches in the burning grass,
The cows, each with her peaceful cud,
Lie waiting for the heat to pass.
From somewhere on the slope near by
Into the pale depth of the noon
A wandering thrush slides leisurely
His thin revolving tune.
In intervals of dreams I hear
The cricket from the droughty ground;
The grasshoppers spin into mine ear
A small innumerable sound.
I lift mine eyes sometimes to gaze:
The burning sky-line blinds my sight:
The woods far off are blue with haze:
The hills are drenched in light.
And yet to me not this or that
Is always sharp or always sweet;
In the sloped shadow of my hat
I lean at rest, and drain the heat;
Nay more, I think some blessèd power
Hath brought me wandering idly here:
In the full furnace of this hour
My thoughts grow keen and clear.
-
This is not always the case, because Perth is relatively close to the Atlantic. So if you think of Australia as having it's East Coast on the Pacific Ocean and it's West Coast on the Atlantic Ocean you should get some idea.
Roshanarose: I think you've just had a 'senior' moment - never heard of Perth being anywhere near the Atlantic - not even 'relatively'. The West's coastline is on the Indian Ocean. ;D ;D
Babi We have almost as many diverse climate types across the country as does US - except we're not big on snow. Perth climate is almost perfect - occasionally during winter - June July - we get cold air coming up from Antarctica so temperatures can really drop - but not for long. During peak of summer - -Feb - March - it really gets hot. The rest of the time it's great - only real problem is lack of rain.
-
Oh Gosh Gum - My senior moments are running into senior days. My only excuse is that I am reading a lot about Atlantis. Silly Caro.
I also forgot to tell Babi that I love that poem.
I wonder where Barb is?
-
Roshanarose: I'm still ;D
Yes, I'm wondering about Barbara - did she say she was going away or anything... maybe her sister needs her at present ? Her last post here was on the 6th but she didn't mention anything about being away - it's worrying...
-
I'll ask about Barb on the DL site. Maybe they've heard something.
-
Gum - Cheeky girl - I bet you won't let me live that one down. There aren't that many oceans, you know. They are easily confused etc etc etc.
-
(http://seniorlearn.org/bookclubs/poetry/springpoetry.jpg)
| Join Us! For a Summer of PoetryFlowers~ Jessi Lane Adams
Have you ever seen a flower down
Sometimes angels skip around
And in their blissful state of glee
Bump into a daisy or sweet pea.
- Famous Poets and Poems about Summer (http://famouspoetsandpoems.com/thematic_poems/summer_poems.html)
- Link to: Summer Poems (http://poetry.about.com/od/ourpoemcollections/a/summerpoems.htm)
~~~ Discussion Leaders: Barb (augere@ix.netcom.com) & Fairanna (fairanna@cox.net) |
One of the DL's was able to tell me that Barb had family matters to attend to, and expects to be back soon. Meanwhile, I'm sure she will
appreciate everyone 'holding the fort'.
-
Babi - Whew! thanks for that info on Barb. Such a relief to know she is OK.
Here's one about Aussie summer which seems a long way away right now as we're in the midst of winter - and it's cold...b'rrr
Summer in the Country
Summer in the country
was brushing away
flies from your face
and wiping sweat from your eyes—
watching grasses and grains
shimmer in paddocks
or sheep and cattle
grazing beyond a windbreak of pines.
Galahs clanged over the homestead.
A windmill turned
when a breeze sprung up.
Cockatoos screeched from the pepper tree.
Only crows frightened me
with their sorrowful cries
and the way they flew slowly
like black crosses.
The old slab-split shed
was a treasure-trove
of harnesses, bridles, farm
machinery, forty-four-gallon drums—
its walls covered
with cobwebs that housed
unimaginable spiders
but where it was cool inside.
I didn’t miss Europe
like my parents did—
nor a Christmas without snow
I’d hear them talking about.
Summer in the country
was being given a glass of cold lemonade
and falling asleep
under a red-gum’s shade.– Peter Skrzynecki
Peter Skrzynecki is an Aussie poet and teacher - is of Polish and Ukrainian extraction - His family emigrated after WWII. He has won many awards for his poetry and taught literature -English studies, American and Australian literature. I believe he has also received the Order of Australia for services to literature...
-
Well I sure missed all of you and you had the best exchange about all things Australian - Babi thank you so much for keeping Texas alive and well in Poetry -
Yes, how easy it is to do exactly what my sister did - no communications and the alarm bells ring - got back yesterday and after a night's sleep I had time to digest what happened and see it for what it was. My sister had Cancer surgery a few weeks back - I guess a month ago or just a bit more - in itself was bad enough but she had a triple bypass last summer so the combo left her really unable to care for herself with a long recovery projected and I could not stay any longer - my other younger sister was only able to stay a few days and so Kate went to a care facility - well she decided enough was enough - put her stuff in a pile to be retrieved later and left - believing that any outstanding bill she would take care of when she got home - I get an emergency call she is gone - arrive the next day at her home and she is not there - worry is now causing a mess added to by hearing the care facilities panic - I am sure they are worried about a law suite and worrying that someone has wondered off that they were supposed to be responsible for their where abouts - with my own worry I was ripe to add their's to my pile.
Long story short - call the police or not - family knew someone who was a retired detective - seems Kate - a very independent, typical Northeast academic with 2 doctorate degrees, Emeritus Dean of the Philosophy department - example, this past October she was invited by UNCEF at their expense to attend and speak at a conference of Women Philosophers in Paris - so she is a very accomplished women who has taken care of herself on her terms for 30 years ever since she left the convent.
On her way home with limited funds in her wallet she grew too tired - stayed at a homeless shelter for two nights - sitting in the nearby park for a full day since the shelter does not allow folks to live there but only stay at night - and so when she arrived home she was confused by all the fuss - and a bit annoyed to put it mildly - so we set her up with all the help she needed which included getting her dog home and someone who would come in to feed water and walk the dog.
I was not only emotionally wrung out but I found the regional differences in how people act very hard to deal with - oh I am sure everyone was nice but we all have our idea of what nice should look like - then while finishing up I get word from my younger sister that she just came back from all this testing and she also has Cancer - not something though that she cannot take care of with a regime of drug therapy and so an overnight stop to visit her and talk sitting on her back porch and later kitchen table.
All and all I now have a new appreciation for the boomer generation who I thought were all crying in their beer about having to take care of their parents - I understand from both sides now how the older generation feels quite capable of doing on their terms without thinking they should alert others to their movements and the younger generation not only worries if there is a change in the schedule but any outside paid assistance goes into panic mode which heightens and all the boogie men that could be lurking are lined up to consider - and then I now see why the younger generation cannot give days and days over to making things happen in a different city especially if there is a difference in how folks react in life - they would find it easier if the older generation just moved nearby to cut that frustration down as well as less traveling time. And all the older generation sees is a loss of their lifestyle and independence, feeling punished just because they are either old or ill and old. Oh dear.
Well in the future I am not going to rush to judgment or to the ticket counter at the airport - both my sisters are capable, smart and if THEY need help they will let me know - maybe it took all this just for us to have an understanding of what is appropriate given my mother raised us as such an independent lot. In many ways I was the mother, especially to my youngest sister who frankly for years and years that I did not know till I was in my early 60s she really thought I was her secret mother and was devastated when I went off after I married and didn't take her with me - she was all of 4 years old at the time. And my older sister is two and half years younger so that as children I was her guide - as children we fought like crazy but my instinct has always been to watch over both my sisters.
-
FUNNY POEM ABOUT A MISUNDERSTANDING OF PERCEPTION
~ © Eva Maria Franchi
Hurry up, you are late!
Put on your clothes,
don't forget wallet, keys and glasses
Run fast, catch the tube
I've made it!
So I can relax
What a wonderful vision now I can see
Space beauty! Your dress is continuosly changing colour
Your hair are an incredible sparkle of light
but now you have disappeared...
I can't believe it!
Now you sit in front of me
What's that coloured contour around your body?
I see you aura!
Amazing! You open me new frontiers
but now you've disappeared...
You are the baby of my life
I've always dreamt of you
but every time I look at you,
you never seem the same
I wonder why
Oh my God! Now I realize...
the glasses I'm wearing are not mine
-
My God Barb, what an ordeal you've been through! I hope you spoil yourself now, and rest and recover.Be selfish, sometimes it's a necessity.
I'm a baby boomer, and my sister and I have had something like your problem. How do you convince someone that they're not coping, that something has to give, and that your family needs you too.
I hope when the time comes that I can't manage alone, I'll bite the bullet and do what's best for me and my crew.
I enjoyed the Perception poem. Luckily as a myopic person my eyesight actually improved to some extent as I got older. I just took my glasses off and looked around.I can see details over the road, and read writing on TV.There's got to be some compensation for all my other ills :).
Gumtree, you've just described my childhood.
-
This poem by Andrew Greig is different but I find it touching.
But what can we say of what happens when we close our eyes? What is the true scale of that space? How large its perimeter, how small its centre? How measureless a world the failing and the blind must inhabit! I reel, astounded.
François Aussemain
Pinhead
Close your eyes.
What’s left is practically
the shape and size of the head
of a pin.
Gleaming, round, smooth, it resembles nothing
so much as a highly-charged dance floor
for atoms done up to the nines
where you chassis ecstatically (as you seldom did in life)
with your beloved in your arms.
You turn with your mother in your arms.
You are spinning with your father in your arms.
Every love you’ve ever known, however brief or shaming,
long-gone grandparents, teachers, friends, even the odd family dog
is clasped in your arms as you take a turn round the floor
to quickstep, waltz, the Shimmy and the Hippy Hippy Shake,
while the indefatigable band plays over
the rhythm of your pulse.
All this turns
on something the size of the head of a pin
and it is stuck
alongside a myriad of others
in the dark pincushion of interstellar space
which is kept in a corner of the sewing box
of something so vast and forgetful
it seldom remembers to sew
like your Mother who sits all morning
looking out the window at the passing show,
a few buttons short
on the cardigan she has had so long
she has no idea where it came from,
or when she last looked inside
that sewing box in the corner.
She remembers this much: in the War,
people died, and they all loved to dance
and lived when they could, from the heart.
© 2008, Andrew Greig
-
Barb - We are so happy to have you back. Life is just one big adventure, good or bad, they say.
Gum - Loved those black crosses in the sky.
Octavia - Quirky and sad. I liked it.
I am just going to add the lyrics of a song by one of my favourite singers, Elvis Costello. It is called "Veronica".
Is it all in that pretty little head of yours?
What goes on in that place in the dark?
Well I used to know a girl and I would have
sworn that her name was Veronica
Well she used to have a carefree mind of her
own and a delicate look in her eye
These days I'm afraid she's not even sure if her
name is Veronica
Chorus:
Do you suppose, that waiting hands on eyes,
Veronica has gone to hide?
And all the time she laughs at those who shout
her name and steal her clothes
Veronica
Veronica
Did the days drag by? Did the favours wane?
Did he roam down the town all the time?
Will you wake from your dream, with a wolf at
the door, reaching out for Veronica
Well it was all of sixty-five years ago
When the world was the street where she lived
And a young man sailed on a ship in the sea
With a picture of Veronica
On the "Empress of India"
And as she closed her eyes upon the world and
picked upon the bones of last week's news
She spoke his name outloud again
Chorus
Veronica sits in her favourite chair and she sits
very quiet and still
And they call her a name that they never get
right and if they don't then nobody else will
But she used to have a carefree mind of her
own, with devilish look in her eye
Saying "You can call me anything you like, but
my name is Veronica"
Chorus
-
looking out the window at the passing show,
a few buttons short
on the cardigan she has had so long
she has no idea where it came from,
Old
~ Anne Sexton
I'm afraid of needles.
I'm tired of rubber sheets and tubes.
I'm tired of faces that I don't know
and now I think that death is starting.
Death starts like a dream,
full of objects and my sister's laughter.
We are young and we are walking
and picking wild blueberries.
all the way to Damariscotta.
Oh Susan, she cried.
you've stained your new waist.
Sweet taste --
my mouth so full
and the sweet blue running out
all the way to Damariscotta.
What are you doing? Leave me alone!
Can't you see I'm dreaming?
In a dream you are never eighty.
-
this poem reminds me of your song "Veronica"
~ by Kileen Gilroy
It’s the last look in her eyes
When she leaves the flowers behind,
That I completely know her.
Smooth, white orchids rise
in full bloom they appear simple, yet intricate and intertwined,
that’s the last look in her eyes
Open and still against a marble sky
that gave her life inside,
I need it to disappear to completely know her.
It is not my wish for the petals to wilt and die,
I want to keep them when they are still delicate and defined,
Eternally preserving that last look in her eyes.
From the hollows comes a deep, dark cry,
for the first and only time
she needs me and I completely know her.
I collect the petals and stems that lie
holding them in my hands, she is everything I wished to find.
It’s the last look in her eyes,
That I completely know her.
-
Great to have you back, BARB. You have had a rough time, haven't you.
Do take time to catch your breath. A laugh or two doesn't hurt either,
as witness Ms. Franchi's poem. The Gilroy poem...I wanted to take her
hands and ask her who this was.
GUM, I've often found it helpful to read about hot weather when I'm
cold and cold weather when I'm hot. :P
OCTAVIA, ROSE, lovely poems. They will give me something to muse on
next time I close my eyes for a few minutes.
-
This is Anna's son-in-law, Mick Carrier. By now, many of you may already know of her death the past Tuesday at St.Francis Nursing Center. I just gained access to her address book on her email account and wanted to get a message out to her many friends.
A memorial service is planned for Sunday at Bobby's church (First Baptist). The obituary will be published in the Daily Press (www.dailypress.com Friday. For another tribute, go to www.vgreene.com which you may know as Roberta's website. On behalf of the family, we want to express our appreciation for your friendship over the years. I recognized many of the names in her addressbook as I was preparing this notification and was glad to know she had ongoing contact wit many of you.
Sincerely,
Mick
-
Fairanna's poems - her online poetry page
http://www.vgreene.com/Anna/annas_archives.htm
-
Fairanna's poems from old Poetry sites - this is from the year 2000
I think the heat has fried my brains
What's left humidity has destroyed
Lord just let me survive
Until fall has come again....
anna from Virginia
The signs were there all summer
Though I closed my eyes and shut away my fears
Like the turning leaves that cling close to their branches
I hoped fall would stay away this year.
anna from Virginia
Lilac Time
When lilacs bloom`ed and diffused the air,
Softly,faintly with fragrant perfume rare.
When early spring warmed by solar heat
Sooth`ed cold winter's leisurely retreat.
Then I would meet you beside new green hills,
Where robins nested, their song notes trilled.
We would bask upon the sun warmed fields,
I to your loving arms myself would yield.
There I would clove to you in nature's bower,
Our senses drugg`ed by the blissful flower.
My reverie, startled by a mourning dove,
My open eyes discloses a ghostly love,
Fading softly into a gentle sky.
My soul, alone and lost, without you cries...
anna alexander revised 9/7/2000
annafair
September 17, 2000 - 06:01 pm
I am so pleased you enjoyed the poem and that it arrived on a spring day..I dont know much about your country..do you have Lilacs there? I wrote the poem after I wrote a short memory of Lilac Time on an aunt and uncles farm...I always wanted to be married in Lilac time...here in Virginia they do not thrive well and the few my neighbors have tried to grow remain very small and some years do not bloom at all..
Autumn is really my favorite time of the year..the air is cool and I can leave the windows open..at night I sleep under covers and my sleep is peaceful.
AND last but not least I begin to prepare fall meals..with beans, and lentils,mixed vegetables etc ...and when it is cool enough the wood stove in my sunroom provides a welcome warmth and the teakettle sings.
So I dont see fall as a bad time at all..I am grumpy when the weather is too hot and humid or too cold and damp..THE REST of the year I am rather cheerful and positive...
Do you have some more poems to share? Have you checked in on the study of The Rime of the Ancient Mariner?
It is a lively one ....anna in Virginia who revels in the cool days and cooler nights of Autumn...
annafair
January 14, 2001 - 11:01 pm
This is my poem ...and how winter affects me ...
Winter is a stone
Winter is a stone around my neck
The dark days pull me down
My step is slow and I trod
The bleak and frigid ground The sun softened by trees in leaf
In summer's bluer sky, now
Burn the sky and etch with fire
The bleak branches on the bough My spirit sags and bends low
It hunkers down to catch the heat
From my little stove and wraps
A robe and snuggles in a leather seat Yet even as I mourn and grieve
For spring I know some day
When I return from a winter walk
A golden crocus will light my way From my second floor I see
The dogwood, leaves and berries gone,
Clutches tight wrapped buds who
In spring will welcome the robins song Then this stone will lift from my heart
This winter will be past
And my spirit lighter, brighter
Will fly a flag from my souls mast
anna alexander 1/6/2001 ©
-
Thank you Barb, for finding her old poems for us. I just saw the notice, and am still in shock. She was such a wonderful friend to me.
I wonder if her family has any plans to publish her poems. I would hate to see them disappear.
-
annafair
May 6, 2001 - 07:58 pm
I havent read much lately myself although my books of poetry are all over the house and certainly available. I have written some of my own but most are rather sad so I wouldnt share them but having planted tomatoes this year and anticipating them I found a poem I wrote a few years ago when someone gave me a dozen home grown and vine ripened ones so I will share that with you...
Dining Divine
restaurants in France
offer cuisine sublime
choice tidbits fines herbes
embellish the mundane
make them fine
today on my deck
in regal splendor I dine
fresh made home baked bread
sweet cream butter
tomatoes sunripe from the vine
anna alexander 7/28/97 all rights reserved .
annafair
May 12, 2001 - 09:47 pm
Although I am not reading others poetry right now I am writing some of my own. A few nights ago as I exited my home I noticed the traces of a slugs journey on my steps. I dont know if anyone ever wrote a poem about a slug but my head was full of thoughts and here they are.
It is unnamed as I couldnt come up with a title I liked...
A slug is like a homeless snail
no roof to cover it when caught in rain
nor shade it from the heated sun
not welcome by man
stepped upon despised
still its passage is marked
by opalescent trails
it leaves a map of its
quest for a place to call its own
in the light of the sun
or bright puddles
from the incandescent bulb
you can follow its random path
in glimmers of its own
life blood.
anna alexander 5/11/01 all rights reserved
annafair
July 29, 2001 - 08:34 pm
Your comments made me smile...my children at last appreciate my past but my grandchildren think I speak in an alien tongue..OLDFOLKESE! A delicious thought ..one day they will be me and their grandchildren will think the same! Have a poem I wrote yesterday and am sharing it with you ...anna
can it be? summer is nearly gone?
the dog days of August are upon us
and Autumn waits to sing her song
the day light hours are less
morning arrives a bit later
and evening comes to soon
spring green leaves have deepened
now heavy their darker brow
throws a dusky shadow
upon the grass aged lawn
hidden in the dogwood bough
berries of bitter green
wait the cool of autumn
to bring forth their scarlet gowns
each day ancient leaves of gold
whisper their last good-byes
and flutter to the ground
there is no joy in their passing
though I welcome cooler days
nights beneath cold etched stars
my soul prepares to slumber
like bulbs beneath the ground
tentatively it hopes
in spring it will awaken
among the verdant grass
in Eden's hallowed ground
anna alexander 7/28/01
-
annafair
August 1, 2001 - 08:08 am
In September my oldest will be fifty years young. I say that because at 38 she became legally blind from being exposed to the fungus histoplasmosis that occurs naturally in the soil when she was young. In the beginning she was a bit bitter but her natural resilency brought her out and she has been writing , doing a newspaper column , being President of the Woman's Club ( another member aids her) organizing a number of activities for her community and has friends who take her everywhere when her husband cant. She uses something called ZOOM text on her computer and has magnifying lamps everywhere including one in her purse to read menus, prices etc . I wanted to write a poem for her. This is the one I wrote.
Fresh from your bath
In a terry towel
I sniff the fragrance
Of your velvet skin
You sneeze as the powder
Sifts down to keep you dry
I tickle you a bit
And am rewarded with your smile
I think before I put on your gown
How silken is your baby skin
Softly covered with the finest down
You are velvet to my touch
Years will come and change all that
Skin will age and crease
Wrinkles will announce
Passage of time
But I want you to know
Whenever I touch your face
Give you a hearty hug
I remember you were velvet
When you were young.
anna alexander 7/22/01
-
I too am shocked. She wrote me a lovely letter when I sent her that Pym book. My great sympathies to her family, and may she rest in peace.
Rosemary
-
11/22/01
View from a Hospital Bed
by Anna Alexander
my world has narrowed, still I see
from my window burdened barges,
sluggish behemoths move slowly out to sea.
gulls circle overhead and silver winged
sandpipers cartwheel against a winter sky.
languid autumn holds on and spills its gold
on brown grass lawns.
the whirr of helicopters, flying ambulances,
the throbbing beat as they hover
and set down with their passengers.
I wonder where did they find them?
snatched them from an accident on the ground
or from a fire?
no shade protects me from the morning sun
nor keeps the stars from my night time sight.
how much longer will my world be confined
to four walls and my window view?
will it shrink until it narrows
and nothing remains
but my residue?
anna alexander 11/22/01
-
This past week my oldest daughter and my youngest grandson have been quite ill with whatever is going around. Anyway it made me think of the following
I never knew time could move so fast
collapse and fall into a black hole
caught in space and leave no trace
where are the days and hours
that stretched before when youth
was mine to hold? where are my loved ones
lost and gone in that dark place
where no one answers
questions I once failed to ask where are the babes who
thought me wise
who kissed me with small
moist mouths and whispered
in my ear I love you mom? where are the seasons
that marked my days
gone down into that rabbit hole
and I soon to follow? I never knew age would bring
knowledge never guessed
life would not be hours or days
or even years but only seconds
on my watch
while I wait for God to press
the STOP
anna alexander 2/02/02 ©
-
Do not bring me pearls
I have no need of these
but give me limes and lemons
so I may quench my thirst do not tell me I need the sun by day
or stars by night
but pour over me the rain
for I stand on burning sand I am not a vessel
to be filled with your needs
but an empty soul
to be filled with mine do not think I need wind
to fill my sails
but help me find a keel
to keep my boat afloat do not bring me pearls
anna alexander 2/04/02 ©
DUST MOTES
captured by a random ray of light
trickling through a torn and shattered shade
a corps de ballet of dust motes
gracefully took flight
they floated in the bright beam
dressed in tiny twinkling gowns
their pirouettes thier leaps
defying gravity it would seem
alas the sun removed its golden ray
abandoned them to a dim drab grey
impoverished them along with me
left us
h
a
n
g
i
n
g
on a dreary day
anna alexander Oct 14,2000 all rights reserved
-
The Acrobats
How brave they are to work so far above the ground
With agility and unusual grace they catch my eye.
I watch them moving swiftly, deftly against the sky.
On thinnest limbs they move to thinner still
And when they reach a certain end they launch themselves
In open air to land safely on another branch,
To begin their journey once again
No circus can equal these grey furred and bushy tailed acrobats
My trees are tall, a hundred feet above the ground
But that is where the nests of these furry talents can be found.
In spring, they circle round and round, up and down
Up and down in joyful mating rituals like funny, bushy clowns
They run across my wooden fence, leap over the gaps between.
From my bird feeders they hang and cling with determination
UPSIDE down. With contortions they strive to get the seed within
And if by chance they miss a step, they just return again.
They never seem to weary of their tasks nor lack for courage
To race around their lofty playground of trees
And play hide and seek among the leaves
They are the acrobats in my own yard and I never have to pay.
Well, perhaps in some dried corn and a few sunflower seeds
Thrown their way. . They run with fear when my dog is near,
At least I think that is the emotion they display. but secretly
I believe they think, I have a dog just to amuse them at their play.
anna alexander 3/13/2002 ©
-
annafair
March 19, 2002 - 09:21 am
This one was written in the middle of the night since it came to be after reading some passages from Savage Beauty. I dont think it shows me a good light but still it shows something in most of us....
When asked how my lost beloved treated me
And my reply as an equal of course How else?
Not for me to be wed with someone in unequal harness
When he was not there to give me aid than a maid
Employed for that task did do the onerous tasks
My time was spent in other things, in raising sane
Healthy children, in caring for the various pets
In thinking and writing and reading the books
That now line the shelves in each room or loll
On the floor, on tables and beneath my bed
Cousins to the dust kittens nestled there
If I encouraged him to follow his star than
I demanded the right to give myself the same
So in the end when he was home again and I
Ignored the wifely tasks , the cooking and washing
And spent my idle time engrossed in a favorite book
He would not allow me to apologize but instead
With a loving look said It is your day to do as you wish
And sweetly I acquiesced and smiled my yes ....
anna alexander 3/19/2002©
-
This is not the first time we have been betrayed his spring and so I am including a poem from a few weeks ago that will surely apply tonight ...anna
Oh Spring you are such a tease
You bring soft breezes to my door,
Cause the sun to beat against my window pane
And brighten all the winter dark within.
You make me open up my doors,
And wake the bulbs asleep beneath the ground,
Who bless me with their golden crowns.
You tempt me to wear toeless shoes
And leave off socks and heavy boots.
You promise warmth and I take you at your word.
Throw off my jackets and venture forth
In summer slacks and sleeveless shirts.
You dress my plum tree in its lacy gown
And place sparks of light on brown clad ground. AND THEN ........
With a saucy air you leave,
I must again turn on the heat.
Search for the jackets I left behind.
Cower indoors and seek the warmth
Of my little stove and hide beneath the down
Of winter comforters ....Oh spring why did you go?
I am ready for you to stay ..and for cold and snow
To depart and go away, at least, until the Fall.
Now I seek to warm my heart
With hot, hot tea and dry bread toast.
I sit and pray for your return... and sigh,
And sigh, and sigh!
anna alexander 3/9/02©
-
annafair
March 28, 2002 - 06:22 am
Two chronometers the captain had,
One by Arnold that ran like mad,
One by Kendal in a walnut case,
Poor devoted creature with a hangdog face.
Arnold always hurried with a crazed click-click,
Dancing over Greenwich like a lunatic,
Kendal panted faithfully his watch-dog beat,
Climbing out of Yesterday with sticky little feet.
Arnold choked with appetite to walk up time,
Madly round the numerals his hands would climb,
His cogs rushed over and his wheels ran miles,
Dragging Captain Cook to the Sandwich Isles.
But Kendal dawdled in the tombstoned past,
With a sentimental prejudice to going fast,
And he thought very often of a haberdasher's door
And a yellow-haired boy who would knock no more.
All through the night-time, clock talked to clock,
In the captain's cabin, tock-tock-tock,
One ticked fast and one ticked slow,
And Time went over them a hundred years ago.
Slessor is my favourite Australian Poet.
-
annafair
March 29, 2002 - 10:24 am
I came across this poem and have no idea where I filed it ..so I had to re copy and edit and have saved in now ...so I decided to share it with you ...
Memories
glide through the labyrinths of my mind
slide around corners and trap me
my hands stretch out to catch them
fluid they slip through my fingers
and slither away
they are mine...no one shares them
how could they?
were they there in the quiet nights?
the entwining of our souls?
were they there to watch the heavens
progress from night to day?
I am thankful for them
still they are not you
they have no breath or warmth
but what I give them
I cannot touch them
they just lay there
and burn holes into my soul
anna alexander
5/23/2001
©
-
When I reflect on the passing of someone like AnnaFair, I want to have the ability to at least have their minds left. A book of her poetry sounds like a reasonable substitute. It is quite difficult to explain what I mean. What I do mean, though, is it is truly sorrowful to have such a wonderful woman leave us.
-
I didn;t know ANNA FAIR. i,m new to this site and found it a few months ago. I love poetry of course and was happy to discover everyone. I just got on and read thenews of her passing. I am so grateful to Barb for posting her poems. When you think of it . she is still here for all of you [and myself as well ] through her wonderful poems.
AND DEATH SHALL HAVE NO DOMINION over the poet. AMICAH
-
Such sad news about Annafair. I knew she was ill but that doesn't make it any easier. Her poems touched us all in all kinds of ways and moods - sharply - poignantly - happily - sadly - always humanly. I shall miss her.
-
Barbara I was so glad to know you were Ok and back on board again. What a time you've had of it but as always you've learned from the experience. I had a family member who used to go missing from the nursing home - she'd just get it into her head to 'take a walk' and would end up miles away zimmer frame still in hand. She was missing overnight once so I do know how worrying it was for you - like you, we learned to deal with it.
-
Thanks for that link, BARB. I didn't know Anna had an online poetry
page. I've placed in my 'Favorites' for further exploration.
I'll have to finish reading these poems another time. I've got 30
minutes to dress and drive to my volunteer stint.
-
I know here in Poetry we feel we had a special connection with our fairanna - however, Senior Learn has put a memorial page together that includes some photos of Anna and I believe it will be sent to her family - and so please, those of you who remembered Anna in this poetry discussion would you copy your post and place it on the Memorial Page here http://seniorlearn.org/forum/index.php?topic=2298.0
-
Thanks Gum for your kind words welcoming me back - life dishes out many unexpected learning lessons doesn't it...and yes, Anna's poems touched all of us - or should we say through her poems Anna touched all of us.
AMICAH thanks for sharing your tribute to Anna - and glad you are reading our pages - we would love it if you pipe up now and again to let us know if a poem or a line amazed or moved you.
roshanarose yes, not only her mind but her generous and kind spirit - she saw so much in the little things that most of us take for granted and then she spoke of the little things as if they were a gift to the universe and to our lives - she helped us open our eyes to the wonder around us and the wonder in our hearts - I too struggle with this loss but that is life and in her memory I plan on looking more closely at the minutia of life.
rosemary it sounds like you were touched by the fairanna magic and it sounds like you and she were a kindred spirit.
JoanK we can only imagine the loss you are feeling - you and Anna talked often by phone and she was a special friend - I wish I could be near and hold your hand. Know that you are being hugged.
Babi I am glad you were introduced to Anna\s web page - she gives all of us ideas about what is important in life doesn't she.
-
I responded to Mark's e-mail about Anna, but I haven't posted a 'memoriam' here. I'm still
a bit fuzzy from needing a sleep aid last night. I'll need to see what I can do once my brain
clears a bit more.
-
Welcome Amicah, where do you come from?
I needed a bit of cheering up, and this poem by my beloved Norman MacCaig has done the trick.
An Ordinary day:
I took my mind a walk
Or my mind took me a walk—
Whichever was the truth of it.
The light glittered on the water
Or the water glittered in the light.
Cormorants stood on a tidal rock
With their wings spread out,
Stopping no traffic. Various ducks
Shilly-shallied here and there
On the shilly-shallying water.
An occasional gull yelped. Small flowers
Were doing their level best
To bring to their kerbs bees like
Ariel charabancs. Long weeds in the clear
Water did Eastern dances, unregarded
By shoals of darning needles. A cow
Started a moo but thought
Better of it… And my feet took me home
And my mind observed to me,
Or I to it, how ordinary
Extraordinary things are or
How extraordinary ordinary
Things are, like the nature of the mind
And the process of observing.
-
That was fun, OCTAVIA. Gave me a smile, too. ;)
-
Hello,
I'm at the moment trying to keep up with the classics page [ The Odyssey ] but I discovered this site and started at the first post. some were from fairanna and one was Edna ST Vicent Millay [Love is not all].Since she is my favorit poet I naturally paid attention .and then fairanna mentioned she was reading Savage Beauty[ And I was thrilled and started to read all her posts.Wonderful .Spoke to me in so many ways.
I was so startled this past week.Silly as it sounds I felt as if I lost a friend.
The Odyssey is keeping me quite involved but I come back to poetry often . My favorites are Est VM ,Emily Bronte, Dylan,Keats [and so on ] Right now I'm reading a collection of Auden.Just started . I try to start my day with coffee [with cream and sugar] and one or two Billy Collins poems. He always leaves me with a smile and sometimes a laugh.
AMICAH
-
AMICAH what a great idea to start the day by reading a poem or two - marvelous - maybe I will get to really read all the poems in my ever growing collection of poetry books. There is a difference though - just do not like cream or sugar in my black coffee...! ;)
Octavia I love An Ordinary day: reminds me of a Zen or Taoist exercise - really wonderful...thanks
Babi a smile it is - isn't it is nice to be able to go within and take a mini mind vacation so that we can smile at what we find there.
-
A Bookshop Idyll
~ by Kingsley Amis
Between the gardening and the cookery
Comes the brief Poetry shelf;
By the Nonesuch Donne, a thin anthology
Offers itself.
Critical and with nothing else to do,
I scan the Contents page,
Relieved to find the names are mostly new;
No one my age.
Like all strangers, they divide by sex:
Landscape near Parma
Interests a man, so does The Double Vortex,
so does Rilke and Buddha.
"I travel, you see," "I think" and "I can read"
These titles seem to say;
But I Remember You, Love is my Creed,
Poem for J.,
The ladies' choice, discountenance my patter
for several seconds;
From somewhere in this (as in any) matter
A moral beckons.
Should poets bicycle-pump the human heart
Or squash it flat?
Man's love is of man's life a thing apart;
Girls aren't like that.
We men have got love well weighed up; our stuff
Can get by without it.
Women don't seem to think that's good enough;
They write about it.
And the awful way their poems lay them open
Just doesn't strike them.
Women are really much nicer than men:
No wonder we like them.
Deciding this, we can forget those times
We sat up half the night
Chock-full of love, crammed with bright thoughts, names, rhymes,
And couldn't write.
-
Here is an old dialect poem...
"HOME"
~ by Edgar Guest
It takes a heap o' livin' in a house t' make it home,
A heap o' sun an' shadder, an' ye sometimes have t' roam
Afore ye really 'preciate the things ye lef' behind,
An' hunger for 'em somehow, with 'em allus on yer mind.
It don't make any difference how rich ye get t' be,
How much yer chairs an' tables cost, how great yer luxury;
It ain't home t' ye, though it be the palace of a king,
Until somehow yer soul is sort o' wrapped round everything.
Home ain't a place that gold can buy or get up in a minute;
Afore it's home there's got t' be a heap o' livin' in it;
Within the walls there's got t' be some babies born, and then
Right there ye've got t' bring 'em up t' women good, an' men;
And gradjerly, as time goes on, ye find ye wouldn't part
With anything they ever used--they've grown into yer heart:
The old high chairs, the playthings, too, the little shoes they wore
Ye hoard; an' if ye could ye'd keep the thumb-marks on the door.
Ye've got t' weep t' make it home, ye've got t' sit an' sigh
An watch beside a loved one's bed, an' know that Death is nigh;
An' in the stillness o' the night t' see Death's angel come,
An' close the eyes o' her that smiled, an' leave her sweet voice dumb,
Fer these are scenes that grip the heart, an' when yer tears are dried,
Ye find the home is dearer than it was, an' sanctified;
An' tuggin' at yer always are the pleasant memories
O' her that was an' is no more--ye can't escape from these.
Ye've got t' sing an' dance fer years, ye've got t' romp an' play,
An' learn t' love the things ye have by usin' 'em each day;
Even the roses 'round the porch must blossom year by year
Afore they 'come a part o' ye, suggestin' some one dear
Who used t' love 'em long ago, an' trained 'em jes' t' run
The way they do, so's they would get the early mornin' sun;
Ye've got t' love each brick an' stone from cellar up t' dome;
It takes a heap o' livin' in a house t' make it home.
-
The Listeners
~ by Walter de la Mare
"Is there anybody there?" said the Traveller,
Knocking on the moonlit door;
And his horse in the silence champed the grasses
Of the forest's ferny floor:
And a bird flew up out of the turret,
Above the Traveller's head:
And he smote upon the door again a second time;
"Is there anybody there/' he said.
But no one descended to the Traveller;
No head from the leaf-fringed sill
Leaned over and looked into his grey eyes,
Where he stood perplexed and still.
But only a host of phantom listeners
That dwelt in the lone house then
Stood listening in the quiet of the moonlight
To that voice from the world of men:
Stood thronging the faint moon beams on the dark stair
That goes down to the empty hall,
Hearkening in an air stirred and shaken
By the lonely traveller's call.
And he felt in his heart their strangeness,
Their stillness answering his cry,
While his horse moved, cropping the dark turf,
'Neath the starred and leafy sky;
For he suddenly smote on the door, even
Louder, and lifted his head;--
"Tell them I came, and no one answered,
That I kept my word," he said.
Never the least stir made the listeners,
Though every word he spake
Fell echoing through the shadowiness of the still house
From the one man left awake:
Ay, they heard his foot upon the stirrup,
And the sound of iron on stone
And how the silence surged softly backward
When the plunging hoofs were gone.
-
(http://seniorlearn.org/bookclubs/poetry/springpoetry.jpg)
| Join Us! For a Summer of PoetryFlowers~ Jessi Lane Adams
Have you ever seen a flower down
Sometimes angels skip around
And in their blissful state of glee
Bump into a daisy or sweet pea.
- Famous Poets and Poems about Summer (http://famouspoetsandpoems.com/thematic_poems/summer_poems.html)
- Link to: Summer Poems (http://poetry.about.com/od/ourpoemcollections/a/summerpoems.htm)
~~~ Discussion Leaders: Barb (augere@ix.netcom.com) &Fairanna
|
-
and yep - another from annafair...
I love this hour when all the stars have melted away.
When black night has bleached to gray.
The quietude before the sun's golden yawn,
Sends rosy banners to herald the dawn.
The birds still warm within their nest.
The squirrels coiled in peaceful rest.
I love this time when the house is still.
My mind is silent, my soul tranquil.
The colors of day consumed by night
Begin to awaken in the waxing light.
I cherish this hour before boisterous day
Tumbles across my sill, eager for play.
I wait serene for Apollo to ride into view.
Hug to my heart warm memories of you!
anna alexander 2/4/98 all rights reserved
-
Thanks for posting The Listener - one of my all time favourites. It always sets me to ponder. I like Walter de la Mare - we had a lot of him at school.
this one from T.S Eliot says things we can all relate to in regard to poetry in our life and clearly references The Listener.
To Walter de la Mare " T.S. Eliot
The children who explored the brook and found
A desert island with a sandy cove
(A hiding place, but very dangerous ground,
For here the water buffalo may rove,
The kinkajou, the mungabey, abound
In the dark jungle of a mango grove,
And shadowy lemurs glide from tree to tree -
The guardians of some long-lost treasure-trove)
Recount their exploits at the nursery tea
And when the lamps are lit and curtains drawn
Demand some poetry, please. Whose shall it be,
At not quite time for bed ? ...
Or when the lawn
Is pressed by unseen feet, and ghosts return
Gently at twilight, gently go at dawn,
The sad intangible who grieve and yearn ;
When the familiar is suddenly strange
Or the well known is what we yet have to learn,
And two worlds meet, and intersect, and change ;
When cats are maddened in the moonlight dance,
Dogs cower, flitter bats, and owls range
At witches' sabbath of the maiden aunts ;
When the nocturnal traveller can arouse
No sleeper by his call ; or when by chance
An empty face peers from an empty house ;
The whispered incantation which allows
Free passage to the phantoms of the mind ?[/
By whom, and by what means, was this designed ?
By you ; by those deceptive cadences
Wherewith the common measure is refined ;
By conscious art practised with natural ease ;
By the delicate, invisible web you wove -
The inexplicable mystery of sound.
I love the line "the sad intangible who grieve and yearn" and then "the inexplicable mystery of sound' speaks volumes...
The whispered incantation which allows
Free passage to the phantoms of the mind ?
I think that's just exactly what poety does...
-
So nice to meet you, AMICAH. I can fully understand how you would come to feel you knew Anna well, reading her beautiful poems. She was a lovely person, and we all mourn her loss.
Man's love is of man's life a thing apart;
Kingsley Amis
What an odd thought..at least to me. Not being male, I can't speak to
it with any authority. Do you suppose it's true?
Oh, Lord, I haven't thought of that Edgar Guest poem in ages. Yet that
opening/closing line is one well embedded in my memory. And the De La Mare poem always made me feel there was a whole novel waiting to be written behind that one.
Well said, GUM. Poetry can open our imagination in ways prose seldom can.
-
New Chap book that I picked up because I was taken with a few of the poems
I am realistic
I always wish what is impossible.
by anamnesys
Diamonds and Rust
Well I'll be damned
Here comes your ghost again
But that's not unusual
It's just that the moon is full
And you happened to call
And here I sit
My hand on the telephone
Hearing a voice I'd known
A couple of light years ago
Heading straight for a fall
As I remember your eyes
Were bluer than robin's eggs
My poetry was lousy you said
Where are you calling from?
A booth in the midwest
Ten years ago
I bought you some cufflinks
Oh and you brought me something
We both know what memories can bring
They bring diamonds and rust
Well you burst on the scene
Already a legend
The unwashed phenomenon
The original vagabond
You strayed into my arms
And there you stayed
Temporarily lost at sea
The Madonna was yours for free
Yes the girl on the half-shell
Would keep you unharmed
Now I see you standing
With leaves falling around
And snow in your hair
Now you're smiling out the window
Of that hotel
Over Washington Square
Our breath comes out white clouds
Mingles and hangs in the air
Speaking strictly for me
We both could have died then and there
Now you're telling me
You're not nostalgic
Then give me another word for it
You are always so good with words
And at keeping things vague
Because I need some of that vagueness now
It's all coming back too clearly
Oh I loved you dearly
And if you're offering me diamonds and rust
I've already paid...
by anamnesys
Dust if you must
Dust if you must, but wouldn't it be better to paint a picture or write a letter, bake a cake or plant a seed, ponder the difference between want and need?
Dust if you must, but there's not much time, with rivers to swim and mountains to climb, music to hear and books to read, friends to cherish and life to lead.
Dust if you must, but the world's out there with the sun in your eyes, the wind in your hair, a flutter of snow, a shower of rain. This day will not come around again.
Dust if you must, but bear in mind, old age will come and it's not kind. And when you go - and go you must - you, yourself will make more dust!
By Rose Milligan
-
Barb - I have only really discovered this page since Anna's death, but I absolutely love those poems. I will be forwarding that dust one to quite a few of my friends - I love the third verse, the words are so evocative, and the last phrase has a wonderful, falling, cadence.
The Diamonds and Rust poem is really beautiful - so romantic and evocative.
My daughter has recently discovered the joy of poetry for the first time, and now I find myself coming back to it, many, many years after loving it at her age.
Thanks for that.
Rosemary
-
The Listeners made a shiver down my spine when I was young. There's an age when being scared is quite enjoyable.
'Man's love is of man's life a thing apart,
'tis woman's whole existence'
Lord Byron.
I think there's a grain of truth in these lines. We're the nurturers and carers, and love is woven into most of our thoughts and actions.
Love Dust If You Must :)
-
Those of you who remember ANNA'S years in the poetry discussion, please do put your comment in the rememberance folder, if you who haven't, even if you e-mailed them or posted them here. The book that I received from Seniorlearn's rememberance folder when my husband died is a permanant momento I will always have, while the e-mails I got are gone with my last computer.
-
Wow! Who is tis Anamnesy'? "The girl on the half-shell"...what an image that provokes.
And,"You are always so good with words, And with keeping things vague." This gal is
good. And my heartfelt thanks to Rose Milligan for endorsing my failure to dust!
I went looking for my dear Emily Dickinson this morning, and bring you this,
HOPE IS THE THING WITH FEATHERS
Hope is the thing with feathers
That perches in the soul,
And sings the tune without the words,
And never stops at all,
And sweetest in the gale is heard;
And sore must be the storm
That could abash the little bird
That kept so many warm.
I've heard it in the chillest land,
And on the strangest sea;
Yet, never, in extremity,
It asked a crumb of me.
Welcome, Rosemary. You'll like it here. :)
-
THE GENESIS OF BUTTERFLIES
by: Victor Hugo (1802-1885)
THE dawn is smiling on the dew that covers
The tearful roses; lo, the little lovers
That kiss the buds, and all the flutterings
In jasmine bloom, and privet, of white wings,
That go and come, and fly, and peep and hide,
With muffled music, murmured far and wide.
Ah, the Spring time, when we think of all the lays
That dreamy lovers send to dreamy mays,
Of the fond hearts within a billet bound,
Of all the soft silk paper that pens wound,
The messages of love that mortals write
Filled with intoxication of delight,
Written in April and before the May time
Shredded and flown, playthings for the wind's playtime,
We dream that all white butterflies above,
Who seek through clouds or waters souls to love,
And leave their lady mistress in despair,
To flit to flowers, as kinder and more fair,
Are but torn love-letters, that through the skies
Flutter, and float, and change to butterflies.
-
Ah, I was thinking what a delicate, romantic poem Mr. Hugo wrote, ...until I got to the line,
And leave their lady mistress in despair, :'( >:(
-
I think that is the irony of the poem Babi - all those charming romantic words and thoughts turn just at the point where a Sonat is supposed to turn so that reading the poem we are prepared for some soot of change within the last 4 lines - and he is showing all the wings or dreamy days among letters of romance there is despair, pain as he hopes she sees her beauty and freedom as he acknowledges she seeks kindness. It is always a shock and hard to dwell on the realization that within the most tame beautiful moments in life lurking in the shadows is always pain.
On the surface this poem is about love letters between a man and a women but it may be about the French Revolution - the love of freedom written as a message of love which is how a Constitution could be romantically described and in France after all the pain and suffering they achieve their new found freedom and bango within a few years they are back to being a republic with Napoleon crowning himself King and he is followed by the restoration of the Royals.
Also during this time in history Mistress was not a behind the curtain ID - remember Mistress Mary Quite Contrary how does your garden grow.
And then Victor Hugo could be describing the love between his daughter and her new husband when at age 19 she drowns along with her husband who tried to save her after the boat they were in on the Seine tipped and her heavy fashionable skirts of the time pulled her under. And so he could be using all the allusions to butterflies and flowers as a way to deal with her spirit and his spirit trying to see her spirit as free and always beautiful Since he mentions water in the last line just before the turn I am thinking this scenario is more likely the basis for the Sonnet with his daughter the lady who is mistress to death and whose spirit is like the torn paper..
-
I thought this interesting - we often see multiple translations of Chinese and Japanese poetry but seldom do we think of mulitple translations from French to English - here is one of Baudelaire's poems translated 3 times!
Ciel Brouillé (Cloudy Sky)
On dirait ton regard d'une vapeur couvert;
Ton oeil mystérieux (est-il bleu, gris ou vert?)
Alternativement tendre, rêveur, cruel,
Réfléchit l'indolence et la pâleur du ciel.
Tu rappelles ces jours blancs, tièdes et voilés,
Qui font se fondre en pleurs les coeurs ensorcelés,
Quand, agités d'un mal inconnu qui les tord,
Les nerfs trop éveillés raillent l'esprit qui dort.
Tu ressembles parfois à ces beaux horizons
Qu'allument les soleils des brumeuses saisons...
Comme tu resplendis, paysage mouillé
Qu'enflamment les rayons tombant d'un ciel brouillé!
Ô femme dangereuse, ô séduisants climats!
Adorerai-je aussi ta neige et vos frimas,
Et saurai-je tirer de l'implacable hiver
Des plaisirs plus aigus que la glace et le fer?
Cloudy Sky
One would say that your gaze was veiled with mist;
Your mysterious eyes (are they blue, gray or green?)
Alternately tender, dreamy, cruel,
Reflect the indolence and pallor of the sky.
You call to mind those days, white, soft, and mild,
That make enchanted hearts burst into tears,
When, shaken by a mysterious, wracking pain,
The nerves, too wide-awake, jeer at the sleeping mind.
You resemble at times those gorgeous horizons
That the sun sets ablaze in the seasons of mist...
How resplendent you are, landscape drenched with rain,
Aflame with rays that fall from a cloudy sky!
O dangerous woman, O alluring climates!
Will I also adore your snow and your hoar-frost,
And can I draw from your implacable winter
Pleasures keener than iron or ice?
— Translated by William Aggeler
Misty Sky
One would have thought your eyes were veiled in haze
Strange eyes! (Grey, green, or azure is their gaze?)
It seems they would reflect, in each renewal,
The changing skies, dull, dreamy, fond, or cruel.
You know those days both warm and hazy, which
Melt into tears the hearts that they bewitch:
And when the nerves, uneasy to control,
Too-wide awake, upbraid the sleeping soul.
You, too, resemble such a lit horizon
As suns of misty seasons now bedizen...
As you shine out, a landscape fresh with rain
With misty sunbeams sparkling on the plain.
Dangerous girl, seductive as the weather!
Shall I adore your snows and frosts together?
In your relentless winter shall I feel
A kiss more sharp than that of ice and steel?
— Translated by Roy Campbell
Ciel brouillé
thine eyes are veiled with vapour opaline;
— those eyes of mystery! — (azure, grey or green?)
cruel or soft in turn as dreams devise,
reflect the languor of the pallid skies.
thou'rt like these autumn days of silver-grey
whose magic melts the soul to tears: a day
when by a secret evil inly torn
the quivering nerves laugh drowsy wits to scorn.
thou art as fair as distant dales, where suns
of misty seasons leave their benisons...
how dazzling rich the dewy woodlands lie
flaming in sunlight from a ruffled sky!
o fateful woman! sky that lures and lours!
and shall I love thy snow, its frosty hours,
and learn to clutch from winter's iron gyves
new pleasure keen as cloven ice or knives?
— Translated by Lewis Piaget Shanks
-
Yes, I am aware that 'Mistress' was a respectable title in those days.
Nevertheless, this one was being "left in despair" after all those lovely,
charming words. This sort of thing has long since made me very suspicious of 'charm'. That is a sad story about his daughter and her husband, tho'. Thank God for modern, practical clothing for women.
Interesting, the difference between the three translations. I like
last two best. Shanks, I think, a bit better than Campbell.
-
While everyone's having a break, I thought I might post this poem about a bird by an Australian poet. I found it quite moving, especially the last two lines.
Death of the Bird by Alec Derwent Hope
For every bird there is this last migration;
Once more the cooling year kindles her heart;
With a warm passage to the summer station
Love pricks the course in lights across the chart.
Year after year a speck on the map, divided
By a whole hemisphere, summons her to come;
Season after season, sure and safely guided,
Going away she is also coming home.
And being home, memory becomes a passion
With which she feeds her brood and straws her nest,
Aware of ghosts that haunt the heart's possession
And exiled love mourning within the breast.
The sands are green with a mirage of valleys;
The palm tree casts a shadow not its own;
Down the long architrave of temple or palace
Blows a cool air from moorland scarps of stone.
And day by day the whisper of love grows stronger;
That delicate voice, more urgent with despair,
Custom and fear constraining her no longer,
Drives her at last on the waste leagues of air.
A vanishing speck in those inane dominions,
Single and frail, uncertain of her place,
Alone in the bright host of her companions,
Lost in the blue unfriendliness of space.
She feels it close now, the appointed season;
The invisible thread is broken as she flies;
Suddenly, without warning, without reason,
The guiding spark of instinct winks and dies.
Try as she will, the trackless world delivers
No way, the wilderness of light no sign;
Immense,complex contours of hills and rivers
Mock her small wisdom with their vast design.
The darkness rises from the eastern valleys,
And the winds buffet her with their hungry breath,
And the great earth, with neither grief nor malice,
Receives the tiny burden of her death.
-
Oh my - my heart catches at the realization that instinct is all for not only the bird but as an analogy to how often we act in life with some invisible instinct that if it fails leaves us mocked in our efforts and buffeted with neither grief nor malice. You can almost wonder if that is what happens to mother's who loose it while caring for their young child. Is the thread of sanity based in instinct? Much to ponder about the fragility of our mind and body. Thanks Octavia.
-
I've often wondered about the way animals and birds live and die, Barb. No safety net, no Medicare or Social Security. We see them as carefree and happy but they live on a knife edge all the time.
Here is a poem with I think, much the same theme. A soldier's life is always about survival too.
the good soldier by Chris Mansell
on someone else's place
it seems to him the land
slings distance way out
the dirt is dead and
the sky seems twisted
the beat of the stones is wrong
he doesn't know how to say it
there are no words no opportunity
and anyway
what would you say
that you're a stranger
and this doesn't say it at all
he walks with his weapon through the town
and from time to time he sees the luscious curl
of intimacy the uncommon common life
it's dressed differently he can't understand
the language rasping and gargling
another time he'd be an interested tourist
now he's a hunter and the hunted
soon they say
he'll be freed to retreat home
where the earth is vein deep
and when he puts his hand on the ground
he'll feel it beating but now
he can't remember home
though he knows the words well enough
back paddock Steve's paddock the yard
it's just words but now the imam calls
and winds a veil around his senses
and sometimes he thinks he'll never
get back to where he belonged.
Chris Mansell is a younger Australian poet, obviously. Very relevant right now, as the call to bring our troops home gains momentum.
-
Very impressive, Mr. Mansell. Though I did have a bit of trouble with the
lines running over and the lack of punctuation. I realize that is simply a modern form. The poem nonetheless shows a remarkable depth and power.
-
Change of pace this small poem - small in story and feelings - reminds me of a summer tidbit before dinner.
The Young Fools (Les Ingénus)
~ by Paul Verlaine
High-heels were struggling with a full-length dress
So that, between the wind and the terrain,
At times a shining stocking would be seen,
And gone too soon. We liked that foolishness.
Also, at times a jealous insect's dart
Bothered out beauties. Suddenly a white
Nape flashed beneath the branches, and this sight
Was a delicate feast for a young fool's heart.
Evening fell, equivocal, dissembling,
The women who hung dreaming on our arms
Spoke in low voices, words that had such charms
That ever since our stunned soul has been trembling.
-
That's gorgeous Barbara, made me smile :)
Babi, Chris Mansell is a woman, and I might have misled, saying she was a younger poet. Although it depends where we are ourselves on the age scale :) She was born in '53, and is young compared to our famous poets, like Judith Wright, Dame ,Mary Gilmore etc.
I totally agree about the punctuation. Why do they do that, I wonder?
-
Although e.e.cummings was known for writing his poetry without the traditional use of a capitol for the first word of every line nor did he use punctuation however, there are others - the best explanation I found is that one of the poets said something to the affect, a capitol should mean something and if not, forget it - also, much of their poetry was written during the hay day of the stream of consciousness where thoughts rolled into thought with Joyce given the honors for making that style a cause for celebration.
here is another poet who writes with no punctuation although he employs the traditional use of a capitol letter for each line.
The River of Bees
~ W.S. Merwin
In a dream I returned to the river of bees
Five orange trees by the bridge and
Beside two mills my house
Into whose courtyard a blindman followed
The goats and stood singing
Of what was older
Soon it will be fifteen years
He was old he will have fallen into his eyes
I took my eyes
A long way to the calendars
Room after room asking how shall I live
One of the ends is made of streets
One man processions carry through it
Empty bottles their
Image of hope
It was offered to me by name
Once once and once
In the same city I was born
Asking what shall I say
He will have fallen into his mouth
Men think they are better than grass
I return to his voice rising like a forkful of hay
He was old he is not real nothing is real
Nor the noise of death drawing water
We are the echo of the future
On the door it says what to do to survive
But we were not born to survive
Only to live
-
I suppose the lack of punctuation and awkward form is intended to be
avant garde. Reminds me a bit of a stint in college as a teacher asst.,
grading English papers. One young fellow apparently thought foul language
in every sentence would show how bold and brilliant he was. I wasn't
impressed.
Not putting a capital letter at the beginning of each line doesn't
bother me. If it's not the beginning of a new sentence/thought, it seems
perfectly reasonable. It's not being certain where one thought ends and
the next begins that can be so confusing. W. S. Merwin, I'm sorry to say,
I found mostly meaningless.
-
4th of July weekend - for the States that is our Independence Day celebration - so here is a red, white and blue poem...
Red Cloth
~ by Jean Valentine
Red cloth
I lie on the ground
otherwise nothing could hold
I put my hand on the ground
the membrane is gone
and nothing does hold
your place in the ground
is all of it
and it is breathing
The White Horse
~ by D. H. Lawrence
The youth walks up to the white horse, to put its halter on
and the horse looks at him in silence.
They are so silent, they are in another world.
At the Blue Note
~by Pablo Medina
for Karen Bentivenga
Sometimes in the heat of the snow
you want to cry out
for pleasure or pain like a bell.
And you wind up holding each other,
listening to the in-between
despite the abyss at the edge of the table.
Hell. Mulgrew Miller plays like a big
bad spider, hands on fire, the piano
trembling like crystal,
the taste and smell of a forest under water.
The bartender made us a drink
with butterfly wings and electric wire.
Bitter cold outside, big silence,
a whale growing inside us.
-
I Hear America Singing
~ by Walt Whitman
I hear America singing, the varied carols I hear,
Those of mechanics, each one singing his as it should be blithe and strong,
The carpenter singing his as he measures his plank or beam,
The mason singing his as he makes ready for work, or leaves off work,
The boatman singing what belongs to him in his boat, the deckhand
singing on the steamboat deck,
The shoemaker singing as he sits on his bench, the hatter singing as he stands,
The wood-cutter's song, the ploughboy's on his way in the morning, or
at noon intermission or at sundown,
The delicious singing of the mother, or of the young wife at work, or of
the girl sewing or washing,
Each singing what belongs to him or her and to none else,
The day what belongs to the day—at night the party of young fellows,
robust, friendly,
Singing with open mouths their strong melodious songs.
-
Thanks Barb for those "colourful" poems.
The white one by D.H. Lawrence made me feel bad though. Right now in my state there is a terrible virus, called the "Lyssa Virus" which is deadly if it appears in horses, and can also be fatal to those people who handle them.
Sorry - I didn't mean to rain on your parade. I loved the poems, it was just the White Horse that hit a nerve.
-
by 8 year old riding student
Indie is a wonderful horse
and you love him of course
I feel bad that Indie is sick
I hope he gets better real real quick
If Indie dies
He'll be in heaven without any flies
Ghost Song
~ William Mendelson
An old man and an old horse moved slowly and steadily
towards the furthest mountain.
An old man on an old horse.
The old man thought of the many times he'd been thrown;
the old horse, how many times he'd been ridden.
They weren't in no great rush.
The old man sat straight in the saddle, head held high.
The old horse kept his head high too,
letting his feet choose the way as they
searched the clouds looking for any old friends
they had passed on the way.
A soft gentle rain started to fall,
the horse stopped, the old man bent over
and stroked his friend's neck
-
The Horse Fell Off the Poem
~By Mahmoud Darwish 1942–2008
Translated By Fady Joudah
The horse fell off the poem
and the Galilean women were wet
with butterflies and dew,
dancing above chrysanthemum
The two absent ones: you and I
you and I are the two absent ones
A pair of white doves
chatting on the branches of a holm oak
No love, but I love ancient
love poems that guard
the sick moon from smoke
I attack and retreat, like the violin in quatrains
I get far from my time when I am near
the topography of place ...
There is no margin in modern language left
to celebrate what we love,
because all that will be ... was
The horse fell bloodied
with my poem
and I fell bloodied
with the horse’s blood ...
-
I can't help wondering if Mr. Darwish enjoys seeing how well he can puzzle and
obfuscate without being called on it. A number of nice images,.. unrelated to
anything else. If there is meaning in all this, it escapes me.
Here's a brief excerpt in which the horses stay in the poem. ;)
A thousand horse and none to ride! -
With flowing tail, and flying mane,
Wide nostrils never stretched by pain,
Mouths bloodless to the bit or rein,
And feet that iron never shod,
And flanks unscarred by spur or rod,
A thousand horse, the wild, the free,
Like waves that follow o'er the sea,
Came thickly thundering on,...~Lord Byron, XVII, Mazeppa, 1818
-
I read The Horse Fell Off The Poem quite a few times trying to get the theme of the poem. Do you have any background for it, Barbara? Could it be biblical, perhaps?
I liked Ghost Song, simple but sweet.
Roshanarose, you probably remember we lost a popular vet here in Rocky from the virus. I can't imagine what the other people went through, knowing there's no cure, and few survivors.
-
been busy busy- sorry no chat time - the poem that has no theme - no other information - I read it as simply enjoying the the beauty of a collocation and juxtaposition of words and phrases.
-
Octavia - I have missed you. When I lived closer to the city every evening literally thousands of fruit bats would fly over my apartment on high. It was always a scary scene for me as I have always feared bats of any description. I was always worried that they would become entangled in my hair. Uggghhhh. Yes, I remember about the Rocky vet. Very sad. I think the worst part about the Lyssa Virus is that there is no cure. I did a bit of searching for it and evidently it belongs to a similar strain as Rabies.
Thanks everyone for "keeping the horses".
-
I feel like a little olde worlde poetry this morning.
Delight In Disorder by Robert Herrick
A sweet disorder in the dresse
Kindles in cloathes a wantonnesse:
A Lawne about the shoulders thrown
Into a fine distraction:
An erring Lace, which here and there
Enthralls the Crimson Stomacher:
A Cuffe neglectfull, and thereby
Ribbands to flow confusedly:
A winning wave (deserving Note)
In the tempestuous petticote:
A careless shooe-string, in whose tye
I see a wilde civility
I'm still dealing with my virus Roshanarose, it's very clingy.
-
Another old poem, I had trouble putting them in the same post. Sometimes gremlins get in the works.
So We'll Go No More a Roving
By Lord Byron (George Gordon) 1788–1824 Lord Byron (George Gordon)
So, we'll go no more a roving
So late into the night,
Though the heart be still as loving,
And the moon be still as bright.
For the sword outwears its sheath,
And the soul wears out the breast,
And the heart must pause to breathe,
And love itself have rest.
Though the night was made for loving,
And the day returns too soon,
Yet we'll go no more a roving
By the light of the moon.
-
Oh Octavia - I hope you are feeling some better - and I hope you could sleep it off - I know that is all I want to do when I am down - just sleep and sleep so I do not have to feel miserable.
Hadn't heard of this illness that is attacking it sounds like not only the animals but those who make contact with an ill animal - sounds dreadful - I wonder where something like that starts.
I loved the Delight In Disorder by Robert Herrick - I laughed as a read it - it is like reading a puzzle with the old spelling on some of the words - fun...
here is another Robert Herrick poem - written to another but Octavia sounds like it was written for you
UPON JULIA'S RECOVERY.
DROOP, droop no more, or hang the head,
Ye roses almost withered ;
Now strength and newer purple get,
Each here declining violet.
O primroses! let this day be
A resurrection unto ye ;
And to all flowers ally'd in blood,
Or sworn to that sweet sisterhood :
For health on Julia's cheek hath shed
Claret and cream commingled ;
And those her lips do now appear
As beams of coral, but more clear.
-
Oh, to be in love again! Herrick is deeply, madly smitten :)
The name Julia jogged my memory, and sure enough
UPON JULIA'S CLOTHES.
by Robert Herrick
WHEN AS in silks my Julia goes,
Then, then, methinks, how sweetly flows
That liquefaction of her clothes.
Next, when I cast mine eyes and see
That brave vibration each way free ;
O how that glittering taketh me !
He is swooning, as they say. I've never actually swooned, but I felt like it when I went to see Col Joye and the Joye Boys in my youth.The local paper has been printing extracts from old newspapers, and the boys thought it was so funny that 'Rockhampton teenagers, clapped, shouted and screamed' through the show. I assured them that I didn't scream, I'm pretty reserved ::)
I petted a bat once in Cairns and fed him corn, he was rather sweet. Now people want them exterminated. They're not all infected, there are bat wildlife carers in Rocky.
I wondered if the Hendra virus was in other countries.
-
I don't think that many men swoon these days, although sometimes you can see admiration and love in their eyes. A wonderful moment , or two, to experience. You can tell I am missing my ex hubby.
I remember Col Joye singing "Living Doll" and of course loved it. I never liked Cliff Richard's version of it. I had a crush on the singer in the Dell Tones, but he was killed in a car accident quite early in the band's development. I didn't have a crush on the EasyBeats, but they were most certainly my favourite Australian band of the time.
Sorry, Octavia, I don't find anything about bats sweet. I have been watching a program about Zoo babies, it seems to satisfy that maternal quality. Have you seen it? The program last night was about a baby snow leopard and a dog who were playmates and four gorgeous little lion cubs. Now I am getting clucky....
Byron was regarded as a kind of rock star in his day. It is easy to see (and read) why.
Get well soon, Octavia. Did you have two flu injections?
-
Barb - You were curious about the transmission of the LyssaVirus, also known as the Hendra virus. I hesitate to include the nasty aspect of transmission in a Discussion that is more concerned with the beauty of words.
Transmission
While the exact route of infection is not known, it is thought that horses may contract Hendra virus infection from eating food recently contaminated by flying fox urine, saliva or birth products. Spread of infection to other horses can then follow. Spread happens more often when the sick horse is kept with other horses in a stable, but is possible wherever horses have close contact with secretions from an infected horse. Small amounts of virus may be present in a horse’s body fluids, particularly nasal secretions, for a few days before they become sick.
-
GERMS
~ by Walt Whitman (1819 - 1892)
FORMS, qualities, lives, humanity, language, thoughts,
The ones known, and the ones unknown—the ones on the stars,
The stars themselves, some shaped, others unshaped,
Wonders as of those countries—the soil, trees, cities, inhabitants, whatever they may
be,
Splendid suns, the moons and rings, the countless combinations and effects;
Such-like, and as good as such-like, visible here or anywhere, stand provided for in a
handful
of space, which I extend my arm and half enclose with my hand;
That contains the start of each and all—the virtue, the germs of all.
-
I Hate Germs
~ by David Keig
i hate germs
they're nasty things
they're spread by kissing
and mozzie stings.
so i don't kiss
nor go outside
i sit at home
with the door shut tight.
i cook my food
for hours and hours
i avoid preservatives
and wheat and flour.
it really is quite boring
and i'm not happy
but those nasty germs
they don't get me.
-
Germs
All germy people
cough and sneeze.
They do not bother
To cover these.
They spread their germs
About in the air,
Making everyone sick
With colds and despair.
So, I’ll give you a message
Please listen here,
Do what I tell you
And others won’t fear
—germs.
Cover your mouth!
Cover your nose!
Use a clean tissue
For all your blows!
© 2007 Jeanette Cooper
-
(http://seniorlearn.org/bookclubs/poetry/springpoetry.jpg)
| Join Us! For a Summer of PoetryFlowers~ Jessi Lane Adams
Have you ever seen a flower down
Sometimes angels skip around
And in their blissful state of glee
Bump into a daisy or sweet pea.
- Famous Poets and Poems about Summer (http://famouspoetsandpoems.com/thematic_poems/summer_poems.html)
- Link to: Summer Poems (http://poetry.about.com/od/ourpoemcollections/a/summerpoems.htm)
~~~ Discussion Leaders: Barb (augere@ix.netcom.com) &Fairanna
|
-
Summer Sadness
~ Stéphane Mallarmé
The sun, on the sand, O sleeping wrestler,
Warms a languid bath in the gold of your hair,
Melting the incense on your hostile features,
Mixing an amorous liquid with the tears.
The immutable calm of this white burning,
O my fearful kisses, makes you say, sadly,
‘Will we ever be one mummified winding,
Under the ancient sands and palms so happy?’
But your tresses are a tepid river,
Where the soul that haunts us drowns, without a shiver
And finds the Nothingness you cannot know!
I’ll taste the unguent of your eyelids’ shore,
To see if it can grant to the heart, at your blow,
The insensibility of stones and the azure.
-
OCTAVIA, I really enjoyed the visit to Herrick and Byron. So restful, somehow.
I am astounded. I never would have thought germs would be a topic for poetry! It
it apparent that ANYTHING is grist for the poet's mill. (My cliche for the day.)
-
Sounds like those "germs" poems could have been written by Howie Mandel. LOL
-
Well it was an effort to pay tribute to the experience that the horses in Australia are going through - however, what amazed me is how today the word Germ brings up all these nasty self-protective thoughts where as, in Whitman's day - a man who assisted the wounded in the Civil War and would have seen the damage to open wounds although, the information may not yet have been discovered how to protect a wound or surgery from germs - in any event his concept of germs was more the wonderment of the browsing mind as if from the heavens new ideas became the germ of a new wonderment allowing our lives to be more - more beautiful, safer, healthier, profitable - the nineteenth century changed our world from the land to ideas and machines didn't it.
Walking last night I looked up at the sky and was uplifted remembering Whitman and others who could bring to us the astonishing wonderment of the universe.
Babi brings up the point though - do we want our poets to write about the wondrous and glorify its beauty or is our everyday bumping against life something we expect poets to make a statement that we can all agree with their viewpoint. Haha sounds like the question being explored in this month's Book Club selection - The Novel Bookstore...
-
Wondrous Moment
by Alexander Pushkin
The wondrous moment of our meeting...
I well remember you appear
Before me like a vision fleeting,
A beauty's angel pure and clear.
In hopeless ennui surrounding
The worldly bustle, to my ear
For long your tender voice kept sounding,
For long in dreams came features dear.
Time passed. Unruly storms confounded
Old dreams, and I from year to year
Forgot how tender you had sounded,
Your heavenly features once so dear.
My backwoods days dragged slow and quiet-
Dull fence around, dark vault above-
Devoid of God and uninspired,
Devoid of tears, of fire, of love.
Sleep from my soul began retreating,
And here you once again appear
Before me like a vision fleeting,
A beauty's angel pure and clear.
In ecstasy the heart is beating,
Old joys for it anew revive;
Inspired and God-filled, it is greeting
The fire, and tears, and love alive.
-
When I heard the Learn’d Astronomer
~ By Walt Whitman
WHEN I heard the learn’d astronomer;
When the proofs, the figures, were ranged in columns before me;
When I was shown the charts and the diagrams, to add, divide, and measure them;
When I, sitting, heard the astronomer, where he lectured with much applause in the lecture-room,
How soon, unaccountable, I became tired and sick;
Till rising and gliding out, I wander’d off by myself,
In the mystical moist night-air, and from time to time,
Look’d up in perfect silence at the stars.
-
Barb - I loved the Walt Whitman. He summed up just what I sometimes think about all this science (I am surrounded - all my husband's family are scientists or mathematicians). Sometimes you just want to look at the stars.
Rosemary
-
Well put, ROSEMARY.
Our 4th is now past, but I think this deserves to be said.
"You have to love a nation that celebrates its independence every July 4th, not with a parade of guns, tanks, and soldiers who file by the White House in a show of strength and muscle, but with family picnics where kids throw Frisbees, the potato salad gets iffy, and the flies die from happiness. You may think you have overeaten, but it is patriotism." - Erma Bombeck
And arund here, this poem for summer is particularly apt.
"In lang, lang days o' simmer,
When the clear and cloudless sky
Refuses ae weep drap o' rain
To Nature parched and dry,
The genial night, wi' balmy breath,
Gars verdue, spring anew,
An' ilka blade o' grass
Keps its ain drap o' dew." - James Ballantine
-
Perfect Babi :-*
-
If I can stop one Heart from breaking
I shall not live in vain
If I can ease one Life the Aching
Or cool one Pain
Or help one fainting Robin
Unto his Nest again
I shall not live in Vain.
Emily Dickinson
How do you do that - stop a heart from breaking - too often I feel helpless - I can comfort and nurture but, to stop a heart from breaking - I do not know - I can offer my view point but that may not be what a breaking heart needs to hear - I can listen but to stop a heart from breaking I have no answers and to just listen - is that enough?
I can even turn it around as we learn all of life is a mirror for us to see within ourselves - can I stop my heart from breaking - I have no clue what is involved to stop a heart from breaking. Maybe that is the answer - it is not up to us to stop a heart from breaking - some of life breaks the heart and to ward off the breaking is to not live a full life. It hurts yes, but then as the old song goes we were never promised a rose garden.
Maybe, for me anyhow, what would allow me not to live in vein is to give courage to someone whose heart is breaking so they can feel the pain of their broken heart rather than hide the pain with all sorts of obsessions like drugs, blame, drink, self-destruction, winning, eating, isolating... on and on with too many ways we 'use' to hide from our pain.
-
True, BARB. Pain and heartbreak are a part of life. There are some kinds of
heartbreak that might be avoided, though. To help someone attain their dream
when losing it would mean heartbreak, ..that's possible. To warn someone of
a danger before they get badly hurt. But once the dream is lost or the hurt
is given, there is no help for it but to live through it.
-
short and pithy but says a lot...
Risk
~ by Anais Nin
And then the day came,
when the risk
to remain tight
in a bud
was more painful
than the risk
it took
to Blossom.
-
Indeed,...and true time and time again.
-
Blyton cum Laughton Church of England Primary School Students
Georgia - A River's Life
Lashing and splashing
As the water descends
Rushing and gliding
As it hits the rocks
Bashing and crashing
Getting nearer and nearer
Thudding and crunching
As it hits the rocks
Dancing and prancing
As it meanders through the land
Flowing and colliding
Getting slower and slower
Steady and friendly
Getting to the end of its life
Gracefully and lazily
Dying slower and slower.
Darrion - Rivers
Racing, speeding down the hill
Splashing, crashing,
Gushing and rushing
Meandering through every bend
Picking up speed
Lashing and smashing its way through the valley.
Hurdling its way down the river
Travelling through all the mountains at high speed,
Dying as the day disappears through the week
Delicately getting weaker as it travels
Getting more and more lazy carrying on until ...
Until it faces the end of its journey heading for the sea
As it glides gracefully until it slows down
And then faces its death trickling into the sea to its Doom!
Elizabeth - Rivers
Bubbling up and out of the ground
Gurgling and giggling as it starts its journey down the hill.
Rushing and raging rapidly down the mountain
As wild as it could be.
It's so strong it can pull you under.
It channels through the land
Snaking through the hills
Skating round the mountains.
As the currents glide into each other
Slowly dying towards the sea it goes.
Splitting from its family and friends,
Never to see them again.
Slowly flowing into the sea.
Eleanor - 'A River's Life
Fast running down the hilltops
Crashing, hitting the river bed
Jumping from rock to rock
Diving into the river
Cutting and splashing all the way down.
Speedily flowing around the jagged rocks
Dangerous and deadly
as it throws itself down mini waterfalls.
Powerful, rough and bubbly as it gets older.
As it meanders downwards the roughness
slowly leaves as it gets older it gets wider and …
Slower forcing itself to carry on
dancing carefully along the seabed.
As it flows delicately
all tired and drowsy
so peaceful and caring
steadily flowing down
an elderly river.
Imran - 'Rivers'
It races down the hills that rock smasher
going faster and faster
taking treasures with her
flowing elegantly through
the scenery of the countryside
going from town to town
city to city
Eventually ends her journey in the glittering blue sea.
-
Remarkable. I wonder if any of our schools are encouraging young students to write poetry.
Who knws what gems they might find and what hidden springs might be opened.
-
That's an awful lot of water Barbara :)
I must admit I've never thought of a river's entry into the sea as a death before.
I liked the last paragraph of A River's Life,"so tired and drowsy', it was soothing and gentle.
Sadly, many of the descriptions would be painful for Australians who suffered in the floods. I don't think they will ever recover all the bodies, but the human spirit is very resilient and towns are slowly rebuilding.
-
Remember "Old Man River", from "Showboat"? It's longer than I realized, but it does express
it's time and people most poignantly.
Ol' man river,
Dat ol' man river
He mus'know sumpin'
But don't say nuthin',
He jes'keeps rollin'
He keeps on rollin' along.
He don' plant taters/tators,
He don't plant cotton,
An' dem dat plants'em
is soon forgotten,
But ol'man river,
He jes keeps rollin'along.
You an'me, we sweat an' strain,
Body all achin' an' racket wid pain,
Tote dat barge!
Lif' dat bale!
Git a little drunk
An' you land in jail.
Ah gits weary
An' sick of tryin'
Ah'm tired of livin'
An' skeered of dyin',
But ol' man river,
He jes'keeps rolling' along.
[Colored folks work on de Mississippi,
Colored folks work while de white folks play,
Pullin' dose boats from de dawn to sunset,
Gittin' no rest till de judgement day.
Don't look up
An' don't look down,
You don' dast make
De white boss frown.
Bend your knees
An'bow your head,
An' pull date rope
Until you' dead.)
Let me go 'way from the Mississippi,
Let me go 'way from de white man boss;
Show me dat stream called de river Jordan,
Dat's de ol' stream dat I long to cross.
O' man river,
Dat ol' man river,
He mus'know sumpin'
But don't say nuthin'
He jes' keeps rollin'
He keeps on rollin' along.
Long ol' river forever keeps rollin' on...
He don' plant tater,
He don' plant cotton,
An' dem dat plants 'em
Is soon forgotten,
but ol' man river,
He jes' keeps rollin' along.
Long ol' river keeps hearing dat song.
You an' me, we sweat an' strain,
Body all achin an' racked wid pain.
Tote dat barge!
Lif' dat bale!
Git a little drunk
An' you land in jail.
Ah, gits weary
An' sick of tryin'
Ah'm tired of livin'
An' skeered of dyin',
But ol' man river,
He jes'keeps rollin' along!
-
Thanks Babi - that was a wonderful song sung by many a deep voice whose rendition brought them to fame - that whole score is one wonderful song after the other isn't it.
Octavia I loved the concept of old age being the widening of the river before it mixes into the larger body of water - I like that idea of death that we mix into some larger firmament.
We do not associate Poe with poems of nature but he wrote about the river as a metaphor to one of the daughter's of his adoptive parents.
To the River
~ Edgar Allan Poe
FAIR river! in thy bright, clear flow
Of crystal, wandering water,
Thou art an emblem of the glow
Of beauty - the unhidden heart -
The playful maziness of art
In old Alberto's daughter;
But when within thy wave she looks -
Which glistens then, and trembles -
Why, then, the prettiest of brooks
Her worshipper resembles;
For in my heart, as in thy stream,
Her image deeply lies -
His heart which trembles at the beam
Of her soul-searching eyes.
-
A little coincidence here. I have asked my daughter to have inscribed on my gravestone "Like a River to the Sea". I asked her to do that for me 10 years ago. Obviously, I love the concept too.
My inspiration not a poem, but a song.
U2
The Joshua Tree (1987)
One Tree Hill
We turn away to face the cold, enduring chill
As the day begs the night for mercy
Your sun so bright it leaves no shadows, only scars
Carved into stone on the face of earth
The moon is up and over One Tree Hill
We see the sun go down in your eyes
You ran like river to the sea
Like a river to the sea
And in our world a heart of darkness, a firezone
Where poets speak their hearts, then bleed for it
Jara sang, his song a weapon, in the hands of love
You know his blood still cries from the ground
It runs like a river to the sea
Like a river to the sea
I don't believe in painted roses or bleeding hearts
While bullets rape the night of the merciful
I'll see you again when the stars fall from the sky
And the moon has turned red over One Tree Hill
We run like a river to the sea
Like a river to the sea
-
I know this is not a poem, but yesterday I went for a long walk along the Waters of Leith - the river that rises in the Pentlands and meanders through Edinburgh to join the sea at Leith
http://www.edinburghspotlight.com/2010/04/photo-walk-water-of-leith-balerno-to-slateford/
I usually walk the part from the city to Leith (because my favourite coffee shop is at the other end...) but this time I walked inland. The river passes through Dean Village, a lovely old part of Edinburgh and quite unlike anywhere else in the city - it was baking hot, the sky was blue, and I felt as if I was in one of those French or Italian villages, in the afternoon when everywhere is closed and everyone is eating or sleeping
http://www.stuckonscotland.co.uk/pictures/edinburgh/dean_village_10.jpg
http://www.stuckonscotland.co.uk/pictures/edinburgh/dean_village_03.jpg
The river then goes through some not particularly lovely housing estates - children had climbed down the banks and were having a great time splashing in the water or trying to fish. After a while, the river goes through Craiglockhart and Colinton Dells, two beautifully wooded areas with grassy bits by the water where people were having picnics or just enjoying the day. All along the walk I saw a heron fishing, a song thrush catching a worm, and several tiny white butterflies, and met lots of happy dogs who'd been for a dip to cool down. Last year someone spotted an otter and her baby on the river - it was the first time otters had been seen for many years owing to pollution, but it seems they are now back.
In Colinton Village, which is very smart and home to JK Rowling, Ian Rankin and Alexander McCall Smith, I took the bus back to the city. The river gives so much pleasure to so many people. Here is one of my favourite chapters from The Wind In The Willows, which is of course all about a river:
http://www.cleavebooks.co.uk/grol/grahame/wind07.htm
Rosemary
-
What a lovely walk, ROSEMARY. I took the time to enjoy my visual stroll. I'm delighted to hear otters may be returning. They are such playful animal and a joy to watch.
-
Oh Rosemary thanks - what a gift to read first thing this morning - one of my very favorite's is the Wind in the Willows and the follow-up Willow series written by William Harwood with permission from the Grahame family - The description of the river in Chapter seven is the best - can you imagine being a young child and having this story read to you with all the wonder of it wrapped in the voice of the adult reader.
And to celebrate the Leith is nineteenth century poet, William McGonagall considered the 'worst poet' but beloved for the devotion he puts into his poems about things held tight in Scotland.
The River of Leith
~ William McGonagall
As I stood upon the Dean Bridge and viewed the beautiful scenery,
I felt fascinated and my heart was full of glee,
And I exclaimed in an ecstasy of delight,
In all my travels I never saw such a sight.
The scenery is so enchanting to look upon
That all tourists will say, "Dull care, be gone."
'Tis certainly a most lovely spot,
And once seen it can never be forgot.
Then away! away! to the River of Leith,
That springs from the land of heather and heath,
And view the gorgeous scenery on a fine summer day.
I'm sure it will drive dull care away.
The water-fall near the Bridge is most beautiful to be seen,
As it falls and shines like crystal in the sunsheen;
And the sound can be heard all day long,
While the innocent trouts sing an aquatic song.
The glen is a cool spot in the summer time.
There the people can be shaded from the sunshine
Under the spreading branches of the big trees,
And there's seats there to rest on if they please.
Then near St. Bernard's Well there's a shady bower,
Where the lovers, if they like, can spend an hour;
And while they rest there at their ease
They can make love to each other if they please.
The water of St. Bernard's Well is very nice,
But to get a drink of it one penny is the price.
I think in justice the price is rather high,
To give a penny for a drink when one feels dry.
The braes of the River Leith is most charming to be seen,
With its beautiful trees and shrubberies green,
And as the tourist gazes on the river in the valley below,
His heart with joy feels all aglow.
There the little trouts do sport and play
During the live-long summer day,
While the bee and butterfly is on the wing,
And with the singing of birds the glen doth ring.
The walk underneath the Dean Bridge is lovely to see.
And as ye view the scenery it will fill your heart with glee.
It is good for the people's health to be walking there
As they gaze on the beauties of Nature and inhale pure air.
The Dean Bridge is a very magnificent sight,
Because from the basement it is a great height.
And it seems most attractive to the eye,
And arrests the attention of strangers as they pass by.
The braes of Belgrave Crescent is lovely to see,
With its beautiful walks and green shrubbery.
'Tis health for the people that lives near by there
To walk along the bonny walks and breathe the sweet air.
Therefore all lovers of the picturesque, bo advised by me
And the beautiful scenery of the River Leith go and see,
And I am sure you will get a very great treat,
Because the River of Leith scenery cannot be beat.
-
Barb - that is hilarious, and sounds just like the language of Oswald, the schoolboy narrator of The Wouldbegoods (and The Treasure Seekers), by EE Nesbit, which I am currently reading and which is laugh out loud funny.
Thanks for that,
Rosemary
PS - I've always loved the chapter about Portly, the lost little otter, and the Piper - apparently some people think it's too whimsical and doesn't sit well with the rest of the book, but for me it's one of the best bits.
-
Terrible poet, Mr. McGonagall, but a lovely river. River does sometimes seem a
misnomer, tho'. There seem to be spots where it's little more than a stream.
Here's a poem by a new poet, to me. Brooks Haxton, from Tennessee.
The last bit was a surprise.
Deaf
Deep calleth unto deep at the noise of thy
waterspouts. Psalm 42
The waterfall in sunlight is God
talking to herself. Her voice
poured into the trees asks
nothing, to prove nothing,
and her way of asking
says by overflowing what
may not be said. The stream
unbroken at the rock’s
edge bursts with downflung
beads where daylight bursts
and drops. Though deaf, I listen
through my shoesoles, through
the stone ledge, into the water,
thrumming, into the spray and light.
-
Interesting Babi - this poem with these lines is the first I have a real glimps into the world of the deaf - I realize this is not about memory - the memory of sounds but I could almost at first a muffled silence than I could get to a real silence where senses send messages - I could feel the vibration in my feet and what it would be like to feel the water and warm light on my face - I often take a walk at night and can tell that it is night by the difference in sounds - I need to take a night walk and feel the air - I do like looking at the moon and stars but what else am I missing. .
Though deaf, I listen
through my shoesoles, through
the stone ledge, into the water,
thrumming, into the spray and light.
Rosemary not to be-labor children's stories but the Brambly Hedge stories and art work is another delight - not as deep and filling as the Willows but a delight - I've the tea pot, cups, desert dishes, collector plates and two mugs for my coffee that feature the art work from the Brambly Hedge - Haven't pulled them out in awhile - need to do that...
But back to the willows -
The narrator, Kenneth Grahame, emerges from darkness into the attic.
He is elderly, tweedy, and has a copy of The Wind in the Willows in one hand.
He looks around him, then out at the audience.
I thought you'd come. I've been expecting you.
You'll want to know first what I'm doing here,
And who I am. That's fair. That's reasonable -
Although I warn you, reason's not the only thing
I look for in this world... Where was I now?
Yes, that right. Here I am. Just here. Awake
But dreaming. In the attic of my home -
As I am often when the evening falls,
And nothing is quite certain any more.
Is this grey twilight or the dusty air?
You see? You can't be sure. And nothing's sure
Inside my head. I'm like a ghost that floats
Between two worlds: one real and definite,
The other... Well, let's call the other
Opposite: a dream-world. That will do.
You don't believe me? Let me prove it then.
I wrote this book. I wrote it years ago,
And when I tell you that its characters
Are not a man and woman but a Mole
A Water-rat, a Badger, and so on,
You might suppose it's nothing but a lie.
And that's my point. It is a lie. A lie.
A most delicious lie and full of truth.
The narrator starts to read, then looks up.
If I can't make you understand I'm sure
The creatures I invented will oblige.
So let them rise again! Let time roll back
And sunlight, not this graveyard-attic-light,
But silken early sunlight ripple down!
Let Mole peep from his burrow
At the sudden brazenness, and Otter
And the whole quick rabbit-clan!
Let Ratty paddle into view, and let
His river-currents play at fast and loose!
Let Toad Hall stand there on its eminence!
Yes let all this return! Return, and live
As new and easy as the warming wind
Which - listen! - strikes the willow-wands and draws
A shower of music from their silver strings.
-
Barb - my daughters loved Bramley Hedge when they were little - we still have the books and I agree, the artwork is a joy to behold. I'm looking forward to seeing all these old books of mine when we get our boxes out of storage.
Rosemary
-
BARB, what a pleasure reading Graham Greene's introduction of his book to his audience. You
have to love the man!
-
babi - Not all Graham's are the same ;)
-
Oh, blast! My brain pulled another switch on me! Kenneth Grahame, of course. My own
brand of 'free association', I suppose. :-[
-
Babi - Luv u, babe!
-
well quite a weekend - I would get up do a bit - maybe post here or there and back to bed - It was headache, tummy upset, and some ache and pain with heavy breathing - turned out had in infection that went to my lungs - sheesh - I realize now, all that walking last week was in the driest, dust covered and ceder filled parks that are simply bits of land left in their native condition which here means, Ceder, Prickly Pear cactus, Yucca and Spanish Daggers with maybe a Live Oak struggling amidst all the acid rain that flows after the rain hits the Ceder - Ceder and I have never been friends so I bet that was the culprit.
Pray to What Earth Does This Sweet Cold Belong
~ Henry David Thoreau
Pray to what earth does this sweet cold belong,
Which asks no duties and no conscience?
The moon goes up by leaps, her cheerful path
In some far summer stratum of the sky,
While stars with their cold shine bedot her way.
The fields gleam mildly back upon the sky,
And far and near upon the leafless shrubs
The snow dust still emits a silver light.
Under the hedge, where drift banks are their screen,
The titmice now pursue their downy dreams,
As often in the sweltering summer nights
The bee doth drop asleep in the flower cup,
When evening overtakes him with his load.
By the brooksides, in the still, genial night,
The more adventurous wanderer may hear
The crystals shoot and form, and winter slow
Increase his rule by gentlest summer means.
-
Elegance
~ By Linda Gregg
All that is uncared for.
Left alone in the stillness
in that pure silence married
to the stillness of nature.
A door off its hinges,
shade and shadows in an empty room.
Leaks for light. Raw where
the tin roof rusted through.
The rustle of weeds in their
different kinds of air in the mornings,
year after year.
A pecan tree, and the house
made out of mud bricks. Accurate
and unexpected beauty, rattling
and singing. If not to the sun,
then to nothing and to no one.
-
~ by Abbot Henjo:
“If the winds of heaven
Would only blow shut the doors
Of the corridors
Of the clouds, I could
Keep these beautiful girls
For a little while.”
-
Hope you are feeling better Barb - I never knew you could catch something like that from cedar trees!
Rosemary
-
Thanks for your good wishes - Rosemary it is called allergies - my lungs have been my weak spot - when 6 months old I had whooping cough and that led to Bronchitis which when aggravated by allergies have a field day... an allergy attack leads to the infection and so it goes...had it under control for years and then three years ago I neglected to get my flu shot and of course got the flu - ever since my chest rattles and rolls like it did when I was a kid which means these allergy bell ringing field days are more frequent - mold, cat dander, cedar (actually Mexican Juniper but locally called cedar}, spruce, lilies, strawberries, penicillin, and processed cheese are the big ones.
-
I hope you're feeling a little better, Barb. Have plenty of rest and indulge yourself.
I liked Elegance,
'In that pure silence, married to the stillness of nature'.
I've experienced that silence, it's a lovely feeling.
-
Sorry to hear you're not well, BARB. Bed is definitely the best place to be.
Take care of yourself; we can always muddle about while you get well.
-
Barb - Please take care of yourself.
-
Yes Barb, remember what happened the last time you were absent. The Australians invaded :)
-
(http://seniorlearn.org/bookclubs/poetry/springpoetry.jpg)
| Join Us! For a Summer of PoetryFlowers~ Jessi Lane Adams
Have you ever seen a flower down
Sometimes angels skip around
And in their blissful state of glee
Bump into a daisy or sweet pea.
- Famous Poets and Poems about Summer (http://famouspoetsandpoems.com/thematic_poems/summer_poems.html)
- Link to: Summer Poems (http://poetry.about.com/od/ourpoemcollections/a/summerpoems.htm)
~~~ Discussion Leaders: Barb (augere@ix.netcom.com) &Fairanna
|
-
Maybe I should be absent more often ;) - invasions are fun - we learn a lot about each other and having an invasion of Australian poets or even poets from that sector of the globe would be a wonderful gift. We often have posted some Chinese poetry that was translated but there are many nations close to Australia that you may have access to the poetry translated that we do not easily find.
I did find this one from Indonesia...
Jogging in Jakarta
~ by Toeti Heraty
Walking at dawn through the city
without a recent map seems strange.
The streets have been renamed until
all the dead heroes have been used up;
roads, alleyways, streets
are commands and unfulfilled promises
incisions into the heart;
the city's streets on my old discoloured map
are lonely.
Yes
the streets are still empty of traffic.
People hurry along, eager
to rid themselves of the dead weights they're carrying.
Mimosa flowers are trampled, scattered,
their fragrance dispersed with the dew.
Now
the city wakes up to a brightening day
street lights suddenly pale
the odd anarchic car speeds in violation
of road signs and regulations.
Get out of the way -
here is a trishaw loaded with vegetables
feet pedalling urgently
to catch the morning market customers.
Look -
on the pavement at the junction, bananas and sweet potatoes
are being fried for the construction workers
who squat and murmur
‘development is rapid, accelerating, sustained'
as long as there's a kick-back.
The city's cleanliness is guaranteed: cigarette stubs
are picked up carefully, none left behind,
by the basket-carrying brigade
shades, silhouettes sticking close to the trees,
rubbish dumps and open drains
eyes fixed on the ground, expertly
picking up stubs with makeshift tweezers.
It will be broad daylight any moment, traffic relentless,
driven by the demands of work. The forsaken map
between the National Monument, the Fountain, the bridges
towards Kebayoran and Kuningan,
is tattered, like an aged heart with dark passages
where the flow is blocked, then stops.
Karet, Menteng, Pulo, Tanah Kusir . . . whatever happens
may I be laid to rest - may it never come to the point of being
buried standing up, because land for graves has become so scarce.
But,
more worrying still,
suppose for whatever reason one is not buried in Jakarta
and in the morning, or at some other time
the nostalgic spirits come looking, searching
and do not recognise the city -
where is that abandoned map
with its markings, scribbles, crossings out,
map of the injuries of life?
1980
-
I loved Jogging in Jakarta, Barbara. I'd like to hear more from Toeti Heraty. I've never seen or heard of an Indonesian poet before. Strange, when they're one of our nearest neighbours, and a lot of Australians live and work there.
Names on our northern coasts, show all our contacts with the world in the past. Groote Eylandt -Dutch. The English Companys Islands(self explanatory), Cape Latouche Treville(we came so close to being a French colony). Likewise Joseph Bonaparte Gulf. Beagle Reef from Darwin. A lot of them in Gumtree's vast state.
-
I really liked "Jogging in Jakarta". Would you believe, tho', that the lines
that really caught my attention were: "The city's cleanliness is guaranteed:
cigarette stubs are picked up carefully, none left behind, by the basket-carrying
brigade."
They are definitely one-up on us in that regard.
-
Tetrad
~ by Shane Parker
In the shadow of breath,
in the throat of darkness
there was a slow ululation,
building through the empty cavity
where naught but the vapid wind
blew unheard.
Suddenly, in the waste of never,
a symbol crash, followed by three more.
They resounded through the deep, cool darkness,
awakening....awakening...
Forever was given lease unto all.
Gaeden was formed in the upper cleaves
of the tempest range,
where silver silk hung loose and thrummed
like a garland of living energy.
This world was kept by he who sets the sun
into the rim, tucking it away,
and then at his will, placing it
for unclouded eyes to see and treasure.
This world was green and vast,
regal and disciplined.
Life sang its sweet, angelic lullabies.
Mir, formed in the palatial space
between the twin spirals of miracuul.
The left, reaching into always and forever,
the right, reaching merely towards
where the eye can see, the inferior brother,
shamed for whatever obligatory reason.
This world was as silver as laughter,
as bright as a fallowed spring
and the grinning Aihr held it aloft
over a river of icy-green dust,
regarding it with shimmering eyes.
Life shone brighter here than anywhere else.
Earth, in the Milky way,
was blinked into existence.
Destined for the rising of Lord, God,
YHWH, the frock worn by none yet,
cloaking the world,
fluttered in the breath of wind
that still shook through forever,
an omen of the deep and beautiful sentinel
that was to come, when it’s creatures
could flourish.
But for now, it was merely a ball of ebony,
lost in its little corner of the cosmos.
YHWH had not yet touched it.
Life caressed the tender edges of its borders,
not yet ready to embrace it. Not yet ready
for the breath of holy wind.
And finally, forming the tetrad,
was Nyaerlok...a dead space of elemental hate.
Something so blind and vast, reaching
across to the other worlds with gnarled,
shadowy fingers and affecting the flux
of all creation to come.
A catatonic thing, with no form to speak of,
but nonetheless it drank the light
from all things around it.
Seeing past all things, present,
future, and past,
it simply was. It simply knew.
Ahnrakahn scuttled and skiffed around its breadth,
teaching it the ways of suffering,
gloating about, as unformed as the space itself,
whispering savagely into nothingness.
Unlife pulsed in ragged, thunderous baratones.
This, the tetrad, would remain
and change...interluding between the
shuddering, half crazed breaths of inspiration
and the resounding scream of realization.
But forever the void will persist.
The void is dark.
The void is frenzy.
-
Surely, the poet meant cymbal crash!
Nyaerlok...Ahnrakahn...are these beings from some mythology I've never heard of before, or purely the invention of Shane Parker? A very vivid poem, but a bit
dark and oppressive. Likening evil to a sentient black hole..? Imaginative.
-
Like you I do not know Babi who the characters are she mentions - I Googled the names and found one or two matches to the Soviet space program that could fit as a metaphor or adding to the flavor and sound - since I only recently learned the word Tetrad I wanted to find out if any poet had used the word and went online to see and this was what I came up with - she has established a mood and she brings you along almost delighting in the darkness wondering what will be her next turn of phrase - I do not see it as a poem for the ages but I thought it was a worthwhile poem to tuck into our memory.
-
William Blake is another find poet who can get really dark in his work. But always
memorable. This short poem has proved to be highly quotable. I know you're
all familiar with this one.
From Milton
And did those feet in ancient time
Walk upon England's mountain green?
And was the holy Lamb of God
On England's pleasant pastures seen?
And did the countenance Divini
Shine forth upon our clouded hills?
And was Jerusalem builded here
Among these dark Satanic mills?
Bring me my bow of burning gold!
Bring me my arrows of desire!
Bring me my spear! O clouds, unfold!
Bring me my chariot of fire!
I will not cease from mental fight,
Nor shall my sword sleep in my hand,
Till we have built Jerusalem
In England's green and pleasant land.
-
Goodness me Babi - that brings back many school speech days!
Rosemary
-
Forme, it evokes memories of Diana's funeral.Or was that another poem about walking on England's green land?
-
Have you'all had the experience of having certain lines or a tune stick in your head and you
couldn't get rid of it? Usually, something very silly? Well, of course you have.
Right now I am re-reading "Dancing at The Rascal Fair" for the August book discussion. It's
just as enjoyable this time, but 'rascal fair' inserted an old ditty in my brain that keeps butting
in. Remember 'animal fair'?
I went to the animal fair.
The birds and the beasts were there.
The big baboon by the light of the moon
Was combing his auburn hair.
The monkey he got drunk,
Slid down the elephant's trunk.
The elephant sneezed,
Went down on his kneew,
And that was the end of the monk, the monk, the monk!
-
Show Off ;D
-
My mother taught me that song, more years ago than I'd like to think about! LOL
-
Ahhhh! I love this one.
THE DEFINITION OF LOVE.
by Andrew Marvell
I.
MY Love is of a birth as rare
As 'tis, for object, strange and high ;
It was begotten by Despair,
Upon Impossibility.
II.
Magnanimous Despair alone
Could show me so divine a thing,
Where feeble hope could ne'er have flown,
But vainly flapped its tinsel wing.
III.
And yet I quickly might arrive
Where my extended soul is fixed ;
But Fate does iron wedges drive,
And always crowds itself betwixt.
IV.
For Fate with jealous eye does see
Two perfect loves, nor lets them close ;
Their union would her ruin be,
And her tyrannic power depose.
V.
And therefore her decrees of steel
Us as the distant poles have placed,
(Though Love's whole world on us doth wheel),
Not by themselves to be embraced,
VI.
Unless the giddy heaven fall,
And earth some new convulsion tear.
And, us to join, the world should all
Be cramp'd into a planisphere.
VII.
As lines, so love's oblique, may well
Themselves in every angle greet :
But ours, so truly parallel,
Though infinite, can never meet.
VIII.
Therefore the love which us doth bind,
But Fate so enviously debars,
Is the conjunction of the mind,
And opposition of the stars.
--------------------------------------------------------------------------------
Source:
Marvell, Andrew. The Poems of Andrew Marvell.
G. A. Aitken, Ed. London: Lawrence & Bullen, 1892. 73-74.
--------------------------------------------------------------------------------
Comes from a stunning site for The Metaphysical Poets
www.luminarium.org
-
What a great site, ROSHANA! I've tagged it for my favorites list.
-
Has anyone heard anything about Barbara? It's been a while since she posted and she had been under the weather with a touch of bronchitis or was it pneumonia? Or maybe her sister needs her at present. Just wondering if she is OK.
-
Gumtree - I had been wondering also. Hope she is fine. Babi often knows what is happening with Barb.
-
Not this time, ROSE. I'll make a point of contacting her to see how she is doing. Meanwhile,
I found this by one of our newer Texas poets.
An Old-Fashioned Song,
by John Hollander.
No more walks in the wood:
The trees have all been cut
Down, and where once they stood
Not even a wagon rut
Appears along the path
Low brush is taking over.
No more walks in the wood;
This is the aftermath
Of afternoons in the clover
Fields where we once made love
Then wandered home together
Where the trees arched above,
Where we made our own weather
When branches were the sky.
Now they are gone for good,
And you, for ill, and I
Am only a passer-by.
We and the trees and the way
Back from the fields of play
Lasted as long as we could.
No more walks in the wood.
-
I'd like to hand in my absent note :(. I have a very bad shoulder(Rheumatoid caused) and can only type by propping it up with my other arm. Unfortunately that's still too painful to keep going.
I was wondering about Barbara before I was reduced to just reading.
Such a lovely Spring-like day, what a waste!
-
OCTAVIA: I'm so sorry. I hope you can at least enjoy reading the posts.
-
Sorry to hear about that bad shoulder, OCTAVIA. That would put a serious dent
in one's activiites.
I'm sorry, but I wasn't able to try and contact Barb. I thought I had her e-mail
address from the last time she contacted me, but surprisingly I don't. I'll check
with Marcie and see if she can find out anything for us. I would assume she is
able to get in contact with all the DLs.
-
Hi Octavia - How frustrating to be able to read these posts and have to endure pain in order to contribute. My best and healing wishes go to you, my friend.
-
Rose: your quote from Plato reminds me of a Chinese poem about a man who fell asleep and dreamed he was a butterfly. Waking, he didn't know whether he was a man dreaming he weas a butterfly or a butterfly dreaming it was a man.
-
JoanK - Do you happen to still have the poem?
I was very interested in Plato's Theory of Forms and often expected to see the form the ideal form of a table flying around in the sky. That's what philosophy lectures do to one :o At that stage (first year) I was not fully aware of the differences between objectivity and subjectivity. I am still working on it.
As I type this it reminded me of one of my classmates in a tutorial about Plato's Forms. She was looking very confused (we all were but trying to hide it as we knew the tutor would pick on us). I will call her A-M. Sure enough the tutor asked her if she understood the concept/ideals of Forms. Previously the tutor had been using the example of a duck, a pure duck, the original perfect duck from which all other ducks were imagined and existed. A-M asked what if the duck was a yellow rubber duck. The tutor replied, wisely, "Just think of that perfect, original and ideal yellow rubber duck from which those in your bathtub are fashioned and copied." How is it possible to make the least concrete of ideas real? A-M was acclaimed for her bravery :D
www.anselm.edu/homepage/dbanach/platform.htm
The next tutorial the tutor asked A-M if she "got" it. She had. Then the tutor asked us all "If you run a bath, how do you know it is running if you can't hear it?" We all talked about measuring the depth or marking the level on the bath when we left the room. The tutor just said "Do you always trust your senses and actions?" He was a good tutor and I learned a lot from him about teaching. Thanks Prof.
That's the reason I love Plato's quote about dreaming and waking.
-
Would I sound too presumptuous if I dared to say I can't agree with Plato's idea about the
'ideal' form? "Ideal" is so often a matter of personal perception. There is no such thing as
an "ideal" horse, for example, IMO. Horses come in all sizes, colors and temperaments, any
of which may be ideal for its purpose. The form which we all recognize as 'horse' would best
be called a guideline, IMO. The ideal form is an idea which can cause considerable grief, as
witness the millions of young women striving for the ideal figure!
-
Babi - Exactly! That is the crux of the whole matter. Thus by propounding his theory of Forms, Plato encourages us to be objective and not subjective. Upon reflection, and at the risk of being called a "show off" 8), Thomas Aquinas' Ontological argument could be regarded as a Christian extension of Plato's theory. Or for that matter, so could Buddhism.
Bloody Hell JoanK - I just split an infinitive!!!
-
BABI: When you want to boldly go where this discussion has never gone before, a few split infinitives are a small price to pay. :)
How is Buddism an extension?
-
And that, my dear JoanK, is supposed to be the most famous split infinitive: to boldly go where, etc. (from Star Trek)
And in everyone's learned messages, I finally found out what a split infinitive looks like! My lesson learned for today! Thanks to SeniorLearn. (and no, high school English/grammar is too many years in the past for me to have remembered that!)
-
JoanK - It wasn't Babi who split the infinitive, but I.
What I meant about Buddhism being an extension is that it is the most objective of philosophies. There should be no self. So if p then q. If there is no self then there is no subjectivity.
Plato, however, doesn't mention the "ideal" human in his Theory of Forms. At least I don't think so. Thinking about Babi's comment about there being a "guideline" for a horse doesn't differ so much from what Plato is saying. In his time there would be one "ideal" horse from which other horses like war horses, chariot horses, plough horses etc. would be extensions. Those horses' roles if you like are governed by their purpose. I think too we have to consider how Plato's theory works in our world. It worked neatly in his though. I love this sort of stuff. In our time the "ideal" horse form would have to be Mr Ed. Do you remember that song?
Just remember JoanK started this. ;D
-
Ah, we do find ourselves in some fascinating conversations, don't we?
What do you think of this small bit of philosophy?
A horse is the projection of peoples' dreams about themselves - strong, powerful, beautiful - and it has the capability of giving us escape from our mundane existence. ~Pam Brown
And then, there is Lord Byron...
With flowing tail and flying mane,
Wide nostrils, never stretched by pain,
Mouth bloodless to bit or rein,
And feet that iron never shod,
And flanks unscar'd by spur or rod
A thousand horses - the wild - the free -
Like waves that follow o'er the sea,
Came thickly thundering on.Lord Byron
-
All this talk of horses...would so much like to see the Broadway production of War Horse. Did any of you see the story on CBS Sunday Morning? So realistic, so incredibly sad.
-
Sorry, ROSE. I'll split an infinitive with you anytime!
-
they are making a movie of "War Horse" coming out December.
-
Ok JoanK - I hope we never split :D
Coincidentally I have been looking for books on war horses. The War Horse you mentioned is I think about a horse that was part of the cavalry for the Somme. (I could be way off here).
For some truly gorgeous horse and animal photography see
www.timflach.com
I have a suspicion that Plato's horse may be one of these.
Tim Flach has a book of horse photographs called "Equus". Bit pricey for me at $100.00.
-
ROSE, I found some information about books/exhiibits re. horses, but no
photographs at all in that link. Sorry I missed them; horses are so beautiful.
Well, most of them. :)
-
Babi - Try again - this time double click portfolio and see what is there. If that doesn't work I will attempt to track down more of his photographs.
-
Babi - go into the link - you should see a dog walking across the screen, seen from beneath.
www.timflach.com
Then you will see a line of sublinks like Portfolio, books etc.
Double click Portfolio
Next to Portfolio appears three words and Equus is one of them.
Click on Equus and soon some beautiful horse shots will appear.
They are well worth a look. Magnificent in every way. But not just the pretty horses of the world.
-
Thanks, ROSE. I found them this time; such beautiful horses! I had been
looking under 'Exhibitions' instead of 'Portfolio'.
Marcie said she would try to get in touch with Barb and find out how she is
doing. I fear something must be wrong or we would have heard something from
her by now. A prayer for her health and well-being couldn't be amiss.
-
Barb has been in my thoughts for a while now. I wish her well.
-
I found Barb on Facebook and sent her a message. I got a reply from her real estate assistant on 11th August, saying she "should be back in Texas this weekend" (ie the w/e just past) and that she would "leave Barb to fill us in" - so maybe we will hear from her soon, and let's hope all's well,
Rosemary
-
(http://seniorlearn.org/bookclubs/poetry/springpoetry.jpg)
| Join Us! For a Summer of PoetryFlowers~ Jessi Lane Adams
Have you ever seen a flower down
Sometimes angels skip around
And in their blissful state of glee
Bump into a daisy or sweet pea.
- Famous Poets and Poems about Summer (http://famouspoetsandpoems.com/thematic_poems/summer_poems.html)
- Link to: Summer Poems (http://poetry.about.com/od/ourpoemcollections/a/summerpoems.htm)
~~~ Discussion Leaders: Barb (augere@ix.netcom.com) &Fairanna
|
Rosemary - thanks for that update on Barb - sounds as though she herself is OK - puts our minds at rest - well, sort of.
-
Oh, I'm so glad you got that reply, ROSEMARY. She did say she had some
family business to take care of. I guess we just didn't imagine it taking this long.
Now I feel a bit foolish for becoming so concerned. (I find it easier to do that as
I grow older. :-[ )
Back to poems. I sighed over this one, considering how much we would love
to see rain here.
"Open the window, and let the air
Freshly blow upon face and hair,
And fill the room, as it fills the night,
With the breath of the rain's sweet might.
Hark! the burthen, swift and prone!
And how the odorous limes are blown!
Stormy Love's abroad, and keeps
Hopeful coil for gentle sleeps.
Not a blink shall burn to-night
In my chamber, of sordid light;
Nought will I have, not a window-pane,
'Twixt me and the air and the great good rain,
Which ever shall sing me sharp lullabies;
And God's own darkness shall close mine eyes;
And I will sleep, with all things blest,
In the pure earth-shadow of natural rest."
- James Henry Leigh Hunt, A Night Rain in Summer
-
Babi - that's not foolish at all, it's just showing kind concern for someone - I too wondered if she was OK, and that is why I had a look on Facebook. I think it's really lovely that we on this site look out for one another.
Rosemary
-
Thank you, ROSEMARY. I treasure that,too.
This seems an appropriate time for a old favorite of mine, Robert Frost. I'm
sure I've posted this before, but it is worth repeating, I think.
COME IN
As I came to the edge of the woods,
Thrush music--hark!
Now if it was dusk outside,
Inside it was dark.
Too dark in the woods for a bird
By sleight of wing
To better its perch for the night,
Though it still could sing.
The last of the light of the sun
That had died in the west
Still lived for one song more
In a thrush's breast.
Far in the pillared dark
Thrush music went--
Almost like a call to come in
To the dark and lament.
But no, I was out for stars:
I would not come in.
I meant not even if asked,
And I hadn't been.
-
I like that a lot. After dinner, I used to sit on my porch and listen to the thrush's evening song.
-
Golly you are all special and my absence happened so fast it was a whirl wind - I barely had time to notify family and left so much in the hands of a new young secretary - she is a gem.
Yep, my lungs were acting up and allergic to all but one anti-biotic it was not doing the trick - everything else that was tried the allergic reaction was more than acceptable and so to treat the reaction was not helping the problem with my lungs till the only solution suggested was I live with an oxygen tank that would have a mist of a form of the one anti-biotic I was tolerating - NOPE - I was NOT going through my life with a carry around oxygen tank - sorry that is not the quality of life I expect.
Good friends have family who live in northern New Mexico and now we joke but like thieves in the night they came whisking in one evening - packed me up and we were off by midnight back to New Mexico to meet with a native healer they knew.
Spent several days in their home and visited the healer for a healing ceremony and some individual prayer and attention to my life.
I know you are all thinking voodoo - but for me the universe is connected and our health is not a separate commodity but our body is the outward [hate using the word but it does nail it] manifestation of our thoughts, feelings, will and soul.
I was given a cure that meant taking in the fresh air of creativity and decision making that is our freedom - and that our breathe is our freedom.
In order to ground myself in my breathe - my freedom - into the moment and surrender to it I needed to be in the fresh air dependent on my creativity and decision making to survive. That our arms are a direct link to our lungs and mine had been carrying too much weight for a long time.
The antidote was to unleash my creativity in fresh air - access the creator in me - rediscover my wild self - wild creativity would heal my breathe - free myself to the moon, the universe.
Creativity as in how we live in and maneuver through an uncertain world where every choice we make has an effect on us and the world around us.
And so hacking like a bad version of a TB patient - with a low grade fever I was up for anything - if it killed me - so be it - but I had a faith in this healer plus it reminded me too much of a quote from Cormac McCarthy...
"When one has nothing left make ceremonies out of the air and breathe upon them.”
And so someone I barely knew and who became a close friend accompanied me into the mountains for a good two weeks. We had very little with us and depended on our creativity for our daily existence.
Maybe it was just a vacation I needed - or being removed from all responsibilities - who knows and at this point I do not care to track down - however, if they hadn't whisked me off to this healer I may still be exhausted from coughing and spending more time than I wanted crawling up into bed -
I cannot say I am completely cured but the pain is gone and except for waking in the morning needing to cough I have my breathe again and a realization of my capabilities, the joy of re-capturing a prayer life and the realization that to stand upright, breathing deeply, walking the paths of life as we age we must be cautious of how heavy we stuff our backpack.
If it is too full we can take a few unexpected back-steps and fall like a turtle on our backs, arms flailing trying to get back up. After removing all that we think we need to be comfortable we can try again and find we are bending low as if looking for gold - more removal.
After 20 minutes of walking our breath can come in labored gulps, our shoulders throb, hips ache leading to real discouragement questioning if our creative life-choice towards healing is too overwhelming, too difficult?
It all became a metaphor for my life - as I again left things in a stash on the side of the path - breathing freely and forced to be creative my arms dangled, swung, reached, was the handle to my hands that pounded, smoothed, tied, picked berries, flowers, pointed and were in the now taking care of me and sharing our care with my new friend.
It took days for my body to turn to rubber without aches and pains stiffening each step and lie down. My hip was grateful when we returned to town life that included things like aspirin. But I whittled past the sapwood and found my heartwood again and with it I am in awe at my breathe as my freedom - a constant reminder to live life today, creatively, rather than worrying and carrying others so they will reach their goals.
-
Barb - great to have you back. I think I understand what you are saying. I am certainly quite sure that our health is linked to all the other aspects of our lives. I hope that you continue to feel better, and not to take on too many of everyone else's burdens; I know how hard that is.
I wish you joy in your recovery, physical and spiritual.
Rosemary
-
Barbara : So good to see you once again. I knew you were having respiratory problems but thought it was pneumonia or some similar ailment. Allergies are the very devil and so often they are aggravated by stress and seemingly unrelated problems. So glad you took time to smell the daisies and let nature work its magic well away from your daily grind. Take care and don't start overloading that backpack again.
-
Ah, Barb, what an excellent lesson for all of us. I don't doubt many of us
have over-stuffed backpacks. I imagine the air of northern New Mexico is perfect
for learning to breathe again. We're so glad to have you back. Please tell your new
friend how much your old friends appreciate what she did for you.
-
We need poetry - the offerings of the past few weeks are great aren't they - Just have to start with Emily who can remind us an no other that summer is still with us...
Nature
LXIII
A SOMETHING in a summer’s day,
As slow her flambeaux burn away,
Which solemnizes me.
A something in a summer’s noon,—
An azure depth, a wordless tune,
Transcending ecstasy.
And still within a summer’s night
A something so transporting bright,
I clap my hands to see;
Then veil my too inspecting face,
Lest such a subtle, shimmering grace
Flutter too far for me.
The wizard-fingers never rest,
The purple brook within the breast
Still chafes its narrow bed;
Still rears the East her amber flag,
Guides still the sun along the crag
His caravan of red,
Like flowers that heard the tale of dews,
But never deemed the dripping prize
Awaited their low brows;
Or bees, that thought the summer’s name
Some rumor of delirium
No summer could for them;
Or Arctic creature, dimly stirred
By tropic hint,—some travelled bird
Imported to the wood;
Or wind’s bright signal to the ear,
Making that homely and severe,
Contented, known, before
The heaven unexpected came,
To lives that thought their worshipping
A too presumptuous psalm.
-
LOVE
XL
SUMMER for thee grant I may be
When summer days are flown!
Thy music still when whippoorwill
And oriole are done!
For thee to bloom, I ’ll skip the tomb
And sow my blossoms o’er!
Pray gather me, Anemone,
Thy flower forevermore!
-
Love
XIII
THERE came a day at summer’s full
Entirely for me;
I thought that such were for the saints,
Where revelations be.
The sun, as common, went abroad,
The flowers, accustomed, blew,
As if no sail the solstice passed
That maketh all things new.
The time was scarce profaned by speech;
The symbol of a word
Was needless, as at sacrament
The wardrobe of our Lord.
Each was to each the sealed church,
Permitted to commune this time,
Lest we too awkward show
At supper of the Lamb.
The hours slid fast, as hours will,
Clutched tight by greedy hands;
So faces on two decks look back,
Bound to opposing lands.
And so, when all the time had failed,
Without external sound,
Each bound the other’s crucifix,
We gave no other bond.
Sufficient troth that we shall rise—
Deposed, at length, the grave—
To that new marriage, justified
Through Calvaries of Love!
-
And a little Thoreau to wrap up the day...
I have met with but one or two persons in the course of my life who understood the art of Walking, that is, of taking walks,—who had a genius, so to speak, for sauntering: which word is beautifully derived from “idle people who roved about the country, in the Middle Ages, and asked charity, under pretence of going à la Sainte Terre,” to the Holy Land, till the children exclaimed, “There goes a Sainte-Terrer,” a Saunterer, a Holy-Lander.
They who never go to the Holy Land in their walks, as they pretend, are indeed mere idlers and vagabonds; but they who do go there are saunterers in the good sense, such as I mean.
Some, however, would derive the word form sans terre, without land or a home, which, therefore, in the good sense, will mean, having no particular home, but equally at home everywhere.
For this is the secret of successful sauntering. He who sits still in a house all the time may be the greatest vagrant of all; but the saunterer, in the good sense, is no more vagrant than the meandering river, which is all the while sedulously seeking the shortest course to the sea.
-
I love Emily. It must be nice to have summers that are so enjoyable, instead
of the staggering heat we have to avoid down South. Of course, we have the
mild winters, too. Mustn't complain.
And thank you for that lovely bit from Thoreau. The only thing of his I've read is
'On Walden Pond'. Where is this from?
-
Babi the Thoreau bit is from "Walking" - I believe you can find the book online.
Here is a different expression for summer - oh my...
Summer Droops
from Summer’s Last Will and Testament by Thomas Nashe (1600)
Fair summer droops, droop men and beasts therefore,
So fair a summer look for nevermore:
All good things vanish less than in a day,
Peace, plenty, pleasure, suddenly decay.
Go not yet away, bright soul of the sad year,
The earth is hell when thou leav’st to appear.
What, shall those flowers that decked thy garland erst,
Upon thy grave be wastefully dispersed?
O trees, consume your sap in sorrow’s source,
Streams, turn to tears your tributary course.
Go not yet hence, bright soul of the sad year,
The earth is hell when thou leav’st to appea
-
Oh, my, indeed. Mr. Nashe is not a happy man. Would he like this fellow poet,
do you suppose?
Happy the man
by John Dryden
Happy the man, and happy he alone,
He who can call today his own:
He who, secure within, can say,
Tomorrow do thy worst, for I have lived today.
Be fair or foul or rain or shine
The joys I have possessed, in spite of fate, are mine.
Not Heaven itself upon the past has power,
But what has been, has been, and I have had my hour
-
I became more curious about Nashe thinking maybe he was responding to the Black Death - but the next London plague wasn't till 1603 after his death in 1601 - the same year of the death of Queen Elizabeth.
I found this bit that seems to explain a bit more about the long poem from which "Summer Droops" is extracted.
Nashe produced his more famous works. While staying in the household of Archbishop John Whitgift at Croydon in October 1592 he wrote an entertainment called Summer's Last Will and Testament, a "show" with some resemblance to a masque. In brief, the plot describes the death of Summer, who, feeling himself to be dying, reviews the performance of his former servants and eventually passes the crown on to Autumn.
-
Evidently there was a new portrait found of Dryden and it is on display at the National Gallery in London
http://tinyurl.com/csmpn7
I did not know he was the first Poet Laureate.
After John Donne and John Milton, John Dryden was the greatest English poet of the seventeenth century. After William Shakespeare and Ben Jonson, he was the greatest playwright. And he has no peer as a writer of prose, especially literary criticism, and as a translator.
Other figures, such as George Herbert or Andrew Marvell or William Wycherley or William Congreve, may figure more prominently in anthologies and literary histories, but Dryden's sustained output in both poetry and drama ranks him higher.
After Shakespeare, he wrote the greatest heroic play of the century, The Conquest of Granada (1670, 1671), and the greatest tragicomedy, Marriage A-la-Mode (1671). He wrote the greatest tragedy of the Restoration, All for Love (1677), the greatest comitragedy, Don Sebastian (1689), and one of the greatest comedies, Amphitryon (1690).
As a writer of prose he developed a lucid professional style, relying essentially on patterns and rhythms of everyday speech. As a critic he developed a combination of methods—historical, analytical, evaluative, dialogic—that proved enabling to neoclassical theory.
As a translator he developed an easy manner of what he called paraphrase that produced brilliant versions of Homer, Lucretius, Horace, Ovid, Juvenal, Persius, Giovanni Boccaccio, Geoffrey Chaucer, and above all Virgil. His translation of The Aeneid remains the best ever produced in English.
As a poet he perfected the heroic couplet, sprinkling it with judicious enjambments, triplets, and metric variations and bequeathing it to Alexander Pope to work upon it his own magic.
-
Interesting that we're not familiar with any of those plays (are you?)
-
I agree Joan - never heard of these plays although as a contemporary of Shakespeare it is understandable - I did find the play on Gutenberg but it is a slog to understand - and at $85 the book version available through Amazon is beyond my monthly stipend for books.
A professor from a University in Jordan has an interesting PDF of the 'Granada' play pointing out how Dryden's concept of Jealousy was not limited to sexual conquests and therefore more in line of our modern views on Jealousy - he pulls the play apart proving his thesis so that you get an overall of the play.
http://journals.yu.edu.jo/jjmll/Issues/Vo1No1_2008PDF/John%20Dryden%E2%80%99s.pdf
-
I didn't either, BARB. Didn't know he was a playwright, either. I seem to vaguely
recall having seen the title, 'Amphitron', but other than that I've never heard
of any of his plays 'Sustained output' apparently won't cut if for longevity. We
see more of his poetry, obviously.
I am impressed by his reputation as a translator. I think, for our future
Classics discussions, I'll try to find translations by him if possible.
I found this amusing little poem from 'Amphitryon'.
SONG FROM AMPHITRYON
by: John Dryden
FAIR Iris I love, and hourly I die,
But not for a lip, nor a languishing eye:
She's fickle and false, and there we agree,
For I am as false and as fickle as she.
We neither believe what either can say;
And, neither believing, we neither betray.
'Tis civil to swear, and say things of course;
We mean not the taking for better or worse.
When present, we love; when absent, agree:
I think not of Iris, nor Iris of me.
The legend of love no couple can find,
So easy to part, or so equally join'd.
-
Always trying to catch up...
loved Thoreau's piece on 'sauntering' - the derivation looks interesting to follow up
I read All for Love and Amphitron around the time I was reading the Restoration period - don't recall a great deal about them...
I still have my copy of Dryden's Aeneid which I've read a couple of times but long ago - It's widely acknowledged as the yardstick -
We cannot call ourselves acquainted with English poetry in Dryden's age and in the next unless we have read his translation of the Aeneid
So says the editor, Robert Fitzgerald (1964) who goes on to say that:
He (Dryden) was not narrowly a man of his time in the way Rochester was, for example. He admired and drew upon Spenser, Shakespeare and Jonson. He appreciated Donne's Satires, and the Metaphysical poets contributed something to his style
I really am looking forward to the day that Ginny bites the bullet and offers to lead an Aeneid discussion.
-
Well change of subject - today is the fist day of school here and in NC - I wonder if it is so for the rest of the nation.
First Day of School poem
She started school this morning,
And she seemed so very small.
As I walked there beside her
In the Kindergarten hall.
And as she took her place beside
the others in the class,
I realized how all too soon
Those first few years can pass.
Remembering, I saw her as
She first learned how to walk.
The words that we alone made out
When she began to talk.
This little girl so much absorbed
In learning how to write.
It seems as though she must have grown
To girlhood overnight.
My eyes were blurred by hastily
I brushed the tears away
Lest by some word or sign of mine
I mar her first big day.
Oh how I longed to stay with her
And keep her by the hand
To lead her through the places
That she couldn’t understand.
And something closely kin to fear
Was mingled with my pride.
I knew she would no longer be
A baby by my side.
But she must have her chance to live,
To work her problems out,
The privilege to grow and learn
What life is all about.
And I must share my little girl
With friends and work and play;
She’s not a baby anymore –
She’s in Kindergarten today.
-
And on this new season that includes a daily schedule of school many a parent will want to...
Sing -- Sing -- Music Was Given
~ by Thomas Moore
Sing -- sing -- Music was given
To brighten the gay, and kindle the loving;
Souls here, like planets in heaven,
By harmony's laws alone are kept moving.
Beauty may boast of her eyes and her cheeks,
But Love from the lips his true archery wings;
And she, who but feathers the dart when she speaks,
At once sends it home to the heart when she sings.
Then sing -- sing -- Music was given,
To brighten the gay, and kindle the loving;
Souls here, like planets in heaven,
By harmony's laws alone are kept moving.
When Love, rock'd by his mother,
Lay sleeping as calm as slumber could make him,
"Hush, hush," said Venus, "no other
Sweet voice but his own is worthy to wake him."
Dreaming of music he slumber'd the while,
Till faint from his lip a soft melody broke,
And Venus, enchanted, look'd on with a smile,
While Love to his own sweet singing awoke.
Then sing -- sing -- Music was given,
To brighten the gay, and kindle the loving;
Souls here, like planets in heaven,
By harmony's laws alone are kept moving.
-
Barb - that first day of Kindergarten poem brought a big lump to my throat. My daughters have not gone back to school yet, but I remember their first days so well - the elder one so keen to learn, the little one so terrified and wanting to stay at home. It does break you heart a little to have to expose them to the big bad world.
Rosemary
-
I think it may be, BARB. I noticed a child and Mom at the bus pickup site outside my
window this morning, but thought it was too soon for school. I guess it's not. I swear
the elem. kids look younger every year. Some of them do look like babies to me. Wonder
why that is? ??? :)
-
It is still a fantasy for me but I would like to imagine the school day as being a long conversation about ideas new to students - sadly many a student is dealing with so much personal and family trauma they are lucky to fill a seat where they are asked to memorize what is expected without delving into their inner most thoughts to carry on a conversation... but to nurse my fantasy I want to spend some time looking for poems and poets that wrote as or about a conversation.
Conversation
~ by Ai
We smile at each other
and I lean back against the wicker couch.
How does it feel to be dead? I say.
You touch my knees with your blue fingers.
And when you open your mouth,
a ball of yellow light falls to the floor
and burns a hole through it.
Don't tell me, I say. I don't want to hear.
Did you ever, you start,
wear a certain kind of dress
and just by accident,
so inconsequential you barely notice it,
your fingers graze that dress
and you hear the sound of a knife cutting paper,
you see it too
and you realize how that image
is simply the extension of another image,
that your own life
is a chain of words
that one day will snap.
Words, you say, young girls in a circle, holding hands,
and beginning to rise heavenward
in their confirmation dresses,
like white helium balloons,
the wreathes of flowers on their heads spinning,
and above all that,
that's where I'm floating,
and that's what it's like
only ten times clearer,
ten times more horrible.
Could anyone alive survive it?
-
Barb - A beautiful poem. Is Ai Japanese?
One of my vivid memories of kindergarten was the day my cat had kittens. A very exciting event then, and now. I was late for school and my teacher asked me why I was late. I told her that my cat had had kittens. She looked sternly at me and said "Well. Don't let it happen again." This was one of my mother's favourite stories about me. Mum could never fathom whether the teacher meant that the cat shouldn't have kittens again, or that I shouldn't be late again. 8)
-
It had never occurred to me that 'conversation' would make a topic for a poem. Lo, and
behold,...Coleridge had an entire group (eight) of poems called the 'conversation poems'.
All of them, apparently, quite long.
The series title was devised to describe verse where Coleridge incorporates conversational
language while examining higher ideas of nature and morality. The works are held together
by common themes..."
from Wikipedia
What do you think of this one from a lady named Elizabeth Bishop.
CONVERSATION
The tumult in the heart
keeps asking questions.
And then it stops and undertakes to answer
in the same tone of voice.
No one could tell the difference.
Uninnocent, these conversations start,
and then engage the senses,
only half-meaning to.
And then there is no choice,
and then there is no sense;
until a name
and all its connotation are the same.
-
Yes, I saw that on Coleridge - interesting - got waylaid and did not have time to search out the 8 poems but will - I vaguely knew he and Wordsworth were good friends but something I read about the conversation poems of Coleridge brought Wordsworth into the article - Oh I know - it was when Coleridge had to stay behind as they all took a long walk and he wrote a poem imagining their conversation on this walk - anyhow it explained how Wordsworth preferred an isolated life that he did not feel comfortable with people. I have a book of his sister's poems who did seem to be his best friend but then he had Coleridge and a few others as friends so I am not seeing this isolated man.
Seems to me one of the eight poems attributed to Coleridge as a conversational poem is one of his Ode's - need to find it because I am recalling it was not so long that we could not enjoy it here in its entirety.
The Elizabeth Bishop is a lovely little gem isn't it...
-
Not isolated, perhaps, but of a retiring nature. He may have enjoyed the company of a few friends, but avoided large affairs and meeting new people.
His most well-known line is probably, " I wandered lonely as a cloud.." A cloud is definitely 'above it all', wouldn't you think?
-
Found one of the eight - the Eolian Harp - Composed at Clevedon, Somersetshire
My pensive Sara! thy soft cheek reclined
Thus on mine arm, most soothing sweet it is
To sit beside our Cot, our Cot o'ergrown
With white-flower'd Jasmin, and the broad-leav'd Myrtle,
(Meet emblems they of Innocence and Love!)
And watch the clouds, that late were rich with light,
Slow saddening round, and mark the star of eve
Serenely brilliant (such should Wisdom be)
Shine opposite! How exquisite the scents
Snatch'd from yon bean-field! and the world is hushed!
The stilly murmur of the distant Sea
Tells us of silence.
And that simplest Lute,
Placed length-ways in the clasping casement, hark!
How by the desultory breeze caress'd,
Like some coy maid half yielding to her lover,
It pours such sweet upbraiding, as must needs
Tempt to repeat the wrong! And now, its strings
Boldlier swept, the long sequacious notes
Over delicious surges sink and rise,
Such a soft floating witchery of sound
As twilight Elfins make, when they at eve
Voyage on gentle gales from Fairy-Land,
Where Melodies round honey-dripping flowers,
Footless and wild, like birds of Paradise,
Nor pause, nor perch, hovering on untam'd wing!
O! the one Life within us and abroad,
Which meets all motion and becomes its soul,
A light in sound, a sound-like power in light,
Rhythm in all thought, and joyance every where—
Methinks, it should have been impossible
Not to love all things in a world so fill'd;
Where the breeze warbles, and the mute still air
Is Music slumbering on her instrument.
And thus, my Love! as on the midway slope
Of yonder hill I stretch my limbs at noon,
Whilst through my half-clos'd eye-lids I behold
The sunbeams dance, like diamonds, on the main.
And tranquil muse upon tranquillity;
Full many a thought uncall'd and undetain'd,
And many idle flitting phantasies,
Traverse my indolent and passive brain,
As wild and various as the random gales
That swell and flutter on this subject Lute!
And what if all of animated nature
Be but organic Harps diversely fram'd,
That tremble into thought, as o'er them sweeps
Plastic and vast, one intellectual breeze,
At once the Soul of each, and God of all?
But thy more serious eye a mild reproof
Darts, O belovéd Woman! nor such thoughts
Dim and unhallow'd dost thou not reject,
And biddest me walk humbly with my God.
Meek Daughter in the family of Christ!
Well hast thou said and holily disprais'd
These shapings of the unregenerate mind;
Bubbles that glitter as they rise and break
On vain Philosophy's aye-babbling spring.
For never guiltless may I speak of him,
The Incomprehensible! save when with awe
I praise him, and with Faith that inly feels;
Who with his saving mercies healéd me,
A sinful and most miserable man,
Wilder'd and dark, and gave me to possess
Peace, and this Cot, and thee, heart-honour'd Maid!
-
Last day to vote on which classic to read next.
VOTE HERE http://seniorlearn.org/forum/index.php?topic=2395.80 (http://seniorlearn.org/forum/index.php?topic=2395.80)
-
This is the poem that started it all for Coleridge's conversational poems
This Lime-Tree Bower my Prison
[Addressed to Charles Lamb, of the India House, London]
Well, they are gone, and here must I remain,
This lime-tree bower my prison! I have lost
Beauties and feelings, such as would have been
Most sweet to my remembrance even when age
Had dimm'd mine eyes to blindness! They, meanwhile,
Friends, whom I never more may meet again,
On springy heath, along the hill-top edge,
Wander in gladness, and wind down, perchance,
To that still roaring dell, of which I told;
The roaring dell, o'erwooded, narrow, deep,
And only specked by the mid-day sun;
Where its slim trunk the ash from rock to rock
Flings arching like a bridge; that branchless ash,
Unsunn'd and damp, whose few poor yellow leaves
Ne'er tremble in the gale, yet tremble still,
Fann'd by the water-fall! and there my friends
Behold the dark green file of long lank weeds,
That all at once (a most fantastic sight!)
Still nod and drip beneath the dripping edge
Of the blue clay-stone.
Now, my friends emerge
Beneath the wide wide Heaven and view again
The many-steepled tract magnificent
Of hilly fields and meadows, and the sea,
With some fair bark, perhaps, whose sails light up
The slip of smooth clear blue betwixt two Isles
Of purple shadow! Yes! they wander on
In gladness all; but thou, methinks, most glad,
My gentle-hearted Charles! for thou hast pined
And hunger'd after Nature, many a year,
In the great City pent, winning thy way
With sad yet patient soul, through evil and pain
And strange calamity! Ah! Slowly sink
Behind the western ridge, thou glorious Sun!
Shine in the slant beams of the sinking orb,
Ye purple heath-flowers! richlier burn, ye clouds!
Live in the yellow light, ye distant groves!
And kindle, thou blue Ocean! So my friend
Struck with deep joy may stand, as I have stood,
Silent with swimming sense; yea, gazing round
On the wide landscape, gaze till all doth seem
Less gross than bodily; and of such hues
As veil the Almighty Spirit, when yet he makes
Spirits perceive his presence.
A delight
Comes sudden on my heart, and I am glad
As I myself were there! Nor in this bower,
This little lime-tree bower, have I not mark'd
Much that has sooth'd me. Pale beneath the blaze
Hung the transparent foliage; and I watch'd
Some broad and sunny leaf, and lov'd to see
The shadow of the leaf and stem above
Dappling its sunshine! And that walnut-tree
Was richly ting'd, and a deep radiance lay
Full on the ancient ivy, which usurps
Those fronting elms, and now, with blackest mass
Makes their dark branches gleam a lighter hue
Through the late twilight: and though now the bat
Wheels silent by, and not a swallow twitters,
Yet still the solitary humble-bee
Sings in the bean-flower! Henceforth I shall know
That Nature ne'er deserts the wise and pure;
No plot so narrow, be but Nature there,
No waste so vacant, but may well employ
Each faculty of sense, and keep the heart
Awake to love and Beauty! and sometimes
'Tis well to be bereft of promis'd good,
That we may lift the soul, and contemplate
With lively joy the joys we cannot share.
My gentle-hearted Charles! when the last rook
Beat its straight path along the dusky air
Homewards, I blest it! deeming its black wing
(Now a dim speck, now vanishing in light)
Had cross'd the mighty Orb's dilated glory,
While thou stood'st gazing or, when all was still,
Flew creeking o'er thy head, and had a charm
For thee, my gentle-hearted Charles, to whom
No sound is dissonant which tells of Life.
-
BARB, I had to pause to read the 'Harp' aloud to myself. It was such a pleasure,
more so than simply reading. No question, thought. Reading the 'conversation' poems
would require ample free sitting time. Before I finished "The Lime-Bower", I was beginning
to grow impatient. That seems to be symptomatic, with me, of growing older and becoming
aware of less time. Do you ever find yourself suddenly thinking of something you've never
done or experienced, and wondering if perhaps you still could?
-
Oh yes, yes, yes, there are so many things I still want to do and now I am concerned I will have the body that allows me to fulfill these wants - then I look at the time in my life and realistically can only imagine 10 to 12 good years - probably more but not really good in that by then I will be in my 90s and limited - then I look at how I am spending my time and often rue the fact I am doing this or that and would prefer to be doing other things - but then isn't that the story of our life - Life is like a buffet line and where I can put together a nice meal there is always the wish I could stuff more of the goodies I see into my tummy.
I have always thought the antsys as I call them in myself and my kids was our creativity poking us into either action or a thought action like a train that takes us away from the station we are temporarily stopped at.
Poem, novel, history - it matters not - as I am reading I always go into a reverie of thoughts that at times is hitting a memory button and other times the author brings out a new realization that I automatically run through how my life can be or was affected - Babi reading is a full time occupation isn't it... I always think watching TV or a movie is like time standing still where as reading is full time action if only in our brains.
-
Barbara: I think the difference between reading and watching a film or TV lies in the fact that with film you're watching someone else's interpretation of whatever whereas with reading there is nothing between you and the written word and your interpretation is everything.
And yes, Babi we do have so much less time remaining - and the awareness of that grows daily. No time to fritter away but still time 'to stand and stare' now and again.
And if only I now had the physical strength of even a few years ago ...
-
Books, film or TV, they can all take us out of the present for a while, so that
is like time standing still. I agree with what you said, GUM, except I think it's
more like taking time of stop and look about with wonder.
We never know, when we are younger, what may overtake us as we grow older. The
optimistic souls like me always assumed we'd be able to do what we wanted, even as
we aged. Sadly, not so. On the other hand, being of an optimistic nature does make
living with it easier. :)
-
The conversation of prayers
~ Dylan Thomas
The conversation of prayers about to be said
By the child going to bed and the man on the stairs
Who climbs to his dying love in her high room,
The one not caring to whom in his sleep he will move
And the other full of tears that she will be dead,
Turns in the dark on the sound they know will arise
Into the answering skies from the green ground,
From the man on the stairs and the child by his bed.
The sound about to be said in the two prayers
For the sleep in a safe land and the love who dies
Will be the same grief flying. Whom shall they calm?
Shall the child sleep unharmed or the man be crying?
The conversation of prayers about to be said
Turns on the quick and the dead, and the man on the stair
To-night shall find no dying but alive and warm
In the fire of his care his love in the high room.
And the child not caring to whom he climbs his prayer
Shall drown in a grief as deep as his made grave,
And mark the dark eyed wave, through the eyes of sleep,
Dragging him up the stairs to one who lies dead.
-
Telephone Conversation
~ by Wole Soyinka
The price seemed reasonable, location
Indifferent. The landlady swore she lived
Off premises. Nothing remained
But self-confession. "Madame," I warned,
"I hate a wasted journey—I am African."
Silence. Silenced transmission of
Pressurized good breeding. Voice, when it came,
Lipstick coated, long gold-rolled
Cigarette-holder pipped. Caught I was, foully.
"HOW DARK?"... I had not misheard... "ARE YOU LIGHT
OR VERY DARK?" Button B. Button A. Stench
Of rancid breath of public hide-and-speak.
Red booth. Red pillar box. Red double-tiered
Omnibus squelching tar. It was real! Shamed
By ill-mannered silence, surrender
Pushed dumbfoundment to beg simplification.
Considerate she was, varying the emphasis —
"ARE YOU DARK? OR VERY LIGHT?" Revelation came.
"You mean — like plain or milk chocolate?"
Her assent was clinical, crushing in its light
Impersonality. Rapidly, wave-length adjusted,
I chose. "West African Sepia" — and as afterthought,
"Down in my passport." Silence for spectroscopic
Flight of fancy, till truthfulness clanged her accent
Hard on the mouthpiece. "WHAT’S THAT?" conceding
"DON’T KNOW WHAT THAT IS." "Like brunette."
"THAT’S DARK, ISN'T IT?" "Not altogether.
Facially, I am brunette, but madam, you should see
The rest of me. Palm of my hand, soles of my feet
Are a peroxide blonde. Friction, caused —
Foolishly madam — by sitting down, has turned
My bottom raven black — One moment madam!" — sensing
Her receiver rearing on the thunderclap
About my ears — "Madam," I pleaded, "wouldn’t you rather
See for yourself?"
-
(http://seniorlearn.org/bookclubs/poetry/poetry%20fall.jpg)
| Late Summer Poetry~ Emily Dickinson
'T WAS later when the summer went
Than when the cricket came,
And yet we knew that gentle clock
Meant nought but going home.
'T was sooner when the cricket went
Than when the winter came,
Yet that pathetic pendulum
Keeps esoteric time.
- Famous Poets and Poems about Summer (http://famouspoetsandpoems.com/thematic_poems/summer_poems.html)
- Link to: Summer Poems (http://poetry.about.com/od/ourpoemcollections/a/summerpoems.htm)
~~~ Discussion Leaders: Barb (augere@ix.netcom.com) &Fairanna
|
-
;D Neat twist on the 'Telephone Conversation'.
-
Acquainted with the Night
~ Robert Frost
I have been one acquainted with the night.
I have walked out in rain — and back in rain.
I have outwalked the furthest city light.
I have looked down the saddest city lane.
I have passed by the watchman on his beat
And dropped my eyes, unwilling to explain.
I have stood still and stopped the sound of feet
When far away an interrupted cry
Came over houses from another street,
But not to call me back or say good-bye;
And further still at an unearthly height,
One luminary clock against the sky
Proclaimed the time was neither wrong nor right.
I have been one acquainted with the night.
-
Night Patrol
~ by Bruce Guernsey
My father never slept real well after the war
and as my mother tells, he woke in fear
so deep, so far away, he seemed to stare
straight out at nothing she could see or hear.
Or worse – she wraps her robe around her, remembering-
he’d sit there grinning, bolt upright beside her,
this mad look on his face, the bed springs quivering
with some hilarity the night had whispered.
And once, “He did this, your father, I swear he did –
he must have been still dreaming, rest his soul –
he tried to close my frightened eyes, my lids,
to thumb them shut like he was on patrol
the way he’d learned so they would sleep, the dead.
And then he blessed himself and bowed his head.”
-
Night on the Prairies
~ by: Walt Whitman (1819-1892)
Night on the prairies,
The supper is over, the fire on the ground burns low,
The wearied emigrants sleep, wrapt in their blankets;
I walk by myself--I stand and look at the stars, which I think now
never realized before.
Now I absorb immortality and peace,
I admire death and test propositions.
How plenteous! how spiritual! how resume!
The same old man and soul--the same old aspirations, and the same content.
I was thinking the day most splendid till I saw what the not-day exhibited,
I was thinking this globe enough till there sprang out so noiseless
around me myriads of other globes.
Now while the great thoughts of space and eternity fill me I will
measure myself by them,
And now touch'd with the lives of other globes arrived as far along
as those of the earth,
Or waiting to arrive, or pass'd on farther than those of the earth,
I henceforth no more ignore them than I ignore my own life,
Or the lives of the earth arrived as far as mine, or waiting to arrive.
O I see now that life cannot exhibit all to me, as the day cannot,
I see that I am to wait for what will be exhibited by death.
-
How very different,..and moving..., these various visions of the night. The one by Guerney
is painful to read; war does such terrible things to the souls of those who must fight in them.
I've tried to find a fitting 'night' poem, but nothing suits. The ones that come to mind are
not really about the night.
-
A veritable feast of magnificent poetry. I like the Robert Frost best.
-
Here's a poem any Texan can identify with,..and probably a good many of the rest of you, too.
A Day in a Texas Heat Wave
After sunrise-
The air feels sticky,
Like honey drying and thick.
Texas heat gradually builds
As noontime approaches-
Heat such as in a warming oven
Or a roaring fire.
The heat and humidity combine
To a heat index of one-o-nine.
Sweat drips from every brow.
How a normal human can handle it-
I don't know how.
The sun is still only halfway
Across the sky.
Weak grass and bushes
Begin to wilt and die.
The temperature reaches 100 again.
Only sunset gives relief
From the red hot
Sunburning thief.
Praying tomorrow will be the day
That there will be rain
Because another 14 hours of the sun's ray
Will send a few more people insane.
-
Hahaha I love it - maybe that is what I should have been doing all summer when things were not going well - said I was insane because the heat without rain made me so... :D ;)
-
The temperature reaches 100 again.
Only sunset gives relief
From the red hot
Sunburning thief.
This verse says what I know of heat too. The red hot sunburning thief - Yes. It does steal so much, but we would perish without it. Zephyrs do their bit to help, when they can.
Barb - I never need an excuse. I KNOW I am insane! :P
No comment from you Gum. ;D
-
Roshanarose: Stirring again :D
I was trying not to be reminded of the coming summer - I'll be off my head too!
Here's a couple of brief ones:
Summer's heat is here - Liz Munro
Continue sweat is running down your body
like ocean waves caress the sand,
Beaches and pools packed to the brim
like sardines overcrowding the can.
Summer's heat is finally here,
36 degress - the mecury's rising,
Let's hope your near water
to ring in a hot New Year.
28/12/05.
Summer Heat
Furnace-hot,
Relentless -
Summer sun blazing.
Heat-hazed,
Oppressive -
Atmosphere stifling.
Tinder-dry,
Dessicated -
Baked earth withering.
Land-heated,
Roisterous -
Westerly wind gusting
Thoughtless spark,
Kindled flame -
Forest fire raging.
© Linda Visman
1st January 2006
-
Ah, baked earth would definitely do me in, GUM. Here on the Gulf Coast, the grass may be
turning brown but there is still enough greenery everywhere to rest ones' eyes and cast some
shade. It's trying to breathe the hot, humid air that leaves us panting for the a/c. and stripping
off the sweaty, sticky clothes.
Not much longer now, tho'. It's the end of August; September will see the turn toward Autumn. Thank goodness!
-
Babi: Where I am we have plenty of greenery (grey/blue though it be) but the earth is hot and baking for months, the air is so dry and the killer fires are just a careless flick of a match away.
I've no doubt that I wouldn't survive in a humid climate - we get the humidity mainly during February and March which is enough for me - I think Roshanarose has it humid most of the time.
-
Had to smile reading Summer's Heat is Here - there it was telling us about the other side of the Globe - heat on New Year's day... Love it
Looks like all the talk of rain the end of this week has gone by the wayside - seems it was dependent on a storm they saw brewing in the Gulf that evaporated. Talked to my son last night on the phone and Babi he is up in Magnolia right next to the Woodlands - anyhow he said this weekend in his backyard the thermometer read 115 - he too has given up on his lawn - between the grub worms this year and the heat - the air is sure going to be thick this fall with moths.
The Moth
~ Mary Oliver
There’s a kind of white moth, I don’t know
what kind, that glimmers
by mid-May
in the forest, just
as the pink mocassin flowers
are rising.
If you notice anything,
it leads you to notice
more
and more.
And anyway
I was so full of energy.
I was always running around, looking
at this and that.
If I stopped
the pain
was unbearable.
If I stopped and thought, maybe
the world
can’t be saved,
the pain
was unbearable.
Finally, I noticed enough.
All around me in the forest
the white moths floated.
How long do they live, fluttering
in and out of the shadows?
You aren’t much, I said
one day to my reflection
in a green pond,
and grinned.
The wings of the moths catch the sunlight
and burn
so brightly.
At night, sometimes,
they slip between the pink lobes
of the moccasin flowers and lie there until dawn,
motionless
in those dark halls of honey.
-
September
~John Updike
The breezes taste
Of apple peel.
The air is full
Of smells to feel-
Ripe fruit, old footballs,
Burning brush,
New books, erasers,
Chalk, and such.
The bee, his hive,
Well-honeyed hum,
And Mother cuts
Chrysanthemums.
Like plates washed clean
With suds, the days
Are polished with
A morning haze.
-
BARB, I can remember going to Magnolia Gardens as a kid. There was a park on the river,
great for picnics and swimming. Sadly,that area of the river became more and more unsafe
for swimming. It was reluctantly closed when kids continued to drown because they wouldn't
stay within the safetey limits.
September at last! Summer is officially over, though you can't really tell yet from the weather. The only thing that makes it believable is the group of kids waiting for the school bus
every morning with a group of young mothers standing watch.
Soon, tho...
-
You are so right Babi - soon tho - but in the best of years or should I say the years with the cooler summers I still remember the only relief in September being that it starts to get dark earlier and so the sun cannot beat down on us for as long each day - I am not remembering any real relief till either the very end of September or more likely October - I do hope though that September brings us a good downpour - that alone could at least get us down into the low 90s if not the high 80s. for a day or two. But more, we badly need the rain.
I am thinking that we may see what looks like trees turning color and will actually be leaves so dry they loose their green and fall off the trees. Of course here there are more Live Oak so where the trees are green they get that light sage green look rather than the deep green when there is enough rain.
One blessing - at least I see it as a blessing - there are large swaths - acres and acres of ceder that have died this summer - I know this upsets the folks that know ceder is home to the Yellow Checked Warbler and therefore protected, however, they are so acid that when it rains they are dripping acid rain which stunts the growth of any nearby Live Oak - I just wished when the law was passed they would have added a line that said you could cut down ceder within a 10 foot diameter beyond the longest branch of a Live Oak -
Acid Rain
~ David Darbyshire
The tree tops are Dead
and so are the Roots
It's the rain they Dread
also the Shoots
The rain is like Acid
it eats it all Away
should be more placid
would help in a big Way
But one Day the Trees will be Gone
It seams all the people do is Yawn
But when it is Black, Dark, and no Bark
We'll wish we were sitting in a Green Park
-
Acid Rain - How terrible!
Gum - As you say Brisbane is very humid for at least 3 months. It is not unusual to have to have three showers a day, and often a completely cold bath as well. "Cooling the core" I call it. That is if the water from the tap is cold enough. Although Perth is where the high temperatures are. Do many people, or all people, have air conditioning? Did you have water restrictions as well? Oh well - to enjoy such a lovely country one has to deal with the weather. I have always felt sorry for those pioneer women who had to chop wood and tend to washing in copper lined boilers and cook on wood fires during the summer months, whilst having to wear long dresses and petticoats. No boardies or sarongs then! They were a tough lot. Like Lady Macquarie, many of them must have yearned for the soft green pastures of their homeland. But at least Lady Macquarie had servants and a beautiful place to sit and yearn.
This lovely vantage point is called either Mrs Macquarie's chair or Lady Macquarie's chair.
For those who like trivia : Russell Crowe and his family have an apartment at Wooloomooloo (spelling) which is within walking distance of the chair.
www.rbgsyd.nsw.gov.au
This link will take you to the homepage of the Royal Botanic Gardens Sydney. For some reason the full link to the section I wanted for "The Chair" would not compute. If you are still interested click on History > Discovering the Domain > Main features of the Domain. On the final page there is a map of the Domain and where "The Chair" is. What is noted on the map as Bennelong Point is where the Opera House is.
-
Roshanarose: Yes, we do get hot. And we do have water restrictions and they will probably be more stringent during this coming summer. Air conditioning is fairly widespread but not everyone has it or can afford to run it.
The Botanic Gardens on the Domain are one of my favourite destinations when I'm over there. But I simply love the Blue Mountains and could happily live there - some areas in the Jamieson Valley never get above 24 C in high summer - cool cool cool - but wet and cold during winter - can't have everything.
I think they call it Mrs Macquarie's Chair - great lookout she had whilst waiting for the ships to bring her news. As you say - she didn't have to do the work and could indulge herself.
Barbara: That Live Oak and Cedar dichotomy sounds just awful. Plants usually manage to strike up a workable coexistence but once man interferes with his rules it seems to upset the balance.
Since we're off topic -It is now officially spring here in the Great South Land. We've had little rain throughout winter but today is forecast for a thunderstorm - it is cold with a fresh wind blowing straight up from Antarctica - the sky has been clear but when I glanced out of the window just now there were monster dark grey clouds moving up rapidly - I guess I'll be shutting down pretty soon.
-
Gum and Roshanarose seems y'all are handling the wilds of Spring while we are hoping soon to experience the mellow autumn - as to the Ceder - it took hold here in Texas back during the deep drought of the 1920s and early 30s - it is a tree that blew up from Mexico - some of the cactus and some wild flowers have adapted and will grow in a Ceder Break but they do hinder the growth of the natural trees and plants that are suited to the limestone of Texas, with the Live Oak being the more beautiful tree when it is not stunted by being surrounded with the Cedar.
To see a mature Live Oak out in a field shading 30 or more heads of cattle according to the size of the tree is a sight to behold. In town where, gradually over years folks have removed the ceder because the pollen is brutal late Fall through most of the Winter and allergies are rampant with the result the Live Oak beautifully shades streets, yards and school playgrounds.
here is a link to a photo of a Live Oak taken near the coast in Rockport
http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/File:Big_tree.jpg
And this one is on the grounds of the Capitol here in Austin - notice how it dwarfs the trees along the path
http://0.tqn.com/d/forestry/1/0/d/i/live_oak_texas1.jpg
here is a Cedar break - actually we call them Cedar when they are Ashe Juniper or Mexican Juniper.
Notice the mature male tree is almost ready to break out and release all those yellow spores where as the smaller green tree on the left side of the photo is too young - Others in the background are mostly female
http://upload.wikimedia.org/wikipedia/commons/0/04/Juniperusashei1224.jpg
A Voice By the Cedar Tree
(From “Maud”, Part I, Section V)
~ Alfred Lord Tennyson
A voice by cedar tree
In the meadow under the Hall!
She is singing an air that is known to me,
A passionate ballad gallant and gay,
A martial song like a trumpet’s call!
Singing of men that in battle array
Ready in heart and ready in hand,
March with banner and bugle and fife
To the death, for their native land.
Maud with her exquisite face,
And wild voice pealing up to the sunny sky,
And feet like sunny gems on an English green,
Maud in the light of her youth and her grace,
Singing of Death, and of Honor that cannot die,
Till I well could weep for a time so sordid and mean,
And myself so languid and base.
-
I Saw in Louisiana a Live-Oak Growing
-- Walt Whitman
I saw in Louisiana a live-oak growing,
All alone stood it and the moss hung down from the branches,
Without any companion it stood there uttering joyous leaves of dark green,
And its look, rude, unbending, lusty, made me think of myself,
But I wondered how it could utter joyous leaves standing alone there
without its friend near, for I knew I could not,
And I broke off a twig with a certain number of leaves upon it,
and twined around it a little moss,
And brought it away, and I have placed it in sight in my room,
It is not needed to remind me as of my own dear friends,
(For I believe lately I think of little else than of them,)
Yet it remains to me a curious token, it makes me think of manly love;
For all that, and though the live-oak glistens there in Louisiana
solitary in a wide flat space,
Uttering joyous leaves all its life without a friend or lover near,
I know very well I could not.
Louisiana Live Oak with Moss
http://img516.imageshack.us/img516/6624/quercusvirginiana27.jpg
-
I have to think, BARB, that nature is much more callous than we are. Or perhaps just much
more practical. We want to save it all, and it just won't work. Plants, creatures, people,
..if we can't adjust to changes we're not going to last very long. Ah, but our live oaks are so
splendid, aren't they?
ROSHANA, I don't believe for a moment that any sane woman wore those petticoats, etc.,
in the privacy of her own home while cooking, washing, et al. 'Fashion' is for company.
A thin seersucker dress for summer, that's the way to go.
-
Babi - I love seersucker dresses but prefer just a sarong when it is really hot, hoping no talent scouts come knocking at my door.
Gumtree - My daughter and her family are spending a week in Leura in the Blue Mountains in a week or so. What I remember most clearly was my uncle, who was a daredevil and had flown fighters during WWII, insisting I take the cable car thingie with him at Katoomba. I imagined it would be some kind of horizontal contraption, but was horrified to see it was actually a vertical contraption down a cliff. Eeeeeekkkkk. Then I realised why everyone else had refused. I can still see his face as we plunged downward - pure joy. He told me later that my face was white.
Yes - I agree about the Domain and the Botanical Gardens. I love it there too. So peaceful with one of the most magnificent harbours in the world as your outlook.
Barb - Those oaks are magnificent. I love trees.
-
Are they still making seersucker, ROSHANA? I haven't seen a seersucker dress since I was
a carefree, barefoot kid.
Do you think you could find us a picture of that 'magnificent harbour'? I do my touring via
pictures now. :)
-
Babi - This link is about the beautiful city of Sydney in general. You are making me want to visit again. Although I did experience a beautiful lunch time cruise of the Harbour, I much prefer tootling along in the old Sydney ferry to Manly. I remember loving that trip from my childhood. I think Gum mentions the Zoo run as well as her son lives in Sydney (Mosman)?
My brother lives a fair way out of Sydney in a suburb called Castle Hill. It is no drama driving into the city and out again, but now it costs a lot in tolls, as no main road runs out of Sydney Town without tolls. The skinflint in me was shocked at this, but my brother just accepts is as "progress".
A snippet of history about Castle Hill.
"The first free settler in Castle Hill was Frenchman, Baron Verincourt de Clambe, who received a grant of 200 acres (800,000 m²) in 1802. It has been suggested that de Clambe's house "The Hermitage" was commonly called 'The Castle' by locals, because of the Baron's noble status.[3]
In 1804, the convicts rebelled in the Castle Hill convict rebellion, also known as the second 'Battle of Vinegar Hill'. Overpowering their guards and marching on towards Parramatta having torched a hut at the prison farm to signal fellow convicts at the Hawkesbury (which they either ignored or did not see). However, they were vastly outgunned and outnumbered by British troops. About fifteen to twenty were killed in the first skirmish at the western gates of the Governor's Domain. The main group headed west pursued by the Red Coats and a citizen militia under protection of Martial Law and posse comitatus. Where the Rouse Hill Regional Town is, it is believed a twenty-minute skirmish happened where more were killed.
Martial Law was declared across the whole of the colony and was allowed to cloak the activities of the military and their militia as convicts were deemed 'to be in a state of insurrection'. Martial Law progressed for seven days, throughout which muskets were heard to fire day and night. The government-controlled newspaper reported only 133 convicts were involved, but over 600 left Castle Hill in the hope of joining with another 1,100 from the Hawkesbury plains." (Wikipedia)
www.sydney.com.au
An aerial view. Mrs Macquaries chair is on the first point, The Domain, Botanical Gardens; Bennelong's point (The Sydney Opera House) is on the second. Of course, Mrs M. wasn't able to see the Opera House and the Harbour Bridge.
http://www.qasco.com.au/Gallery/SydneyHarbour.html
-
between the prevailing seasons.
~ James Archer Danny
What lapse yet wondrous, whimsical woes?
What season of cycle whistles?
When wind opens the gates of pressure,
you will be there under the brown, dead rustle.
Oh many months spring to mind,
with laughter and subtle beauty,
but, as autumn's whistles deepen
our care for weather wilts.
We never notice but its always there,
always has been, yet its still just the bit
in between summer and winter.
The depressing one.
Modern love has come away from,
summer picnics and winters by fire light.
And people, like me, look out at the moon
and see true encapsulating beauty, in death.
In the light, despite constant nagging from the clouds,
that the sun and moon bring,
yet we don't know, there there.
The sad thing is, that it receives NO praise.
Not since the 'Ode' have I heard a mention of its power
of its grace, of the sounds the wind makes,
of the art it paints to the concrete.
Of the tunes, of the silence,
but most importantly, of the life it creates.
-
Ode
~ By Arthur O'Shaughnessy
We are the music-makers,
And we are the dreamers of dreams,
Wandering by lone sea-breakers
And sitting by desolate streams;
World losers and world forsakers,
On whom the pale moon gleams:
Yet we are the movers and shakers
Of the world for ever, it seems.
With wonderful deathless ditties
We build up the world’s great cities.
And out of a fabulous story
We fashion an empire’s glory:
One man with a dream, at pleasure,
Shall go forth and conquer a crown;
And three with a new song’s measure
Can trample an empire down.
We, in the ages lying
In the buried past of the earth,
Built Nineveh with our sighing,
And Babel itself with our mirth;
And o’erthrew them with prophesying
To the old of the new world’s worth;
For each age is a dream that is dying,
Or one that is coming to birth.
-
Hi Barb :D
Seeing as Babi wants to go all Aussie on us she might like this sea shanty : I was having difficulty finding a poem actually written BY convicts. There are several written ABOUT them.
www.imagesaustralia.com/botanybay.htm
-
I bet you were busy writing when I popped in because I did not see your post till I just came back after seeing someone posted in Poetry - yes, we are trying to get the concept of Australia under our belt - even trying to find seasonal poems that are reversed - I guess the only poets that have a handle on Australia are those who are Australian poets.
Trying to be topical is leaving me hungry for some of the classic poets - I think it is time to pull a few books off my shelf - yep, tomorrow that will be the plan...
-
Barb and Babi - Many Australians think that their attitude to freedom and liberty for all comes from their convict beginnings. That is not to say that all Australians have convicts as ancestors, but those who do are mostly proud of it. No Mayfair here.
I have been busy looking for a short poem written by a convict. I daresay that the poor devils did not have a lot of time to write, particularly poetry. Although not in the same league as Homer's version of Hades or Dante's Inferno, I liked this one by Macnamara, echoing his hatred of authority in general. I have left a brief description in order for you to read the poem in context.
"It's hard to get a grip on the worth of a poem such as this from a distance of 170 years. The whole story is rather trite from our perspective: a wish-fulfilment dream, in which the dreamer is the innocent victim. The one thing that comes across loud and clear is the hatred that Macnamara felt for the convict settlement and army authorities: sulphurous lakes, fiery stakes and chairs, and rivers of boiling lead.
And all those fiery seats and chairs
Are fitted up for Dukes and Mayors
And nobles of Judicial orders
Barristers, Lawyers and Recorders
Here I beheld legions of traitors
Hangmen gaolers and flagellators
Commandants,Constables and Spies
Informers and Overseers likewise
In flames of brimstone they were toiling
And lakes of sulphur round them boiling
Hell did resound with their fierce yelling
Alas how dismal was their dwelling
It's all classic fire and brimstone stuff.
Macnamara probably felt he had due cause to wish such punishments on his gaolers. Born in 1811 in Ireland he was transported to New South Wales in 1832 after being convicted of theft, though there is a suspicion that he was a political agitator. If that last is true, he would have been targeted by the authorities from the start. He did abscond
several times and received numerous floggings and other punishments. Little else is known about him other than he was shifted from NSW to Port Arthur in 1842. He appears to have changed his ways there - probably under the threat of further depravations, and believe me, Port Arthur is a pretty scarey place - and was given his freedom in 1847. After that he disappears from the record, although Marcus Clarke does write about a balladeer in a dosshouse in Melbourne in 1868 who might have been Macnamara. Less than 20 poems have been attributed to him. "
-
WOW! I've never seen so many shoreline nooks, crannies, and mooring docks. The two little
vignettes of the harbor and bridge in the first link are what we usually see. Thank you so
much, ROSHANA. And admiring lovely views is hardly going all 'Aussie'. The song in the
link you posted makes me think the writer was Irish. Do you see a similarity to this Irish
lullaby? Look at the chorus. http://thebards.net/music/lyrics/An_Irish_Lullaby.shtml
I love Mr. Danny's 'whimsical and whistles". But I can't agree with him about Autumn. I
love Autumn! It is so beautiful, so clear. Mr.O'Shaughnessy's "Ode", however, I am able to
admire with no reservations whatever.
-
Roshanarose: Thanks for that super bird's eye view of Sydney harbour waters - wonderful wonderful wonderful - makes me want to jump on a plane tomorrow. Like you I prefer the ferries to the posh tourist vessels - and you can get to just about anywhere around the water on them.
And yes, son lives in Mosman on the Lower North Shore not far from Balmoral Beach - he likes the ferries too and as he works in the city he usually walks down to the ferry at Mosman and then once at Circular Quay he's only got a couple of city blocks to walk - says the trip on water sets him up for the day - no traffic, no parking hassles etc. - have to say that he loves the harbour and is a keen sailor. He and his mate take us out on what they call 'the runabout' - as distinct from their racing yachts - so we can get right into some of the smaller coves around the shoreline which normally can't be accessed any other way. Places like Sirius Cove of historic and artistic fame are wonderful - the water in Sirius is a deep turquoise/green in the shadows.... and the reflections of the boats moored and surrounding vegetation are just fabulous - I keep trying to capture something of it on canvas but never satisfied with the results...
Does everyone know that the Sydney Harbour Bridge is the largest single span suspension bridge in the world. It's design was based on the Hellgate Bridge in the states. 2007 was its 75th birthday year - the Australian flags that fly on the summit of the arch are each as large as a tennis court.
And as for real trivia - did you know that before he became a TV personality and comedian, Paul Hogan -"throw another prawn on the barbie" - was a rigger on the bridge - obviously no fear of heights in him. No way in the world would I do that bridge walk over the summit though DIL has and says she loved every minute...
Okay Barb Okay - I'll stop :D
-
No - don't stop - just add a poem or two tied to your thoughts and shared information - it makes it fun to tie poetry to our thoughts - and it is in keeping with the discussion plus getting to know each other... :-*
-
Can't sleep for thinking about Sirius Cove which I mentioned earlier - I tried to paint it several times - started thinking about a couple of Aussie painters who did paint it in late 19th Century. Sir Arthur Streeton and Tom Roberts camped at Curlew Point - were there for some years - here's something from the dreaded wikipedia tells something about them and shows some of their work as you scroll through the article - click on each picture if you want an enlargement.
http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Curlew_Camp
I promise to find some poems tomorrow.
-
Gum - So inspired am I by Sydney again), and your intro to Sirius, that I have decided that I will spend three days in Sydney CBD probably in October, preferably at "The Observatory Hotel". A bit expensive, but what the heck. Then I will go to Castle Hill to see my brother and DIL, and their children.
Nice piece of artwork by Streeton. I agree that the sea is difficult to paint, it is so changeable, particularly in Greece.
-
If you're trying to understand a little more about Australia this quote shows how D. H. Lawrence felt:
"You feel free in Australia. There is great relief in the atmosphere - a relief from tension, from pressure, an absence of control of will or form. The skies open above you and the areas open around you" D.H Lawrence- English author
Of course, that doesn't say it all - but how does one start to explain this place?
As for poems written by convicts transported to Australia - they are hard to find.
The origins of Australian poetry lay in the prison systems. As Convict etiquette strictly prescribed that one "suffer in silence" whatever emotional turmoil the Convicts were suffering, they were unable to talk about it with their friends. Poetry acted as cathartic outburst of emotion which allowed the Convicts to address those feelings that they could not openly discuss. The most notable of these early poets included the likes of Michael Massey Robinson, George Barrington and Frank the Poet.
Although the Convicts turned to poetry to deal with their problems, writing it was difficult as a man could be flogged for merely possessing a piece of paper. As a result, many turned their bodies into their parchments in the form of tattoos bearing poignant messages like "May the rose of England never blow, May the Scotch thistle never grow, May the harp of Ireland never play, Till I poor convict greets my liberty, TCA 20 1830." Others scratched messages on the walls as graffiti, carved scrimshaws or defaced coins with messages like: "from rocks and sand and dangers free, protect my love and me."
The lack of paper or written ability also forced the Convicts to turn their poems into songs. Even though etiquette of the time prescribed stoicism, the Convict's songs had melancholic themes. This seems to indicate that they had empathy for the anguish of others as they were feeling anguish themselves. By expressing their empathy through an artistic medium, the Convicts were able to maintain a degree of emotional distance from their turmoil as well as that of their friends, while still expressing their anguish, their bond, and their concern.
Convict Poem - George Barrington
From distant climes, o'er wide-spread seas we come,
Though not with much eclat, or beat of drum,
True patriots all, for it be understood,
We left our country for our country's good:
No private views disgraced our generous zeal,
What urged our travels was our country's weal:
And none will doubt that our emigration
Had prov'd most useful to the British Nation.
More later I hope!
-
Michael Robinson was the author of the first verses known to have been published in Australia. This has earned him the title of “Australia’s First Poet Laureate” and he was given two cows from the government herd in consideration of his services as Poet laureate in 1818 and 1819.
He was also the first author to use the appellation 'Australia' consistently in his works.
He was a convict, educated at Oxford and after serving his time worked for the colonial government.
Song by Michael Massey Robinson
[To Celebrate the Anniversary of the
Establishment of the Colony]
Philosophers say, and experience declares,
That life is a medley of pleasures and cares;—
That the sunshine which smiles on our prospects to-day,
May be chas’d by the gloom of to-morrow away.
Whilst some, who are strangers to conjugal strife,
Are apt to repine at the loss of a wife,—
There are others (perhaps you may dissolute call ’em)
That are glad to escape from the fetters that gall ’em.
Thus serious and comic, the scene passes on,
The demise of the sire makes way for the son;
When the coffers, by rigid conomy stor’d,
Are squander’d and swallow’d at luxury’s board.
For years, on this Isle, a bright Day-star has gleam’d,
And the Chief that we hail’d was the Friend we esteem’d;
Now Time, in its triumph, has clos’d his career,
And the smile we have cherish’d—is chang’d to a tear!
Yet, often shall memory cling to this day,
And often shall gratitude swell the fond lay;
While Australia shall boast, in her annals of story,
That His Sun,Read more → as it rose—so it set, in full Glory!
But the shadows that threaten’d our Evening forlorn,
The breath of young Hope shall disperse with the morn;
For grac’d with fresh laurels from Fame’s fairest shores,
His Illustrious Successor has smil’d on our Shores.
Then, here, whilst in circles of social relation,
Our hearts and our hands join in Commemoration;
From Australia’s first dawn—let her trophies proclaim,
That her Standard of Worth stamps her Passport to Fame
-
This poem will have more meaning if you've read the article in the link to Streeton and Roberts at Curlew Camp at Sirius Cove.
Sirius Cove - Vivian Smith
We always know much more than we can see
I've read about these painters and their lives,
and looked at photos of the famous camp
with all its luxuries, its bit of grandeur,
And visitors like R.L.S.
Streeton found blue orchids, passionfruit
And inspiration in a sheltered bay
Now it is a tangled wilderness
Privet and lantana grow unchecked
Beside the walk I take around the shore
And yet it still remains a sacred place
Where tawny frogmouths hunch and wait and brood
oom, oom, oom.
Privet and lantana are weeds in much of Australia - but it's a bit harsh to say Sirius is now a tangled wilderness - it always was - but without the privet and other introduced species - for which Streeton and Roberts et al are partly responsible.
-
No need to stop, GUM. I love that description of Sirius Cover. The paintings are beautiful.
And the quote from Paul Hogan. Those prawns must be seriously large creatures, if one
will be enough.
Love Barrington's tongue-in-cheek poem; really gave me a grin. You've done a find job
finding us Aussie poems. I think it must always be a challenge to have to produce a poem to
fit an occasion. You definitely need skills for that. Lantana is used here as a flowering shrub,
though not one of our most popular ones.
This must be a much smaller harbor:
Carl Sandburg
- The Harbor
PASSING through huddled and ugly walls
By doorways where women
Looked from their hunger-deep eyes,
Haunted with shadows of hunger-hands,
Out from the huddled and ugly walls,
I came sudden, at the city's edge,
On a blue burst of lake,
Long lake waves breaking under the sun
On a spray-flung curve of shore;
And a fluttering storm of gulls,
Masses of great gray wings
And flying white bellies
Veering and wheeling free in the open.[/b]
-
Barb - My head is full of thoughts of you. I tried and tried to find a poem that would be appropriate for the circumstances in which you find yourself. None of them were really suitable, none of them could describe how I feel about what you are going through. So - I looked up Keats and thought that one way to say I am thinking of you is to repeat a poem I posted here in my early days on Senior Learn. I didn't know how to post the beautiful pictures the often accompany Keats poetry. Sensitive friend that you are, you read my mind and added some beautiful pix to my Keats poem. I was touched and have never forgotten that gesture. The Poem is :
Original version of La Belle Dame Sans Merci, 1819
Oh what can ail thee, knight-at-arms,
Alone and palely loitering?
The sedge has withered from the lake,
And no birds sing.
Oh what can ail thee, knight-at-arms,
So haggard and so woe-begone?
The squirrel's granary is full,
And the harvest's done.
I see a lily on thy brow,
With anguish moist and fever-dew,
And on thy cheeks a fading rose
Fast withereth too.
I met a lady in the meads,
Full beautiful - a faery's child,
Her hair was long, her foot was light,
And her eyes were wild.
I made a garland for her head,
And bracelets too, and fragrant zone;
She looked at me as she did love,
And made sweet moan.
I set her on my pacing steed,
And nothing else saw all day long,
For sidelong would she bend, and sing
A faery's song.
She found me roots of relish sweet,
And honey wild, and manna-dew,
And sure in language strange she said -
'I love thee true'.
She took me to her elfin grot,
And there she wept and sighed full sore,
And there I shut her wild wild eyes
With kisses four.
And there she lulled me asleep
And there I dreamed - Ah! woe betide! -
The latest dream I ever dreamt
On the cold hill side.
I saw pale kings and princes too,
Pale warriors, death-pale were they all;
They cried - 'La Belle Dame sans Merci
Hath thee in thrall!'
I saw their starved lips in the gloam,
With horrid warning gaped wide,
And I awoke and found me here,
On the cold hill's side.
And this is why I sojourn here
Alone and palely loitering,
Though the sedge is withered from the lake,
And no birds sing.
Please be aware, that although I am not there in person to support you, I most certainly am in spirit. Even from this distance I can experience your worry. There is nothing I can do physically, so I send "full-power" psychic thoughts and hope that the danger passes you by, or hopefully doesn't eventuate in your area.
Good Luck Barb.
Carolyn
-
(http://seniorlearn.org/bookclubs/poetry/poetry%20fall.jpg)
| Late Summer Poetry~ Emily Dickinson
'T WAS later when the summer went
Than when the cricket came,
And yet we knew that gentle clock
Meant nought but going home.
'T was sooner when the cricket went
Than when the winter came,
Yet that pathetic pendulum
Keeps esoteric time.
- Famous Poets and Poems about Summer (http://famouspoetsandpoems.com/thematic_poems/summer_poems.html)
- Link to: Summer Poems (http://poetry.about.com/od/ourpoemcollections/a/summerpoems.htm)
~~~ Discussion Leaders: Barb (augere@ix.netcom.com) &Fairanna
|
I remember when you first posted that poem, ROSHANA, and Barb's beautiful pictures that
accompanied it.
BARB, I found this in another Doig book, "Prairie Nocturne", and immediately fell in love with it.
I think you will, too. It is supposed to be the first verse of an old spiritual, but I believe it was
written by Ivan Doig since it's origin is not identified in his Acknowledgments. Oh, I do wish it
was an 'oldie', and I could hope to find the rest.
"Does the hawk know its shadow?
Does the stone roll alone?
Does the eye of the rainbow
Ever weep like our own?
I am vexed
I am hexed.
I kneel at all Your thrones.
One of so many
Just another praying Jones."
-
Thanks you Roshanarose - how special - and La Belle Dame Sans Merci is such a special poem
Babi, Diog has all sorts of talents doesn't he - it is a wonderful and unexpected poem.
Found these about Bach - maybe the measured cadence of a Bach cantata will measure out the steps to take in order to help focus on what is possible today and what will be better tomorrow.
The Aftertaste of Bitterness
The roof slopes steeply:
I am listening to Bach, the St John Passion: I live,
the pleasures of love enjoying, and thou
art dying. How the attic space
has grown luxurious with the music, oboe
d'amore, a thunder-storm, a dulcet
rending of the heart in sorrow; and I fill,
if only for a moment, with
transcendental energy. Clouds
through the skylight window shift, reform,
there falls a huge knocking on the glass
from the opened sky. Peter's
ham-fisted attempt at violence, the swung
sword; then the music of healing, the forgiving
hand. And what is truth? I'm drawn away
by mating-shouts of pheasants
In the high grass outside. Bach's slow chorales
lift the soul, through time, out
beyond time, till the music tells how death
is the perfect state of innocence.
By John F. Deane
-
If Bach had been a beekeeper
If Bach had been a beekeeper
he would have heard
all those notes
suspended above one another
in the air of his ear
as the differentiated swarm returning
to the exact hive
and place in the hive,
topping up the cells
with the honey of C major,
food for the listening generations,
key to their comfort
and solace of their distress
as they return and return
to those counterpointed levels
of hovering wings where
movement is dance
and the air itself
a scented garden
By Charles Tomlinson
-
The Silence of the World before Bach
There must have been a world before
the Trio Sonata in D, a world before the A minor Partita,
but what kind of a world?
A Europe of vast empty spaces, unresounding,
everywhere unawakened instruments
where the Musical Offering, the Well-tempered Clavier
never passed across the keys.
Isolated churches
where the soprano-line of the Passion
never in helpless love twined round
the gentler movements of the flute,
broad soft landscapes
where nothing breaks the stillness
but old woodcutters' axes,
the healthy barking of strong dogs in winter
and, like a bell, skates biting into fresh ice;
the swallows whirring through summer air,
the shell resounding at the child's ear
and nowhere Bach nowhere Bach
the world in a skater's silence before Bach.
By Lars Gustafson
-
I love the Bach poemsL especially the last two.
-
I really like the Deane and the Williamson poems, BARB. I sometimes waste a bit of time
regretting that I did not listen more to music when I could. But how much sadder it would
have been to have been deaf from birth, and not have even the memories.
Did you know that Emily Dickinson is credited with writing the poems most set to music?
Aaron Copland put music to a whole group of them, as I just discovered. Here is a poem of
hers I hadn't seen before.
I felt a Funeral, in my Brain (280)
by Emily Dickinson
I felt a Funeral, in my Brain,
And Mourners to and fro
Kept treading – treading – till it seemed
That Sense was breaking through –
And when they all were seated,
A Service, like a Drum –
Kept beating – beating – till I thought
My Mind was going numb –
And then I heard them lift a Box
And creak across my Soul
With those same Boots of Lead, again,
Then Space – began to toll,
As all the Heavens were a Bell,
And Being, but an Ear,
And I, and Silence, some strange Race
Wrecked, solitary, here –
And then a Plank in Reason, broke,
And I dropped down, and down –
And hit a World, at every plunge,
And Finished knowing – then –
-
Interesting - how she associates a beat with a funeral service. I was not familiar with this poem either - thanks for finding and sharing it.
Even though the temps are climbing somehow the sun with its autumn slant the heat does not feel as overwhelming - I need to get back out in the mornings because it does not heat up till after 11: now but I have such lethargy that is typically associated with the first warm days of Fall just as in Spring as children we took a spoon of Blackstrap Molasses.
ha ha this is a bit of history I never heard ---
Boston’s Great Molasses Flood, 1919
~ by Nancy Scott
On January 15th, it wasn’t snow that kept schools closed,
but rivets popping like machine-gun fire, a steel tank bursting,
two million gallons of molten molasses spurting into the air.
First a dark rumble, then a roar, as the North End
turned into a wet, brown hell. Autos and wagons mired,
freight cars crushed, entire buildings crumbled like pasteboard.
The Great War was done; no need to turn molasses
into alcohol for ammunition, but Purity Distilling
demanded one last batch before the end.
Twenty-two dead, horses drowned, hundreds injured.
Clean-up crews and rescuers, knee-deep in makings of rum,
listened as church bells pealed in Prohibition.
Throughout the city, for decades afterwards, they say
you could smell the sweet aroma, and on certain buildings,
if you looked closely, the high water mark left by molasses.
-
They Would Love To See Me Dead
By النص العربي: لا يوجد
They would love to see me dead, so they say: He belongs to us, he is ours.
For twenty years I have heard their footsteps on the walls of the night.
They open no door, yet here they are now. I see three of them:
A poet, a killer, and a reader of books.
Will you have some wine? I asked.
Yes, they answered.
When do you plan to shoot me? I asked.
Take it easy, they answered.
They lined up their glasses all in a row and started singing for the people.
I asked: When will you begin my assassination?
Already done, they said ... Why did you send your shoes on ahead to your soul?
So it can wander the face of the earth, I said.
The earth is wickedly dark, so why is your poem so white?
Because my heart is teeming with thirty seas, I answered.
They asked: Why do you love French wine?
Because I ought to love the most beautiful women, I answered.
They asked: How would you like your death?
Blue, like stars pouring from a window—would you like more wine?
Yes, we'll drink, they said.
Please take your time. I want you to kill me slowly so I can write my last
poem to my heart's wife.
They laughed, and took from me
only the words dedicated to my heart's wife.
-
Psalm Three
By النص العربي: لا يوجد
On the day when my words
were earth...
I was a friend to stalks of wheat.
***
On the day when my words
were wrath
I was a friend to chains.
***
On the day when my words
were stones
I was a friend to streams.
***
On the day when my words
were a rebellion
I was a friend to earthquakes.
***
On the day when my words
were bitter apples
I was a friend to the optimist.
***
But when my words became
honey...
flies covered
my lips!...
-
Ahmad Al-Za’tar
By النص العربي: لا يوجد
For two hands, of stone and of thyme
I dedicate this song.. For Ahmad, forgotten between two butterflies
The clouds are gone and have left me homeless, and
The mountains have flung their mantles and concealed me
..From the oozing old wound to the contours of the land I descend, and
The year marked the separation of the sea from the cities of ash, and
I was alone
Again alone
O alone? And Ahmad
Between two bullets was the exile of the sea
A camp grows and gives birth to fighters and to thyme
And an arm becomes strong in forgetfulness
Memory comes from trains that have left and
Platforms that are empty of welcome and of jasmine
In cars, in the landscape of the sea, in the intimate nights of prison cells
In quick liaisons and in the search for truth was
The discovery of self
In every thing, Ahmad found his opposite
For twenty years he was asking
For twenty years he was wandering
For twenty years, and for moments only, his mother gave him birth
In a vessel of banana leaves
And departed
He seeks an identity and is struck by the volcano
The clouds are gone and have left me homeless, and
The mountains have flung their mantles and concealed me
I am Ahmad the Arab, he said
I am the bullets, the oranges and the memory
-
All those poems, translated from Arabic, are just gorgeous Barb. But so sad. They reminded me of a song by Sting, which inhcludes the words "The Russians love their children too". Our societies have a long way to go before they realise that Muslims are not monsters. It is only the fanatical few that we know of from the media, that have given, and continue to give Islam a bad name.
The chosen poetry is, as always, sensitively chosen to send a message.
-
To poets, killers and readers of books... we flourish when as Meister Eckhart says, "we fear walking through the Valley of Death here on earth."
Hook
Now who to blame, you to blame, me to blame
For the pain and it poured every time when it rained
Things used to be, now they are not
Anything but us is our fame
Disguising ourselves with secret gains
We've become public argonauts
We fly away like strangers in the sea
Gone for eternity
We erase, one for another
So far from where we came
With so much of everything, how do we leave with nothing
-
OOh, the author of Psalm Three is harsh. I can believe his words were wrath, stones
and rebellion. He has no use whatever for the peacemaker.
"A camp grows and gives birth to fighters and to thyme"
And this one: We erase, one for another
So far from where we came
With so much of everything, how do we leave with nothing
Where did you find these, BARB? I can see their quality as poetry, but I'm not sure
I see the same 'message' Roshana does.
-
Ok my dear - let me see if I can help - actually, Psalm Three is quite beautiful - we all have different feelings during our lifetime that we express receiving a response that this poem offers a word picture explaining the response.
Psalm Three
Thought, word, and deed, complete the sum of human capability. Three degrees of comparison complete our knowledge of qualities. Christians have used three as have other cultures since ancient time before the Greeks - we must remember this is the work of an Arab poet - however, The word Psalm comes from the Greek word, psalmoi, a song sung to a harp, originally derived from psallein, to play on a stringed instrument. The Book of Psalms, in the Hebrew consists of 150 of these lyrical poems. Is the Poet saying his poem is the unified song to Christians, Jews, and Muslims?
On the day when my words
were earth...
I was a friend to stalks of wheat.
***
Words are in each staph and can have not only a personal declaration of one's values - the word is associated with: air - breath of life - wind of our soul - our strength - remember the big issues brought to our attention by the Women's Lib movement that men name things therefore, women are wordless limiting our full strength affecting our society.
Earth - Mother Earth - Earth the source of life - Earth in Arabic culture; man was made from earth gathered from the 7 corners of earth each a different color that is combined to create the first man.
Wheat is the bread of life but more in Arab culture it is the only sweet available in winter - Wheat is planted after the fall rains, harvested in winter and a porridge is boiled overnight - added to the pot is cinnamon, anise, sugar - added after cooking are nuts, raisins, slices of pomegranate
And so, speaking from his strength he is airing and befriending what is substantial and sweet
On the day when my words
were wrath
I was a friend to chains.
***
Chains have two meanings - we traditionally think of chains made from Iron - so much so that we often substitute the word chains with irons. - Iron is one of the seven metals of alchemy. It is associated with the operation of Separation. While most of us today think of chains as binding - binding to what - the wrath - wrath is not condemned in Arab culture - it is saying a relationship that would be separating you from the path of those to whom you have bestowed favors.
On the day when my words
were stones
I was a friend to streams.
***
Again, two meanings - stones from two nearby mountains that no longer exist are what was used to build the temple in Mecca - After God appeared and told Abraham to leave Mecca, his wife Hagar and his son Ishmael with only some water and dates, Hagar nursed her son and they drank the remaining water. Thirsty, Ishmael starts to cry and Hagar began to run between the hills of Safa and Marwa looking for water. She repeated the journey seven times until an angel appeared, striking the ground with his wing - the result - the Zamzam spring, which Muslims consider as a tributary of the waters of Paradise. Upon Abraham's return God tells him and Ishmael to build the temple using stones from the hills of Safa and Marwa.
Pre-Muslim Arabs worshiped the moon-god as their greatest god - the top of most temples and flag poles etc. still display the crescent moon which is the symbol of the moon-god. A stone, either natural or artificially shaped into an alter, was used to venerate the divine. Smashing stones against other rocks was a prayer for rain and ancient pitted stones have been found where it believed rain to the moon-god was collected. There is also the tradition of the animated or oracular stones. The greater part of the natural Betyles were the black meteorites or fire-balls fallen from the heavens and regarded by the Sabeists as heavenly divinities. These meteorites were worshiped by wandering or dispersed men.
The stones are not further identified however, they could be jewels that the stream of water flows over and carries to satisfy the thirst of humankind.
On the day when my words
were a rebellion
I was a friend to earthquakes.
***
We too often associate rebellion with armed conflict - a rebellion can be a firm no to those in power as a two year old says no - some stamp their feet and some simply say no and go on with their new sense of freedom to choose for themselves - in any event the firm, solid, dependable earth quakes - there is not only change but a split - a new beat felt by all that may be a simple rumble or a major force.
On the day when my words
were bitter apples
I was a friend to the optimist.
***
For this bit we need to know what is a bitter apple - What use is the bitter apple -
http://www.fao.org/ag/AGP/AGPC/doc/Gbase/new_species/citcol.htm
With all those healing attributes I guess we would all be speaking as an optimist - maybe even as the song goes a Cockeyed Optimist ;) -
But when my words became
honey...
flies covered
my lips!...
And of course - this one is easy - flies to honey - saying that we all fly to that which is thick with sweetness - even Pooh Bear...! And so, we come full circle with the lips the organ of speech - words.
Looking deeper there may be other references - earth, air, water, fire which may refer further to the points of a compass - on and on this poem can go with its additional rich meanings.
-
A fascinating exposition, BARB. Are these your own thoughts, or is the psalm
explained somewhere as meaning this? The reason I ask is that, for instance,
the reference to 'stones' could have almost endless possible meanings. And while we
love sweetness, the idea of flies on one's lips conveys a truly gross image.
One often wonders what the poet meant! ???
-
Babi please add any additional stone metaphor that comes to mind - Babi this is a nice article on what really is imagery in poetry - as the article suggests it is easy but not true that the imagery is something we can picture - that the imagery in poetry is anchored in the metaphor and simile -
http://meadhall.homestead.com/Imagery.html
We need to look deeper than all those photos on TV of starving African babies covered in flies. Catch more flies with honey than vinegar is an old saying - seems to me when we were kids wasn't that a favorite garden trick to get rid of an excess of bugs - everything from saucers to upside down mason jars where offerings of honey were meant to attract whatever the bug - I think here of late we are hearing more the expression - he or she has a silver tongue - and so it takes a bit of working the memory catalog to bring up alternate metaphors
ohhh look - this article about honey used in poetry and especially Hindu poetry makes me think maybe that last bit about the hone was even more powerful than we realized.
http://www.honey-health.com/honey-65.shtml
Which reminds me - there is poem about bees I think called the Fable of the Bees - let me see if I can find it -
-
Yep, hurray found it - the poem is long so I will break it into a couple of posts.
The Grumbling Hive:
or, Knaves Turn'd Honest
By Bernard Mandeville - Edited by Jack Lynch
The text is transcribed from the 1705 edition of The Grumbling Hive.
A SPACIOUS Hive well stock'd with Bees,
That lived in Luxury and Ease;
And yet as fam'd for Laws and Arms,
As yielding large and early Swarms;
Was counted the great Nursery [5]
Of Sciences and Industry.
No Bees had better Government,
More Fickleness, or less Content.
They were not Slaves to Tyranny,
Nor ruled by wild Democracy; [10]
But Kings, that could not wrong, because
Their Power was circumscrib'd by Laws.
These Insects lived like Men, and all
Our Actions they perform'd in small:
They did whatever's done in Town, [15]
And what belongs to Sword, or Gown:
Tho' th'Artful Works, by nible Slight;
Of minute Limbs, 'scaped Human Sight
Yet we've no Engines; Labourers,
Ships, Castles, Arms, Artificers, [20]
Craft, Science, Shop, or Instrument,
But they had an Equivalent:
Which, since their Language is unknown,
Must be call'd, as we do our own.
As grant, that among other Things [25]
They wanted Dice, yet they had Kings;
And those had Guards; from whence we may
Justly conclude, they had some Play;
Unless a Regiment be shewn
Of Soldiers, that make use of none. [30]
Vast Numbers thronged the fruitful Hive;
Yet those vast Numbers made 'em thrive;
Millions endeavouring to supply
Each other's Lust and Vanity;
Whilst other Millions were employ'd, [35]
To see their Handy-works destroy'd;
They furnish'd half the Universe;
Yet had more Work than Labourers.
Some with vast Stocks, and little Pains
Jump'd into Business of great Gains; [40]
And some were damn'd to Sythes and Spades,
And all those hard laborious Trades;
Where willing Wretches daily sweat,
And wear out Strength and Limbs to eat:
Whilst others follow'd Mysteries, [45]
To which few Folks bind Prentices;
That want no Stock, but that of Brass,
And may set up without a Cross;
As Sharpers, Parasites, Pimps, Players,
Pick-Pockets, Coiners, Quacks, Sooth-Sayers, [50]
And all those, that, in Enmity
With down-right Working, cunningly
Convert to their own Use the Labour
Of their good-natur'd heedless Neighbour:
These were called Knaves; but, bar the Name, [55]
The grave Industrious were the Same.
All Trades and Places knew some Cheat,
No Calling was without Deceit.
The Lawyers, of whose Art the Basis
Was raising Feuds and splitting Cases, [60]
Opposed all Registers, that Cheats
Might make more Work with dipt Estates;
As were't unlawful, that one's own,
Without a Law-Suit, should be known.
They kept off Hearings wilfully, [65]
To finger the retaining Fee;
And to defend a wicked Cause,
Examin'd and survey'd the Laws;
As Burglars Shops and Houses do;
To find out where they'd best break through. [70]
Physicians valued Fame and Wealth
Above the drooping Patient's Health,
Or their own Skill: The greatest Part
Study'd, instead of Rules of Art,
Grave pensive Looks, and dull Behaviour; [75]
To gain th'Apothecary's Favour,
The Praise of Mid wives, Priests and all,
That served at Birth, or Funeral;
To bear with th'ever-talking Tribe,
And hear my Lady's Aunt prescribe; [80]
With formal Smile, and kind How d'ye,
To fawn on all the Family;
And, which of all the greatest Curse is,
T'endure th'Impertinence of Nurses.
Among the many Priests of Jove, [85]
Hir'd to draw Blessings from Above,
Some few were learn'd and eloquent,
But Thousands hot and ignorant:
Yet all past Muster, that could hide
Their Sloth, Lust, Avarice and Pride; [90]
For which, they were as famed, as Taylors
For Cabbage; or for Brandy, Sailors:
Some meagre look'd, and meanly clad
Would mystically pray for Bread,
Meaning by that an ample Store, [95]
Yet lit'rally receiv'd no more;
And, whilst these holy Drudges starv'd,
Some lazy Ones, for which they serv'd,
Indulg'd their Ease, with all the Graces
Of Health and Plenty in their Faces. [100]
The Soldiers, that were forced to fight,
If they survived, got Honour by't;
Tho' some, that shunn'd the bloody Fray,
Had Limbs shot off, that ran away:
Some valiant Gen'rals fought the Foe; [105]
Others took Bribes to let them go:
Some ventur'd always, where 'twas warm;
Lost now a Leg, and then an Arm;
Till quite disabled, and put by,
They lived on half their Salary; [110]
Whilst others never came in Play,
And staid at Home for Double Pay.
Their Kings were serv'd; but Knavishly
Cheated by their own Ministry;
Many, that for their Welfare slaved, [115]
Robbing the very Crown they saved:
Pensions were small, and they lived high,
Yet boasted of their Honesty.
Calling, whene'er they strain'd their Right,
The slipp'ry Trick a Perquisite; [120]
And, when Folks understood their Cant,
They chang'd that for Emolument;
Unwilling to be short, or plain,
In any thing concerning Gain:
For there was not a Bee, but would [125]
Get more, I won't say, than he should;
But than he dared to let them know,
That pay'd for't; as your Gamesters do,
That, tho' at fair Play, ne'er will own
Before the Losers what they've won. [130]
But who can all their Frauds repeat!
The very Stuff, which in the Street
They sold for Dirt t'enrich the Ground,
Was often by the Buyers sound
Sophisticated with a Quarter [135]
Of Good-for-nothing, Stones and Mortar;
Tho' Flail had little Cause to mutter,
Who sold the other Salt for Butter.
-
Justice her self, famed for fair Dealing,
By Blindness had not lost her Feeling; [140]
Her Left Hand, which the Scales should hold,
Had often dropt 'em, bribed with Gold;
And, tho' she seem'd impartial,
Where Punishment was corporal,
Pretended to a reg'lar Course, [145]
In Murther, and all Crimes of Force;
Tho' some, first Pillory'd for Cheating,
Were hang'd in Hemp of their own beating;
Yet, it was thought, the Sword the bore
Check'd but the Desp'rate and the Poor; [150]
That, urg'd by mere Necessity,
Were tied up to the wretched Tree
For Crimes, which not deserv'd that Fate,
But to secure the Rich, and Great.
Thus every Part was full of Vice, [155]
Yet the whole Mass a Paradice;
Flatter'd in Peace, and fear'd in Wars
They were th'Esteem of Foreigners,
And lavish of their Wealth and Lives,
The Ballance of all other Hives. [160]
Such were the Blessings of that State;
Their Crimes conspired to make 'em Great;
And Virtue, who from Politicks
Had learn'd a Thousand cunning Tricks,
Was, by their happy Influence, [165]
Made Friends with Vice: And ever since
The worst of all the Multitude
Did something for the common Good.
This was the State's Craft, that maintain'd
The Whole, of which each Part complain'd: [170]
This, as in Musick Harmony,
Made Jarrings in the Main agree;
Parties directly opposite
Assist each oth'r, as 'twere for Spight;
And Temp'rance with Sobriety [175]
Serve Drunkenness and Gluttonny.
The Root of evil Avarice,
That damn'd ill-natur'd baneful Vice,
Was Slave to Prodigality,
That Noble Sin; whilst Luxury. [180]
Employ'd a Million of the Poor,
And odious Pride a Million more
Envy it self, and Vanity
Were Ministers of Industry;
Their darling Folly, Fickleness [185]
In Diet, Furniture, and Dress,
That strange, ridic'lous Vice, was made
The very Wheel, that turn'd the Trade.
Their Laws and Cloaths were equally
Objects of Mutability; [190]
For, what was well done for a Time,
In half a Year became a Crime;
Yet whilst they alter'd thus their Laws,
Still finding and correcting Flaws,
They mended by Inconstancy [195]
Faults, which no Prudence could foresee.
Thus Vice nursed Ingenuity,
Which join'd with Time; and Industry
Had carry'd Life's Conveniencies,
It's real Pleasures, Comforts, Ease, [200]
To such a Height, the very Poor
Lived better than the Rich before;
And nothing could be added more:
How vain is Mortals Happiness!
Had they but known the Bounds of Bliss; [205]
And, that Perfection here below
Is more, than Gods can well bestow,
The grumbling Brutes had been content
With Ministers and Government.
But they, at every ill Success, [210]
Like Creatures lost without Redress,
Cursed Politicians, Armies, Fleets;
Whilst every one cry'd, Damn the Cheats,
And would, tho' Conscious of his own,
In Others barb'rously bear none. [215]
One, that had got a Princely Store,
By cheating Master, King, and Poor,
Dared cry aloud; The Land must sink
For all its Fraud; And whom d'ye think
The Sermonizing Rascal chid? [220]
A Glover that sold Lamb for Kid.
The last Thing was not done amiss,
Or cross'd the Publick Business;
But all the Rogues cry'd brazenly,
Good Gods, had we but Honesty! [225]
Merc'ry smiled at th'Impudence;
And Others call'd it want of Sence,
Always to rail at what they loved:
But Jove, with Indignation moved,
At last in Anger swore, he'd rid [230]
The bawling Hive of Fraud, and did.
The very Moment it departs,
And Honsty fills all their Hearts;
There shews 'em, like the Instructive Tree,
Those Crimes, which they're ashamed to see? [235]
Which now in Silence they confess,
By Blushing at their Uglyness;
Like Children, that would hide their Faults,
And by their Colour own their Thoughts;
Imag'ning, when they're look'd upon, [240]
That others see, what they have done.
But, Oh ye Gods! What Consternation,
[illeg.] vast and sudden was the Alteration!
In half an Hour, the Nation round,
Meat fell a Penny in the Pound. [245]
The Mask Hypocrisie's [illeg.] down,
From the great [illeg.]
And some, in [illeg.] known,
Appear'd like Strangers in their own.
The Bar was silent from that Day; [250]
For now the willing Debtors pay,
Even what's by Creditors forgot;
Who quitted them, who had it not.
Those, that were in the Wrong, stood mute,
And dropt the patch'd vexatious Suit. [255]
On which, since nothing less can thrive,
Than Lawyers in an honest Hive,
All, except those, that got enough,
With Ink-horns by their Sides trooped off.
Justice hang'd some, set others free; [260]
And, after Goal-delivery,
Her Presence be'ng no more requier'd,
With all her Train, and Pomp retir'd.
First marched 'some Smiths, with Locks and Grates,
Fetters, and Doors with Iron-Plates; [265]
Next Goalers, Turnkeys, and Assistants:
Before the Goddess, at some distance,
Her cheif and faithful Minister
Squire Catch, the Laws great Finisher,
Bore not th'imaginary Sword, [270]
But his own Tools, an Ax and Cord;
Then on a Cloud the Hood-wink'd fair
Justice her self was push'd by Air:
About her Chariot, and behind,
Were Sergeants, 'Bums of every kind, [275]
Tip-Staffs, and all those Officers,
That squeese a Living out of Tears.
-
looks like we need 3 posts to get it all in a readable size.
Tho' Physick liv'd, whilst Folks were ill,
None would prescribe, but Bees of Skill;
Which, through the Hive dispers'd so wide, [280]
That none of 'em had need to ride,
Waved vain Disputes; and strove to free
The Patients of their Misery;
Left Drugs in cheating Countries grown,
And used the Product of their own, [285]
Knowing the Gods sent no Disease
To Nations without remedies.
Their Clergy rouz'd from Laziness,
Laid not their Charge on Journey-Bees;
But serv'd themselves, exempt from Vice, [290]
The Gods with Pray'r and Sacrifice;
All those, that were unfit, or knew,
Their Service might be spared, withdrew;
Nor was their Business for so many,
(If th'Honest stand in need of any.) [295]
Few only with the High-Priest staid,
To whom the rest Obedience paid:
Himself, employ'd in holy Cares;
Resign'd to others State Affairs:
He chased no Starv'ling from his Door, [300]
Nor pinch'd the Wages of the Poor:
But at his House the Hungry's fed,
The Hireling finds unmeasur'd Bread,
The needy Trav'ler Board and Bed.
Among the King's great Ministers, [305]
And all th'inferiour Officers
The Change was great; for frugally
They now lived on their Salary.
That a poor Bee should Ten times [illeg.]
To ask his Due, a [illeg.] Sun, [310]
And by some well [illeg.]
To give a Crown, or ne'er be [illeg.]
Would now be called a down-right [illeg.]
Tho' formerly a Perquisite.
All Places; managed first by Three, [315]
Who watch'd each other's Knavery,
And often for a Fellow-feeling,
Promoted, one anothers Stealing,
Are happily supply'd by one;
By which some Thousands more are gone. [320]
No Honour now could be content,
To live, and owe for what was spent.
Liveries in Brokers Shops are hung,
They part with Coaches for a Song;
Sell Stately Horses by whole Sets; [325]
And Country Houses to pay Debts.
Vain Cost is shunn'd as much as Fraud;
They have no forces kept Abroad;
Laugh at the Esteem of Foreigners,
And empty Glory got by Wars; [330]
They fight but for their Country's Sake,
When Right or Liberty's at Stake.
Now mind the glorious Hive, and see,
How Honesty and Trade agree:
The Shew is gone, it thins apace; [335]
And looks with quite another Face,
For 'twas not only that they went,
By whom vast Sums were Yearly spent;
But Multitudes, that lived on them,
Were daily forc'd to do the same. [340]
In vain to other Trades they'd fly;
All were o're-stocked accordingly.
The Price of Land, and Houses falls
Mirac'lous Palaces, whose Walls,
Like those of Thebes, were raised by Play, [345]
Are to be let; whilst the once gay,
Well-seated Houshould Gods would be
More pleased t'expire in Flames, than see;
The mean Inscription on the Door
Smile at the lofty Ones they bore. [350]
The Building Trace is quite destroy'd,
Artificers are not employ'd;
No Limner for his Art is famed;
Stone-cutters, Garvers are not named.
Those, that remain'd, grown temp'rate, strive, [355]
So how to spend; but how to live;
And, when they paid the Tavern Score,
Resolv'd to enter it no more:
No Vintners Jilt in all the Hive
Could wear now Cloth of Gold and thrive; [360]
Nor [illeg.]; such vast sums advance,
For Burgundy and [illeg.];
The Courtier's gone, that with his Miss
Supp'd at his House on Christmass Peas;
Spending as much in two Hours stay, [365]
As keeps a Troop of Horse a Day.
The Haughty Chloe; to live Great,
Had made her Husband rob the State:
But now she sells her Furniture,
Which the Indies had been ransack'd for; [370]
Contracts the expensive Bill of Fare,
And wears her strong Suit a whole Year:
The slight and fickle Age is past;
And Cloaths, as wel as Fashions last.
Weavers that ioyn'd rich Silk with [illeg.], [375]
And all the Trades subordinate,
Are gone. Still Peace and Plenty reign,
And every thing is cheap, tho' plain;
Kind Nature, free from Gard'ners Force,
Allows all Fruits in her own Course; [380]
But Rarities cannot be had,
Where Pains to get 'em are not paid.
As Pride and Luxury decrease,
So by degrees they leave the Seas,
Not Merchants now; but Companies [385]
Remove whole Manufacturies.
All Arts and Crafts neglected lie;
Content the Bane of Industry,
Makes 'em admire their homely Store,
And neither seek, nor covet more. [390]
So few in the vast Hive remain;
The Hundredth part they can't maintain
Against th'Insults of numerous Foes;
Whom yet they valiantly oppose;
Till some well-fenced Retreat is found; [395]
And here they die, or stand their Ground,
No Hireling in their Armies known;
But bravely fighting for their own;
Their Courage and Integrity
At last were crown'd with Victory. [400]
They triumph'd not without their Cost,
For many Thousand Bees were lost.
Hard'ned with Toils, and Exercise
They counted Ease it self a Vice;
Which so improv'd their Temperance, [405]
That to avoid Extravagance,
They flew into a hollow tree,
Blest with content and Honesty.
The MORAL.
THEN leave Complaints: Fools only strive
To make a Great an honest Hive. [410]
T'enjoy the World's Conveniencies,
Be famed in War, yet live in Ease
Without great Vices, is a vain
Eutopia seated in the Brain.
Fraud, Luxury, and Pride must live; [415]
We [illeg.] we the Benefits receive.
Hunger's a dreadful Plague no doubt,
Yet who digests or thrives without?
Do we not owe the Growth of Wine
To the dry, crooked, shabby Vine? [420]
Which, whist its [illeg.] neglected flood,
Choak'd other Plants, and ran to Wood;
But blest us with his Noble Fruit;
As soon as it was tied, and cut:
So Vice is beneficial found, [425]
When it's by Justice [illeg.], and bound;
Nay, where the People would be great,
As necessary to the State,
At Hunger is to make 'em eat.
Bare Vertue can't make Nations live [430]
In Splendour; they, that would revive
A Golden Age, must be as free,
For Acorns, as for Honesty.
-
Oh, my, I do love that description of the 'ingredients' of a woman in Hindu
mythology.
I do understand about metaphor and imagery. What we often cannot know, is
what the poet intended in writing the poem. The most commonly intended use
of 'stone' as metaphor is hardness, as in 'hearts of stone'. I remain puzzled
as to how a stone is a 'friend to streams'.
I immediately assumed that the 'kingdom' Mandeville was satirizing was England.
Out of curiousity I went hunting and found this:
Mandeville's best-known work is The Fable of the Bees, (1714), originally published as a
poem, "The Grumbling Hive, or Knaves Turned Honest" (1705). This was intended at first to
be a political satire on the state of England in 1705, when the Tories accused the ministry
of favoring the French war for their own personal gains. In the later version, however,
enlarged to two volumes, Mandeville, in agreement with T. Hobbes, declares that men act
essentially in terms of egoistical interests, in contrast to the easy optimism and
idealism of Shaftesbury. The material concerns of individuals are the basic force behind
all social progress, while what rulers and clergymen call virtues are simply fictions that
those in power employ to maintain their control.
It would seem that even those things we tend to deplore...and as he says, complain about...
have their uses.
,,,"whilst Luxury,
Employ'd a Million of the Poor,
And odious Pride a Million more
-
This bit -
All Arts and Crafts neglected lie;
Content the Bane of Industry,
Makes 'em admire their homely Store,
And neither seek, nor covet more.
reminds me of what years of budget cuts and community concepts of what ought to be taught in school has done to the education offered in most schools. The 3R's may get you a job but if appreciation for the arts are neglected they end up with a homely store in home and office. ah so
As to stones - I wonder Babi - seems to me we have our symbolic association with nature but it appears different among different societies is the history of symbolic association - now, it really makes sense when I look things up in the two books I have collected on symbolism and included for each symbol a list of cultures with their distinctive symbolic viewpoint.
I am thinking back to what I have read about Japanese gardens and it seems to me they too have stones and rocks symbolic for mountains and if I remember they even use small stones and pebbles to create paths that are symbolic of streams - just another way to look at what is around us I guess and poetry sure offers that opportunity.
Our weather man said that Houston was going to get some rain along with the tail end of this cold front - looks like if fizzled out here and still no rain since early last June while we continue to have 100+ days.
We are up to I think 87 days. I am really worn out with this - we have to think twice everytime we turn on the water faucet much less water anything outside. Now we have a fleet of white vehicles with city marshals hired to drive the streets and ticket anyone who is watering and to give a warning to anyone whose lawn looks greener than their neighbors. I'd plant my whole front lawn in cactus plants except it gets the brunt of the north wind in January and February so any deep cold would freeze out the cactus -
What would be nice looking but I cannot swing the cost is to have these large patios made with irregular shaped flagstone and then between the flagstones crow some simple short ground cover or herbs. Hmmm maybe instead of the whole front yard I could start with a patch and each year based on my budget add to the size. Gotta do something - it is ugly out there now.
-
From Harper's Weekly 1864
DROUGHT.
THE sky is brass, the lordly sun
Looks down with a fiery eye, The shallow rivers scarcely run,
The streamlet's bed is dry.
The meadow's crust is stiff and hard, The trees have a sombre hue,
The threadbare coat of the rusty sward Needs patching with verdure anew.
Still bearing down, still staring down, The remorseless rays are cast,
And scorching hamlet and seething town Both swoon in their fiery blast.
The dust lies thick in the village road, The cattle crowd to the muddy pool,
The swarming flies high revel hold—Drowsily buzzes the village school.
Oh heavily droops the bearded grain, The summer flowers wilt and die,
And stretch their tiny stems in vain To the clouds for tears of sympathy
None come; but the sound men ache to hear
Is the hurtling rush of the arrowy rain
Hurling its cohorts from far and near On roof-tree and window-pane.
A thousand tongues for its coming pray,
A thousand hearts for its advent long: Oh come and chase our gloom away--
Descend, and fill the land with song !
July 20, 1864.
-
Ha - maybe with a couple of poems about rain and we will really see drops falling from the sky... ;)
The Rain, It Streams On Stone And Hillock
~ A. E. Housman
The rain, it streams on stone and hillock,
The boot clings to the clay.
Since all is done that's due and right
Let's home; and now, my lad, good-night,
For I must turn away.
Good-night, my lad, for nought's eternal;
No league of ours, for sure.
Tomorrow I shall miss you less,
And ache of heart and heaviness
Are things that time should cure.
Over the hill the highway marches
And what's beyond is wide:
Oh soon enough will pine to nought
Remembrance and the faithful thought
That sits the grave beside.
The skies, they are not always raining
Nor grey the twelvemonth through;
And I shall meet good days and mirth,
And range the lovely lands of earth
With friends no worse than you.
But oh, my man, the house is fallen
That none can build again;
My man, how full of joy and woe
Your mother bore you years ago
To-night to lie in the rain.
-
Drifting
~ Wang Wei
September skies are clear to the distance
Clearer still so far from human kind.
A heron by the pool, a mountain cloud,
Either of them makes the mind content.
The faintest ripples still and evening’s here.
The moon turns silver and I dream,
Tonight leaning on a single oar,
Drifting without thought of going home.
-
BARB, maybe one of those oriental rock gardens would be the ideal solution. You could
still plant a bit of color in strategic spots when the weather permitted. My hard miniature
rose, which has survived all kinds of weather, is looking very poorly. I'm not sure it
will make it this time, but I continue to hope.
I just heard on the afternoon news that the Wildlife commission will be 'evacuating' the
small fish in our shrinking rivers and streams. They'll be moved to a lake, and brought
back when the rains come again.
-
Good idea - need to get out my books on Japanese gardens.
Freedom
~ Catrin
Running in the meadow,
Dancing in the stream,
Prancing in the buttercups,
Capture the moonbeam.
Flying with the nightingales,
Crying with the wolf,
Lying in the bright sunshine,
Maybe life is not so dull.
-
~ Shirley Sasek, 2009
SOMETIMES LIFE SEEMS TO BE A SHALLOW STREAM,
FULL OF ROCKS AND AN UPHILL SWIM
THEN OTHER TIMES IT'S LIKE THE OCEAN,
SO DEEP YOU 'RE NOT SURE HOW YOU GOT IN.
IT'S NOT ALWAYS SMART TO FOLLOW THE CROWD
ON THAT ROCKY WAY BACK HOME
THERE'S ALWAYS BEARS, HUNGRY BEARS,
NO MATTER WHERE. YOU ROAM.
SO USE THE SENSE GOD GAVE TO YOU
LOOK BEFORE YOU LEAP
THE WAY MAY BE FROUGHT WITH PANGS OF REGRET
BUT AT LEAST, YOU WONT BE AT THE BOTTOM OF THE HEAP
-
FOAM AND FANGS
~ Walter Parke.
O nymph with the nicest of noses;
And finest and fairest of forms;
Lips ruddy and ripe as the roses
That sway and that surge in the storms;
O buoyant and blooming Bacchante,
Of fairer than feminine face,
Rush, raging as demon of Dante--
To this, my embrace!
The foam and the fangs and the flowers,
The raving and ravenous rage
Of a poet as pinion'd in powers
As a condor confined in a cage!
My heart in a haystack I've hidden,
As loving and longing I lie,
Kiss open thine eyelids unbidden--
I gaze and I die!
I've wander'd the wild waste of slaughter,
I've sniffed up the sepulchre's scent,
I've doated on devilry's daughter,
And murmur'd much more than I meant;
I've paused at Penelope's portal,
So strange are the sights that I've seen,
And mighty's the mind of the mortal
Who knows what I mean.
-
The Song of Right and Wrong
~ Gilbert Keith Chesterton
Feast on wine or fast on water
And your honour shall stand sure,
God Almighty's son and daughter
He the valiant, she the pure;
If an angel out of heaven
Brings you other things to drink,
Thank him for his kind attentions,
Go and pour them down the sink.
Tea is like the East he grows in,
A great yellow Mandarin
With urbanity of manner
And unconsciousness of sin;
All the women, like a harem,
At his pig-tail troop along;
And, like all the East he grows in,
He is Poison when he's strong.
Tea, although an Oriental,
Is a gentleman at least;
Cocoa is a cad and coward,
Cocoa is a vulgar beast,
Cocoa is a dull, disloyal,
Lying, crawling cad and clown,
And may very well be grateful
To the fool that takes him down.
As for all the windy waters,
They were rained like tempests down
When good drink had been dishonoured
By the tipplers of the town;
When red wine had brought red ruin
And the death-dance of our times,
Heaven sent us Soda Water
As a torment for our crimes.
-
Would it be unkind to remind us that Chesterton weighed over 300 pounds?
-
;) just saw your post Joan - his 300 pounds could sure move a pen across paper couldn't it...Never did read his Father Brown Mysteries have you?
Maybe this one by Yeats helps us to see that we imagine and want more than the possible and we all have something that another prefers wasn't - oh me or my...
~ William Butler Yeats
How a Princess Edane,
A daughter of a King of Ireland, heard
A voice singing on a May Eve like this,
And followed half awake and half asleep,
Until she came into the Land of Faery,
Where nobody gets old and godly and grave,
Where nobody gets old and crafty and wise,
Where nobody gets old and bitter of tongue.
And she is still there, busied with a dance
Deep in the dewy shadow of a wood,
Or where stars walk upon a mountain-top
-
I'll wager Walter Parke had great fun writing "Foam and Fangs". I had fun reading it.
Chesterton was a brilliant man with a wry wit. I think this poem was a great example of
it, ..tho' I suspect he was quite sincere in his put-down of 'soda water'. :D
I'm sure you're familiar with this Chesterton poem.
The Donkey by G. K. Chesterton
When forests walked and fishes flew
And figs grew upon thorn,
Some moment when the moon was blood,
Then, surely, I was born.
With monstrous head and sickening bray
And ears like errant wings—
The devil's walking parody
Of all four-footed things:
The battered outlaw of the earth
Of ancient crooked will;
Scourge, beat, deride me—I am dumb—
I keep my secret still.
Fools! For I also had my hour—
One far fierce hour and sweet:
There was a shout around my head
And palms about my feet.
-
hahaha - I love it - no - I had not read it - that is one I need to try to memorize - just too much fun.
A change of pace - Shakespeare's Sonnet 130 - a gentle parody of traditional love poetry.
My mistress' eyes are nothing like the sun;
Coral is far more red than her lips' red ;
If snow be white, why then her breasts are dun;
If hairs be wires, black wires grow on her head.
I have seen roses damask, red and white,
But no such roses see I in her cheeks;
And in some perfumes is there more delight
Than in the breath that from my mistress reeks.
I love to hear her speak, yet well I know
That music hath a far more pleasing sound;
I grant I never saw a goddess go;
My mistress, when she walks, treads on the ground:
And yet, by heaven, I think my love as rare
As any she belied with false compare.
-
I love the Jeeves and Wooster stories and I had no idea that Wodehouse wrote poetry as well. Here is one of his parody's
A Solitary Triumph - by P.G. Wodehouse
[Statistics show that the number of criminal women is considerably less in proportion than that of male criminals.]
OH, the progress of Woman has really been vast
Since Civilization began.
She's usurped all the qualities which in the past
Were reckoned peculiar to Man.
She can score with a bat, use a rod or a cue;
Her tennis and golf are sublime.
Her aim with a gun is uncommonly true,
But Man beats her hollow at crime.
The strings to her bow are both varied and quaint;
There are maids who can work with the pen,
There are maids who can handle the palette and paint
With a skill that's not given to men.
There are ladies who preach, lady doctors there are,
MPs will be ladies in time,
And ladies, I hear, practise now at the Bar --
But Man holds the record for crime.
So it's hey for the jemmy, and ho for the drill,
And hurrah for the skeleton keys.
Oh, to burgle a house or to rifle a till!
I am more than her equal at these.
She may beat me at home, she may beat me afield;
In her way I admit she is prime.
But one palm at least I compel her to yield:
I can give her a lesson in crime.
-
I must admit I always found that particular Shakeseare sonnet refreshing. The florid
praises of one's lady love got to be a bit too much, imo. An eyebrow would quirk, and the
thought, "Oh, come now. Be real", would drift through. Master William decided here to be
real.
It's a pleasure to see Mr. Wodehouse so cheerfully acknowledge feminine prowess. 8)
-
May I interupt late summer to post a poem in honor of PatH'sd new granddaughter: COLORED TOYS"
http://www.poemhunter.com/best-poems/rabindranath-tagore/colored-toys/ (http://www.poemhunter.com/best-poems/rabindranath-tagore/colored-toys/)
-
OH Joan how perfect - thanks for bringing us the poem and not only Congrats to Pat but thanks to her daughter or is it her daughter-in-law for having her baby and that allowed us to read this great poem - I am thinking when the babies are only weeks old they are almost like toys themselves - with their heads so gentle in the crook of our neck when they are asleep. Oh and then when they are sitting up and not yet talking but have figured out how to laugh - fun fun fun
-
MY DEAR CHILD
You are the poem
I dreamed of writing
the masterpiece
I longed to paint.
You are the shining star
I reached for In my
ever hopeful quest
for life fulfilled...
You are my child.
Now with all things
I am blessed.
- Author Unknown
-
BABY POEMS ...
Babies are Angels that fly to the earth,
their wings disappear at the time of their birth
one look in their eyes and we're never the same
They're part of us now and that part has a name
That part is your heart and a bond that won't sever
our Babies are Angels, we love them forever.
~Unknown~
-
Cradle Song
~ by Lord Alfred Tennyson
What does little birdie say
In her nest at peep of day?
Let me fly, says little birdie,
Mother, let me fly away.
Birdie, rest a little longer,
Till thy little wings are stronger.
So she rests a little longer,
Then she flies away.
What does little baby say,
In her bed at peep of day?
Baby says, like little birdie,
Let me rise and fly away.
Baby, sleep a little longer,
Till thy little limbs are stronger.
If she sleeps a little longer,
Baby too shall fly away.
-
(http://seniorlearn.org/bookclubs/poetry/poetry%20fall.jpg)
| Autumn Poetry~ Author Unknown
"Just before the death of flowers,
And before they are buried in snow,
There comes a festival season
When nature is all aglow."
- Famous Poets and Poems about Autumn (http://famouspoetsandpoems.com/thematic_poems/autumn_poems.html)
- Link to: Autumn Poems (http://poetry.about.com/od/ourpoemcollections/a/autumnpoems.htm)
~~ Discussion Leaders: Barb (augere@ix.netcom.com)
|
-
Thanks, everyone, for those sweet baby poems. She is Jacqueline Kaiser, and they're home now and doing well.
-
Leaving Andalusia
~ Jacqueline Dee Parker
We’ve crossed latticed shadows
of cork and olive trees,
toured bodegas, cathedrals,
pueblos blancos carved in hillsides,
whiffed blossoms sprung
off painted pots hooked on stucco walls
on ribbons of street the width
of a swift’s wingspan—
centuries of ruin and mosaic,
cupolas gilded in apricot light,
basins of holy water, tiles,
stalactites, remains—
Thus, the eve of leaving,
folding maps, shaking sand from socks,
I’m lulled by the children, bent
over squares of paper cloth, hands
rollicking markers, drawing closely—
little girl and boy, just for a little while.
-
Buying the Muse
~ Jacqueline West
for S.H.
First the antique strain
of fruit, the extinct
grafts of pear, fig, plum.
Then the coin
unearthed from grit
where it roughed its spot
for thirty years,
and then, the song,
pulled out of the sleeve
of an old silk robe,
cigarettes in its pocket.
We toss in our gifts,
wait for her to climb
from the shallow saline,
a mermaid made of wishes.
We think that we have the key.
Later, when the seams
have broken, the seal
of blood drained into ink,
we will wonder
just what we exchanged
for this bargain of silence,
these flat stones where
other wishers will skim
like grasshoppers, their hunger
seeking out our names.
-
WISDOM …
~ Jacqueline Brumley
Owl is the grand and rather clever old man of the forest.
He can also spell Thursday.
He will tell you to stop worrying & just slow down.
Owl has a quiet mind. He likes to contemplate things.
He knows what time the sun rises & sets.
He knows all the stars in the sky & he can tell what your thinking.
When you are worried or… have a problem, go visit Owl cos he will know the answer & he’ll make you feel calm.
Owl’s best friend is Trust.
-
I was enjoying Ms. Parker's "Leaving Andalusia", but found the closing puzzling.
The brevity of childhood seems wholly unrelated to what came before.
-
Babi I think it is the rollicking markers that is confusing - not sure what that means - you can almost get the atmosphere after all that sightseeing that they are near their hotel or where ever they were sleeping while visiting the area and there were children about - who are only boys and girls - children for awhile because, they too will leave their childhood just as the one talking in the poem is leaving the area - maybe that is what the rollicking markers are - a marker can be the invisible mark of growing from child to adult and rollicking - could that word suggest that the children are having a rollicking good time just being children without the awareness that they are passing markers of growth towards maturity
Sand usually represents time so shaking sand [time] from their socks and talking about centuries of structures sounds like time is being addressed - and so I am back to assuming her reference to children and markers and finishing up for just a little while - must mean a passing of time is - oh yes, that must be it - we are all visitors - not just in Andalusia but in this world - and we all leave plus we leave behind our childhood and we leave behind the evidence of our being here by either creating children or, orchards or, fountains or, or, or...
It is a struggle to figure out exactly what she has in mind but then maybe that is her plan - to write in such a way that we can interpret the images we make from her words to tell us the story that fits our conception of time and our reason for being here.
I wondered if you noticed - all three poems were written by someone with the first name of Jacqueline as a nod to and inspiration for how Pat's new grand-daughter Jacqueline could join the chorus of poets with the name of Jacqueline.
-
I certainly noticed. Thanks for the graceful tribute.
-
Here's something else appropriate:
Infant Joy
"I have no name;
I am but two days old."
--What shall I call thee?
"I happy am;
Joy is my name."
--Sweet joy befall thee!
Pretty joy!
Sweet joy, but two days old;
sweet joy I call thee:
Thou dost smile:
I sing the while,
Sweet joy befall thee!
William Blake
-
Makes sense, BARB. You're really good at this sort of exegesis. The William Blake that Pat
posted, that one I know.
Duh. ??? I really did not 'click' to the 'Jacqueline' and Pat's precious new granddaughter.
Some mornings I'm slower than others.
-
Babi, if you had just learned that your new granddaughter's name was Jacqueline, you would be quick to notice the name too. :)
-
How nice of you to say so, PAT. :-*
I thought this little poem an apt description for all the lovely people I meet here on SL.
Build A Box Of Friendshipby Chuck Pool
Into a box of friendship
To insure that it is strong
First a layer of respect
On the bottom does belong.
Then to the sides attach,
In the corners where they meet,
Several anchors full of trust,
Devoid of all deceit.
The height of friendship can be measured
By the sides of four,
So make them all a larger cut,
And the box will hold much more.
Now fill it up with courtesy,
Honor and esteem,
Understanding, sympathy,
And passion for a dream.
Add to that your honesty,
Emotions joy and love,
And since they're so important,
Place them up above
But leave the box wide open
So all can see inside,
To learn what makes a friendship work
From the box you built with pride.
-
Babi wow - and to think that Senior Learn is a place where we can express all those virtues - thanks for reminding us of who we are.
SONNET
~ William Shakespeare
...When to the session of sweet silent thought
I summon up remembrance of things past,
I sigh the lack of many a thing I sought,
And with old woes new wail my dear time's waste:
Then can I drown an eye, unused to flow,
For precious friends hid in death¹s dateless night,
And weep afresh love's long since cancelled woe,
And moan the expense of many a vanish¹d sight:
Then can I grieve at grievances foregone,
And heavily from woe to woe tell o'er
The sad account of fore-bemoaned moan,
Which I new pay as if not paid before.
But if the while I think on thee, dear friend,
All losses are restored and sorrows end.
-
I have admired this sonnet, like so many others, since I first read it so long ago. But it has
taken me until these latter years to fully know it's meaning. To "grieve at grievances foregone", and rehearse the "fore-bemoaned moans". It happens too often when I can't
fall asleep at night, no matter how I chide myself.
-
Yes, for me it is not so much the night as the evening and sometimes the morning after coffee - thank goodness the phone often rings and I can stir out of my vanish'd state and then a call to a dear friend or two who at our age all have experienced a grievances foregone Each time I notice our friendship is that much tighter.
Can you believe this summer - here it is almost October and we are going to have another 100 degree day. And except for about 45 minutes of rain over a week ago we have not had any since last June - I feel as if this is eternal. I'd love to turn the spigots on all around the house and soak everything for 24 hours but the bill - I would be paying off a water bill for over a year.
Evidently Judith Wright has made this poem about a Drought quite famous and from the content it sounds like she must be writing about Australia. Found her - here is a short bio
http://allpoetry.com/Judith_Wright
Drought Year
Judith Write
That time of drought the embered air
burned to the roots of timber and grass.
The crackling lime-scrub would not bear
and Mooni Creek was sand that year.
The dingo's cry was strange to hear.
I heard the dingoes cry
in the scrub on the Thirty-mile Dry.
I saw the wedgetail take his fill
perching on the seething skull.
I saw the eel wither where he curled
in the last blood-drop of a spent world.
I heard the bone whisper in the hide
of the big red horse that lay where he died.
Prop that horse up, make him stand,
hoofs turned down in the bitter sand
make him stand at the gate of the Thirty-mile Dry.
Turn this way and you will die-
and strange and loud was the dingoes' cry.
-
I really like that. Favorite line: I saw the eel wither where he curled.
-
Frightening, a bit, to see how bad a drought can be. The drought here was bad enough; one
felt so helpless.
I went looking, and found most poems about nature are about it's beauty, and most poems
about helplessness referred to relationships or the pain of loved ones. I'll keep looking.
-
Sweet friends, all.
-
A Dry Autumn
~ M. Ragland
Tamarack
Wind lashes the hillsides
from high ridgetops. Branches
flail under bruised skies
of wide, plaintive eyes
staring down--fear blanches
a lovely face lightning divides.
The steep valley shaking,
my heart cannonading,
breathless among hemlock
and larches and gaunt rock
I halt, the day fading,
grief-struck by her leave taking.
What horror could blind her
grey eyes, so clear seeing,
her head tossed, undaunted--
lost, all she once wanted--
into the woods fleeing
old voices, till buzzards find her?
Loved, helplessly kissed
by her who spoke plain words,
a girl from a hollow,
I watch darkness grow
in the mountains, and birds
seek their nests. Soon, a slow mist.
-
A Dry Autumn
~ M. Ragland
Excavating One Twilight
How to excavate one twilight
with a rusted spade,
from the hard clay of late fall,
when all that remains
of slanting light on water
darkly mirroring willows,
a wavering footbridge,
your voice hesitating in
the waiting stillness,
are faint encryptions,
tablets broken and scattered,
buried by many seasons
in the landscape of myself.
-
A Dry Autumn
~ M. Ragland
Drought
The oaks that line the road
know it didn't rain yesterday
or the month before,
that there have been summers
when the lake bottom cracked
and a noon sun lit the wheel
of an old toy in the sand
at the bottom of a well.
A woodpecker knocks on the
leaning ash black ants are eating
from the inside out.
Dust rises.
A thirty-something blonde in a mail Jeep
reaches out and
the rusted hinge creaks.
Her blue eyes,
like an oven set on broil,
measure me
from boots to sweat-soaked shirt.
-
The Love of October
~ W. S. Merwin
A child looking at ruins grows younger
but cold
and wants to wake to a new name
I have been younger in October
than in all the months of spring
walnut and may leaves the color
of shoulders at the end of summer
a month that has been to the mountain
and become light there
the long grass lies pointing uphill
even in death for a reason
that none of us knows
and the wren laughs in the early shade now
come again shining glance in your good time
naked air late morning
my love is for lightness
of touch foot feather
the day is yet one more yellow leaf
and without turning I kiss the light
by an old well on the last of the month
gathering wild rose hips
in the sun.
-
What is the color of shouders, I wonder?
October is my favorite month. Here is an October poem by one Richard Greene.
It Was One of Those Fine October Days
It was one of those fine October days
free from summer’s heat and haze
but not yet gripped by autumn chill.
It was one of those fine October days
when the sky’s so clear
you can see the moon
through the atmosphere
at midday.
It was one of those fine October days
when the trees sport yellow and red
instead of everyday summer green.
It was one of those fine October days
when one draws a deep breath
and is grateful
to be resident on Earth.
-
Just too perfect Babi - and yes, we are today having one of those fine October days - only thing the leaves are turning for lack of water but the sky is that incredible blue that happens in the fall and we are only in the high 80s today which for us feels like a crisp fall day
Well tons to do and now that the back of the 100 degree days has been broken there is much repair of the yard - looks like whole swaths of the yard will not recover and so I need to rethink how to contain gravel and simply lay down gravel - I decided it could be fun with some silvery metal garbage pails and feeding troughs . sitting around filled with cascading vines and flowers so that I could hand water them and still have some color - but I have lost several trees and bushes so it will really be a hot baking desert in almost half the yard.
But on the plus side I can get my comforter washed and drink my coffee on the patio - maybe even have my lunch out there according to how fast it heats up and walk earlier in the evening instead of waiting till 10: or after - I will sorta miss the comradery of everyone out walking and riding their bikes in the late night dark in order to avoid the heat - it really didn't cool down with the wind rising blowing hard up from the Gulf Coast until after 9: where as most summers that starts around 5: in the late afternoon.
Well it was a summer for the books now lets see what kind of fall we have - if the oaks tell a story it will be a very mild winter. Hardly an acorn anywhere.
"The creation of a thousand forests is in one acorn."
~ Ralph Waldo Emerson
"Larger and finer meanings are read into the older legends of the plants, and the universality of certain myths is expressed in the concurrence of ideas in the beginnings of the great religions.
One of the first figures in the leading cosmologies is a tree of life guarded by a serpent. In the Judaic faith this was the tree in the garden of Eden; the Scandinavians made it an ash, Ygdrasil; Christians usually specify the tree as an apple, Hindus as a soma, Persians as a homa, Cambodians as a talok; this early tree is the vine of Bacchus, the snake-entwined caduceus of Mercury, the twining creeper of the Eddas, the bohidruma of Buddha, the fig of Isaiah, the tree of Aesculapius with the serpent around his trunk."
~ Charles M. Skinner, Myths and Legends of Flowers, Trees, Fruits and Plants, 1911
-
I had no idea a tree was a part of so many religious origins. But I can understand it. There is
something about a beautiful tree that has always touched me deeply.
The Presence of Trees
by Michael S. Glaser
I have always felt the living presence
of trees
the forest that calls to me as deeply
as I breathe,
as though the woods were marrow of my bone
as though
I myself were tree, a breathing, reaching
arc of the larger canopy
beside a brook bubbling to foam
like the one
deep in these woods,
that calls
that whispers home
I like this guy.
Michael Glaser recently received the Homer Dodge Endowed Award for Excellence in Teaching at St. Mary's College in Maryland. He has served as a Maryland Poet-in-the-Schools for 25 years, published over 300 poems in literary journals, newspapers and anthologies. His most recent collection of poems, Being A Father, was published in July 2004, when he was also appointed as the State of Maryland's Poet Laureate.
He can be reached at msglaser@smcm.edu.
-
lovely Babi - what a lovely contribution
Balance
~ A.L. Kline
We were moral in those first dawns too,
grasslands, lake-shores, deserts and seas.
We were tender, nurtured, we countered
the errors of culture, loved, knew beauty.
Religion has no sole claim to morality,
rarely true to the human in us, the balance,
the mean we made, the clear path we struck
between mind and body, in rooted being.
-
I can't say I agree with A.L. Kline. In those earliest dawns, I suspect survival was the only
morality. That includes survival as a group, of course, so certain mutual obligations applied.
Tenderness for a child is, I thoroughly believe, instinctive to all nature. How much tenderness
there was elsewhere, I would hesitate to say. Survival took precedence over all. And I also
believe, as I believe most of us do, that there is more to humanity than mind and body,...
unless Kline is giving much more scope to 'mind' than he (?) suggests here.
-
The leaves never know
which leaf
will be the first to fall...
Does the wind know?
Soseki
-
I see the Nobel Prize for Literature went to a Swedish poet, a Tomas Transtormer. I looked
up on of his poems; we'll probably be seeing more of them now.
After a Death
by Tomas Tranströmer
translated by Robert Bly
Once there was a shock
that left behind a long, shimmering comet tail.
It keeps us inside. It makes the TV pictures snowy.
It settles in cold drops on the telephone wires.
One can still go slowly on skis in the winter sun
through brush where a few leaves hang on.
They resemble pages torn from old telephone directories.
Names swallowed by the cold.
It is still beautiful to hear the heart beat
but often the shadow seems more real than the body.
The samurai looks insignificant
beside his armor of black dragon scales.
-
Yep I think you are right Babi - Kline makes it all sounds like a utopia -
Thanks Callie a delight of fall - I guess most of the country is feeling the cool days and color is washing the trees - I can only imagine and from time to time I look at a cam located in some National Park that lets me know that fall had arrived.
Interesting Poem from Transtormer Babi - we get no hint of a samurai and then all of a sudden he is the feature clothed in the black scales of a dragon - not sure the symbolism but then I may need to read the poem a few times.
Well I guess I am surprised our discussions are not filled with comments about Steve Jobs along with his wonderful quotes - if it were not for his creative view of the world and the ability to actually bring his creative concepts into the full light of day that have benefited the world but especially his creativity made us here on Senior Learn.
We have a community of folks we look forward to chatting with online - some from the other ends of the world. Because of him we have the ability to not only share our thoughts but the beautiful writings of others are quoted on our pages and we even have wonderful photos and graphics that give us a glimpse of our surroundings, information or beauty - all this wonder from a very few men but he is given credit for making a huge impact that even affected his competitors.
There have been a few men in recent years who have tought us how to live in the face of death - I am thinking of the professor whose Last Lecture we read and watched on youtube in the last few years and then all the comments about how the last Pope was an example of how to die well - and more intimately we have friends here on Senior Learn who passed and we feel empty with our loss - we are only reminded today how Anna, Fairanna, our leader here on Poetry is still in our hearts and minds.
But for the young especially who are all in their late teens and early twenties - for them the loss of Steve Jobs is stabbing their insides much as those of us remember the loss of John F. Kennedy - Oh they knew he was ill, very ill, but they had seen him bite the bullet several times in the past so they fully expected he would be successful again therefore, his death came as a shock. There were tweets to parents and friends and emails and phone calls to aunts, uncles, grandparents - it was a sadness they had to share and be comforted by talking to others about what this man meant to them and their life.
The expression I heard most from my grandboys is Steve Jobs was the one who gave them a bicycle for their minds - they go on how that allowed them a freedom to explore thoughts and ideas similar to riding a bike when they were young allowed them to explore their neighborhood and later their community. And so in memory of Steve Jobs the next poem...
-
Loss And Gain
~ by Henry Wadsworth Longfellow
When I compare
What I have lost with what I have gained,
What I have missed with what attained,
Little room do I find for pride.
I am aware
How many days have been idly spent;
How like an arrow the good intent
Has fallen short or been turned aside.
But who shall dare
To measure loss and gain in this wise?
Defeat may be victory in disguise;
The lowest ebb is the turn of the tide.
-
I certainly agree with Wordsworth about days idly spent :). Who's to say what is success. There are so many workaholicks around.
After all as the saying goes, 'nobody at your funeral talks about how clean your oven was.'
This hotter weather is helping my shoulder pain, but we are in the same boat as you were Barbara, bushfires everywhere. A vineyard has been lost in the last couple of weeks.
-
Transtromer's images made me think of growing older, BARB, tho' that may not have been his
intent. Then the contrast between the samurai, and the impressive armor that made him look
so imposing when he wore it. That makes me think that the real person is not the one we
see in all the armor and outward show.
-
Movie Star Reflections
~ Marilyn Lott
They were so beautiful, these ladies
Just like the movie stars
For a selected beauties chosen
That were truly the best by far
What was it do you think
That made them stand out from the rest?
Why, were they such charmers
When they got right down to the test
If you look closely at their pictures
Even in black and white
Their charm and immense beauty
Is such a fresh delight
They didn’t need any help
To make their beauty shine
Oh no, they were so natural
Their allure was just divine
Wouldn’t it be a lot of fun
To turn back the clocks awhile?
Can’t you see the autos they rode in?
I’ll bet they traveled in style
Oh well, it’s in the past now
We’ve gone in different directions
But it’s still fun to view
These ladies’ Movie Star Reflections!
-
February 8th, 2009
A/N: Alright this is pretty bad, but i thought i should write a poem about fire, or a bushfire, since in Australia we've had the worst bushfires in our history. So far fifty people have died and six hundred an fifty homes destroyed, but that's just an estimation. There are still people to be accounted for. Anyway, here's a poem!
BUSH FIRE
All was drowsy,
In the blistering heat
Rays beat down
On the emptied street
Quite far away
A careless match was lit
Not knowing what terror
That it could knit
That little spark,
So little a flare
Flickered so slightly
No one did care
Then it broke out;
Ate all in sight
Growing and growing
In stature and might
It blazed through forests
And came to the street
Once so peaceful and calm
Now with fire it did compete
The wild sparks crackled
Sharp like a spear
A monster, a bomb
A burst of flaming fear
It came and left
Leaving nothing behind
Only a ravaged road
Fire is not kind
Many did perish
And though some still alive
With those memories
They didn’t really survive
It was eerily silent
As the blaze died out
Not a sound could be heard
Neither a screech nor a shout
All was gone
And a breeze swept by
Then at last, a drop
Clouds covered the sky
But it t’was too late
How brutal is fate
-
Ah, me. If Ms. Lott really thinks those beauties didn't 'need any help to make their
beauty shine", she is naive, indeed. Many of them you wouldn't have recognized at all
if you met them on the street without their makeup.
Which of our Australian buddies wrote the poem about fire? It's not bad at all.
-
An Autumn Rain-Scene
~ by Thomas Hardy
There trudges one to a merry-making
With sturdy swing,
On whom the rain comes down.
To fetch the saving medicament
Is another bent,
On whom the rain comes down.
One slowly drives his herd to the stall
Ere ill befall,
On whom the rain comes down.
This bears his missives of life and death
With quickening breath,
On whom the rain comes down.
One watches for signals of wreck or war
From the hill afar,
On whom the rain comes down.
No care if he gain a shelter or none,
Unhired moves on,
On whom the rain comes down.
And another knows nought of its chilling fall
Upon him aat all,
On whom the rain comes down.
-
Berry Rain
~ by Raymond A. Foss
Heavy drops of rain
hang bodily from
the green fruit,
the bunches of berries
long before the harvest
hanging on the barbed vines,
wound through the rhododendron
Heavy berry rain, a teardrop
clinging to the bright green
held by its desire, its love
to nurture, to feed, to caress
the growing, maturing vine
-
The First Night Of Fall And Falling Rain
~ Delmore Schwartz
The common rain had come again
Slanting and colorless, pale and anonymous,
Fainting falling in the first evening
Of the first perception of the actual fall,
The long and late light had slowly gathered up
A sooty wood of clouded sky, dim and distant more and
more
Until, at dusk, the very sense of selfhood waned,
A weakening nothing halted, diminished or denied or set
aside,
Neither tea, nor, after an hour, whiskey,
Ice and then a pleasant glow, a burning,
And the first leaping wood fire
Since a cold night in May, too long ago to be more than
Merely a cold and vivid memory.
Staring, empty, and without thought
Beyond the rising mists of the emotion of causeless
sadness,
How suddenly all consciousness leaped in spontaneous
gladness,
Knowing without thinking how the falling rain (outside, all
over)
In slow sustained consistent vibration all over outside
Tapping window, streaking roof,
running down runnel and drain
Waking a sense, once more, of all that lived outside of us,
Beyond emotion, for beyond the swollen
distorted shadows and lights
Of the toy town and the vanity fair
of waking consciousness!
-
John Keats (1795-1821)
TO AUTUMN.
1.
SEASON of mists and mellow fruitfulness,
Close bosom-friend of the maturing sun;
Conspiring with him how to load and bless
With fruit the vines that round the thatch-eves run;
To bend with apples the moss’d cottage-trees,
And fill all fruit with ripeness to the core;
To swell the gourd, and plump the hazel shells
With a sweet kernel; to set budding more,
And still more, later flowers for the bees,
Until they think warm days will never cease,
For Summer has o’er-brimm’d their clammy cells.
2.
Who hath not seen thee oft amid thy store?
Sometimes whoever seeks abroad may find
Thee sitting careless on a granary floor,
Thy hair soft-lifted by the winnowing wind;
Or on a half-reap’d furrow sound asleep,
Drows’d with the fume of poppies, while thy hook
Spares the next swath and all its twined flowers:
And sometimes like a gleaner thou dost keep
Steady thy laden head across a brook;
Or by a cyder-press, with patient look,
Thou watchest the last oozings hours by hours.
3.
Where are the songs of Spring? Ay, where are they?
Think not of them, thou hast thy music too,—
While barred clouds bloom the soft-dying day,
And touch the stubble plains with rosy hue;
Then in a wailful choir the small gnats mourn
Among the river sallows, borne aloft
Or sinking as the light wind lives or dies;
And full-grown lambs loud bleat from hilly bourn;
Hedge-crickets sing; and now with treble soft
The red-breast whistles from a garden-croft;
And gathering swallows twitter in the skies.
-
(http://seniorlearn.org/bookclubs/poetry/poetry%20fall.jpg)
| Autumn Poetry~ Author Unknown
"Just before the death of flowers,
And before they are buried in snow,
There comes a festival season
When nature is all aglow."
- Famous Poets and Poems about Autumn (http://famouspoetsandpoems.com/thematic_poems/autumn_poems.html)
- Link to: Autumn Poems (http://poetry.about.com/od/ourpoemcollections/a/autumnpoems.htm)
~~ Discussion Leaders: Barb (augere@ix.netcom.com)
|
-
Oh, that Hardy poem is powerful. I've never seen it before. Thank you so much. Should I dare
hope this means you are finally getting the rain you need, BARB?
Here are two Autumn poems I like.
Autumn Song by Katherine Mansfield
Now's the time when children's noses
All become as red as roses
And the colour of their faces
Makes me think of orchard places
Where the juicy apples grow,
And tomatoes in a row.
And to-day the hardened sinner
Never could be late for dinner,
But will jump up to the table
Just as soon as he is able,
Ask for three times hot roast mutton--
Oh! the shocking little glutton.
Come then, find your ball and racket,
Pop into your winter jacket,
With the lovely bear-skin lining.
While the sun is brightly shining,
Let us run and play together
And just love the autumn weather.
Autumn Movement by Carl Sandburg
I CRIED over beautiful things knowing no beautiful thing lasts.
The field of cornflower yellow is a scarf at the neck of the copper sunburned woman,
the mother of the year, the taker of seeds.
The northwest wind comes and the yellow is torn full of holes, new beautiful things
come in the first spit of snow on the northwest wind, and the old things go, not one
lasts.
-
Yes Babi this past weekend we had two good days of solid rain coming down like a Texas rain does, in sheets that come so fast and furious there is no place for the water to go - as dry as we had been and still the water piled up overflowing curbs and making lakes out of low areas - then we had two more days of dark gray overcaste with a sprinkle now and then in various parts of town - this week the sun is a weakened yellow orange and I noticed last night the moon is full high in the sky - the season has finally changed and we are safe with no more 100+ days - the rain didn't do much for the lakes - it will take a month of downpours west of us where the Colorado is at its beginning so that the LCRA dams along the way will open and let the water into the lakes near Austin.
This summer wore me out so that I am still reeling and cannot seem to settle into an autumn mood - with Bastrop having gone up in flames there is no place nearby that I could get out into the woods and feel the season's change - everything is so dry there is no joy in being out of doors. The temp in the lakes is still 78 degrees and so maybe I need to simply take myself out for a swim and wipe the cobwebs out of my spirit system. Except the Springs would be so cold maybe a ride out to Krause's Springs would be better, because after a swim at the lake I would still have that dry long rocky shoreline with a creek size river to look at.
-
You do have my sympathies, BARB. The other day, watching the news about a hurrican turning into
a storm as it came inland, my daughter got up and was mentally 'pushing' the rain further inland,
shoving at it with her hands. Well, it relieved her feelings somewhat. ::)
-
Here we go Babi - most of her stuff is nasty - finding one that is cleaned up is like finding a needle in a haystack
the sheep lady from algiers
~ By Patti Smith b. 1946 Patti Smith
nodding tho' the lamps lit low
nodding for passers underground
to and fro she's darning and
the yarn is weeping red and pale
marking the train stops from algiers
sleeping tho' the eyes are pale
hums in rhythum w/a bonnet on
lullaby a broken song
the sifting-cloth is bleeding red
weeping yarn from algiers
lullaby tho' baby's gone
the cradle rocks a barren song
she's rocking w/her ribbons on
she's rocking yarn and needles oh
it's long coming from algiers
-
Good one Barb :)
-
That would explain why she isn't known to me, BARB. I never did get into 'nasty', in music,
film, or anything else. I tried to find some of her art, but all I could find were videos about her
'art exhibit', which apparently was art she had selected...not necessarily hers
-
Good morning Barbara and all,
The autumn flower is so pretty in the header. I have a few containers of pansies and mums. What kind of flower is that in the header?
-
Glad you like the poem roshanarose
Hi hats - glad to see you posting again - it appears to me the flower is a zinnia but I am not certain - it could be a wild flower and although the coloring makes it almost looks like a Painted Blanket however, I cannot see the Painted Blanket having the strength of stem that so easily blows in the wind to hold a Katydid that is the size of half the width of this flower - granted this is all magnified but it is still a large bug as compared to the flowerhead. The outer petals are too broad for it to be any kind of a chrysanthemum - I guess it is time to pull down the book with photos and sketches identifying flowers.
Yes, Babi - I know it is considered avant guard to be comfortable with language and body functions described, explored and explained as a way to make a point but I still come from the mind set taught to me as a kid that if that is the level of your conversation you do not have much rattling around in your head. In Patti's case, given her time in history I would guess it was about rebelling against the community norms - fine in my mind for a 16 year old or even a 21 year old but older than that I want to say the old cliché, 'get a life' ---
This way of expressing ourselves has become so common that we are loosing the impact of so many wonderful words that took hundreds of years to develop and that can express just about every emotion we can imagine. Have you ever had the opportunity to read a McGuffey reader - I own one that is around here someplace - as I recall it is a 5th grade reader and the spelling words and paragraphs that kids read in the early 1900s would test the skill of most 8th grade students today.
Here is one of many poems that seems appropriate to the Autumn season - all the stories and poems starts with a paragraph about the author, and other spots of information. All the work ends with the newer words listed with instructions to find the definition. In addition there are notes about places or people mentioned in the story or poem. Many more poems than are read today in our classrooms.
The Death of the Flowers
~ By William Cullen Bryant
THE MELANCHOLY days are come, the saddest of the year,
Of wailing winds, and naked woods, and meadows brown and sere.
Heaped in the hollows of the grove, the autumn leaves lie dead;
They rustle to the eddying gust, and to the rabbit’s tread.
The robin and the wren are flown, and from the shrubs the jay,
And from the wood-top calls the crow through all the gloomy day.
Where are the flowers, the fair young flowers, that lately sprang and stood
In brighter light and softer airs, a beauteous sisterhood?
Alas! they all are in their graves, the gentle race of flowers
Are lying in their lowly beds, with the fair and good of ours.
The rain is falling where they lie, but the cold November rain
Calls not from out the gloomy earth the lovely ones again.
The wind-flower and the violet, they perished long ago,
And the brier-rose and the orchis died amid the summer glow;
But on the hill the golden-rod, and the aster in the wood,
And the yellow sun-flower by the brook, in autumn beauty stood,
Till fell the frost from the clear cold heaven, as falls the plague on men,
And the brightness of their smile was gone, from upland, glade, and glen.
And now, when comes the calm mild day, as still such days will come,
To call the squirrel and the bee from out their winter home;
When the sound of dropping nuts is heard, though all the trees are still,
And twinkle in the smoky light the waters of the rill,
The south wind searches for the flowers whose fragrance late he bore,
And sighs to find them in the wood and by the stream no more.
And then I think of one who in her youthful beauty died,
The fair meek blossom that grew up and faded by my side.
In the cold moist earth we laid her, when the forest cast the leaf,
And we wept that one so lovely should have a life so brief:
Yet not unmeet it was that one like that young friend of ours,
So gentle and so beautiful, should perish with the flowers.
This started with...XXXIV. THE DEATH OF THE FLOWERS.
William Cullen Bryant (b. 1794, d. 1878) was born in Cummington, Mass. He
entered Williams College at the age of sixteen, but was honorably
dismissed at the end of two years. At the age of twenty-one he was
admitted to the bar, and practiced his profession successfully for nine
years. In 1826 he removed to New York, and became connected with the
"Evening Post"--a connection which continued to the time of his death. His
residence for more than thirty of the last years of his life was at
Roslyn, Long Island. He visited Europe several times; and in 1849 he
continued his travels into Egypt and Syria, In all his poems, Mr. Bryant
exhibits a remarkable love for, and a careful study of, nature. His
language, both in prose and verse, is always chaste, correct, and elegant.
"Thanatopsis," perhaps the best known of all his poems, was written when
he was but nineteen. His excellent translations of the "Iliad" and the
"Odyssey" of Homer and some of his best poems, were written after he had
passed the age of seventy. He retained his powers and his activity till
the close of his life.
The Fifth Grade folks ---
-
OH my look at this - from the 5th grade McGuffey - what a wonderful way to learn descriptive words...and more amazing - this is a lesson to simply learn 'ing' words!
XXXVIII. THE CATARACT OF LODORE.
1. "How does the water
Come down at Lodore?"
My little boy asked me
Thus once on a time;
And, moreover, he tasked me
To tell him in rhyme.
2. Anon at the word,
There first came one daughter,
And then came another,
To second and third
The request of their brother,
And to hear how the water
Comes down at Lodore,
With its rush and its roar,
As many a time
They had seen it before.
3. So I told them in rhyme,
For of rhymes I had store,
And 't was in my vocation
For their recreation
That so I should sing;
Because I was Laureate
To them and the King.
4. From its sources which well
In the tarn on the fell;
From its fountains
In the mountains,
Its rills and its gills;
Through moss and through brake,
It runs and it creeps
For a while, till it sleeps
In its own little lake.
5. And thence at departing,
Awakening and starting,
It runs through the reeds,
And away it proceeds,
Through meadow and glade,
In sun and in shade,
And through the wood shelter,
Among crags in its flurry,
Helter-skelter,
Hurry-skurry.
6. Here it comes sparkling,
And there it lies darkling;
Now smoking and frothing
Its tumult and wrath in,
Till, in this rapid race
On which it is bent,
It reaches the place
Of its steep descent.
7. The cataract strong
Then plunges along,
Striking and raging
As if a war waging
Its caverns and rocks among;
8. Rising and leaping,
Sinking and creeping,
Swelling and sweeping,
Showering and springing,
Flying and flinging,
Writhing and ringing,
Eddying and whisking,
Spouting and frisking,
Turning and twisting,
Around and around
With endless rebound;
Smiting and fighting,
A sight to delight in;
Confounding, astounding,
Dizzying, and deafening the ear with its sound
9. Collecting, projecting,
Receding and speeding,
And shocking and rocking,
And darting and parting,
And threading and spreading,
And whizzing and hissing,
And dripping and skipping,
And hitting and splitting,
And shining and twining,
And rattling and battling,
And shaking and quaking,
And pouring and roaring,
And waving and raving,
And tossing and crossing,
And guggling and struggling,
And heaving and cleaving,
And moaning and groaning,
And glittering and frittering,
And gathering and feathering,
And whitening and brightening,
And quivering and shivering,
And hurrying and skurrying,
And thundering and floundering;
10. Dividing and gliding and sliding,
And falling and brawling and sprawling,
And driving and riving and striving,
And sprinkling and twinkling and wrinkling;
11. And thumping and plumping and bumping and jumping,
And dashing and flashing and splashing and clashing;
And so never ending, but always descending,
Sounds and motions forever and ever are blending,
All at once and all o'er, with a mighty uproar,
And this way the water comes down at Lodore.
--Abridged from Southey.
DEFINITIONS.--4. Tarn, a small lake among the mountains. Fell (provincial
English), a stony hill. Gills (provincial English), brooks. 10. Brawl'ing,
roaring. Riv'ing, splitting.
NOTES.--1. Lodore is a cascade on the banks of Lake Derwentwater, in
Cumberland, England, near where Southey lived.
3. Laureate. The term probably arose from a custom in the English
universities of presenting a laurel wreath to graduates in rhetoric and
versification. In England the poet laureate's office is filled by
appointment of the lord chamberlain. The salary is quite small, and the
office is valued chiefly as one of honor.
This lesson is peculiarly adapted for practice on the difficult sound
"ing".
-
Barb - Re Patti. It seems to me that the lyrics you picked out to read were only the naughty ones ;D Have you heard her voice, actually singing a song? Listen to "Dream of Life" and "Redondo Beach". No. Now I think of it, don't. I am sure that you do not wish to hear anything nasty or 'avant garde'. I do not consider Patti as needing to "get a life". I daresay, in fact I know, that the life that she has had is a whole lot more interesting and full than those who choose to criticise her. Some people I know on here can appreciate and enjoy Mozart's "Requiem" and Patti's "Dream of Life" equally. Does that mean that they need to "Get a Life"too?
-
How marvelous! I love the Bryant poems, BARB, both of them. And I've always thought
our young people could learn more if more was expected of them. "No child left behind"
sounds wonderful until you understand how it was actually applied. Not every child's
gift is in scholarship; planning one's entire curriculum to help them is unjust to
the child who could..and desires..to do more, IMO.
It's been impressed on my more than once, BARB, that with those using alcohol and/or
drugs on a regular basis, maturing pretty well stops at that point. Many older adults
are still stuck in their rebellious, shock-the-elders stage.
-
roshanarose - we all have our opinion of what is art - I am expressing mine as you express yours - we may not agree and that is fine - we are not in this discussion having either a contest or an agreement on what we admire as art.
As you can see my opinion of folks who use base language to express themselves is they are either rebellious or falling back on a lazy man's way of going through the world - obviously there are many who see value in this form of art - and yes, there are many who we consider mainstream who were every bit as addicted to drugs and alcohol as Patti and Robert.
I prefer to surround myself with ideas and visuals that uplift, provide me with a reason to think deeply, that encourages my better self and if possible, exalt me to a place of wonder. Art that is like that spark that Meister Eckhart speaks of that touches the godhead in our soul for which, if nothing else in life, we only have to say in our prayer-life, Thank You.
Maybe a tall order but that is what I look for in art- print medium or three dimensional - Patti expressing her time of writing at her desk as a time to "wet her pants and come" does not exalt me to a place of wonder - much of her and Robert's art falls into this bracket that scoots me and others into a baseness - There may be some who see something other than either, rebellion or pushing the snake section of our brain without the added education of 8 thousand years of various cultures adding to our development of language, space, line, color, value, form and movement.
Now both you and Babi express your likes and dislikes differently and personally however, please we all have our view points and no one is trying to caste stones at each other because we do not agree. Again, this is not a contest - if you see something worthy, of value in a poet, an artist that others in this discussion do not see - great, please share your insight - we may learn to look from another angle - but because we all come from our own experiences we see things through the eyes of our experience.
Remember roshanarose, in this discussion we have folks from various cultural differences as well as, you have the wonderful personal history of living and studying in another country from your home and the study put you in touch with ancient wonders many of us will never see. Where as, many of us have only been a couple of hundred miles from our birth home to maybe a short visit or two, either out of the country or to another part of this country.
Therefore, please, we are interested in each other’s viewpoints, as we are interested in yours - we may not agree - and we may have a viewpoint we each think is silly, backward, too liberal or too conservative. The big thing we have going for us is that, where we come from different view points and have different values and taste in art, we do care about each other. In this Discussion, we use the values set out by Fairanna - we may disagree with the art, not each other.
Added is - regardless of our opinion Senior Learn, as SeniorNet before it, does not want to see the web site drain away as many have because of nasty language in our posts - yes, there are all sorts of ways that a fine line can be wiggled, bantered and pushed however, we have for so long been comfortable with this choice of behavior that we prefer not having to tackle the issue that has pulled many a web site into oblivion. Therefore, I can only see that the group on Senior Learn does not see the value in 'nasty'.
It sounds to me roshanarose, you see other aspects of the work of this artist that is not filled with a 'nasty' image - please, bring to our attention those aspects of Patti Smith - They would be a lovely gift to us - however, some of us just prefer to go on to explore the work of other artists who will not gross us out on a regular basis in order for us to sort through and find the jewels - and some of us scratch our heads trying to understand what is behind the thinking of an artist who does not bring us closer to our better nature.
Although Our 'Differences' Are Researched
~ Lawrence S. Pertillar
You and I...
And all that have come to know life,
Are connected.
Just as a tree is rooted to the Earth,
From its birth.
Although our 'differences' are researched.
You and I...
And all that have come to know life,
Are related.
Just as every element associated,
Comes together and does not separate...
To make us what and who we are.
-
Common Difference
~ by Eddie Thompson; (Even in the discovering of our differences, we are linked in our core being as humans.)
two sides of the same coin
or distant evolutions
of divers paths
one calculates coldly,
precisely, the root of facade,
deception, and hypocrisy
the other’s passion burns
with naked lust and wild abandonment
romanticism is a device we use to disguise cynicism
cynicism a shell we use to protect our romantic heart
shells growing hard and strong,
hiding cynical minds
from those who would love them
despite their slime
thorns surrounding a lovely rose,
protecting romantic hearts
from those who would pick them
before their time
the ado we much display,
the dust we kick up,
speaks the truth about us
our search for identity
frustrates our desire for unity
we share a common difference
that links us apart
-
Barb - Well written and diplomatic - I think you know me well enough to know that I am not "base".
As I also pointed out there is another side to Patti, as there is to most people, if they are willing to admit it. My interests and tastes are extremely varied. My life experiences have made me bitter to some extent, but mostly I am humble, particularly in the face of brilliance, whatever mask she prefers to wear.
I was in the company of friends a couple of nights ago and we were having a drink in a bar we had not visited before. A lounge bar type of place. Three men came in and starting using very bad language. I turned around and asked them to remember that they were in mixed company. They skulked out. A side of me that perhaps you didn't think existed. As I said human are not so simple that they always display the good and sweet, or the base and reptilian. I don't recall ever using bad language anywhere on this site, and neither would I.
-
To both of you, well said. That's what I love about this place.
What do you think of this young lady? I think we have a great poet budding here.
Pure Happiness
Just four hours prior noon
The sun complained to wake so soon.
He gazed upon children hurrying for school
And one child, standing in the cool,
Who greeted every kid, his face so bright
That Sun turned and said to Mr. Night,
"Of all the children way down there
It's that boy's life I'd like to share."
Elizabeth walked down the hall,
Her golden hair a waterfall,
All she could think about were her hands,
"Such ugly fingers," she demands.
John-Michael glared at his math test,
"I hate my life; I'll never pass!"
Suzanna cringed into the mirror,
Where sat a pimple, red and clear,
"Why should I go through this?
When others' lives are perfect bliss!"
Every kid found something wrong
Except the boy, courageous and strong.
"I'm glad to be me," he said to himself.
"I'm happy and would rather be nobody else."
He walked out of the school, his head held in pride,
For his jacket read "Special Olympics" down the side.
by Alexandra Harten, 6th grade, The Community School, Sun Valley, Idaho
--------------------------------------------------------------------------------
-
Last Days
Things are changing, things are starting to
Spin, snap, fly off into
the blue sleeve of the long afternoon. Oh and ooh
come whistling out of the perished mouth
of the grass, as things boil back
into substance and hue, As everything
forgetting its own enchantment, whispers
I too love oblivion, why not, it is full
of second chances. NOW ,
hiss the bright curls of the leaves. NOW!
booms the muscle of the wind.
Mary Oliver
-
Oh yes, wonderful - just what I needed to read - my little Fawn had its last days and was either killed by the herd last night or injured and the vultures took care of the rest... Poor thing had a terrible life - it was dropped last May 2 weeks after that doe had given birth to twins and the doe did not want it - kicked it all over the backyard - it curled up and less than an hour old got itself into the woodpile - later another doe had to wait for the mother to leave with her twins and fight her on the way so that 3 days later it finally got to this poor thing and allowed it to nurse - it nursed sporadically and spent most of the first few weeks curled up under the Jasmin - then mid-summer it was on the patio nestled behind the big flowerpots badly injured - but I had water nearby and so again it healed itself as they all do - then it came with its leg a problem - then it came with half its lower jaw gone - drooling and its tongue exposed -
I have no idea if the herd was inflicting some of these injuries or because of its very slow growth rate and inability to run quickly because of what happened right after birth if dogs or whatever were getting to it. I do know there is a guy on the next street who hates the deer and lets his two dogs out every so often to chase them down - I came in one night and panting the came right up to me but did not go into the garage - called the police but of course they were gone even though they did a good job of being there is less than 5 minutes.
Anyhow back to the fawn - it came in the yard about a month ago really looking bad and because of lack of public funds couldn't get any help - the service that would pick them up to rehabilitate will now not take them if they can walk - and the game wardens are down to 2 wardens for the entire county so they cannot dispatch someone on a dime to come and put it down and the police are not allowed to use firearms in the county any longer to put any animal down - so I started to feed it and it was so used to me it came right up to me while I put the food out - then when ever it got stronger it would go back to the herd and then after a few days was back in the yard again by itself looking less bad but not healthy and strong.
I was really concerned about how it would get through the winter and was looking for a hunter who would be available when I called to come and put it down with a knife. Then in the last two weeks it brought part of the herd with it to get the food I put out as if buying itself some status - I would not put out the food unless it was by itself.
Well last night, late - around 10: I put the patio light on to check the yard and there it was - coming toward the light - went and got food - deer pellets and some corn - I know the corn is not good for them - like candy but it needs calories so I mix both - and when I put it out there it turns out the whole herd was back there - so now I had to get a bunch out or they would be knocking each other and anything on the patio fighting for food - the drought it hard on them but they are all looking better with fewer ribs showing after that rain two weeks ago.
Well I have no idea what happened but around 11:30 this morning I go for more coffee and look out and near the back fence it looks like a turkey - go out on the patio and there are two huge turkey vultures - and sure enough there was the little one with half its rib cage already exposed. I clapped them away and then after feeling bad realized if I brought it out to the curb and called for it to be picked up it would end up in the dump - bad enough it had such a bad life and I had no idea if the herd did it or if it was injured and a Turkey Vulture finished it off - but at least allowing them to dispose of it as nature intended it had some dignity for its birth as a wild animal.
OK now I have on my roof 5 Turkey Vultures - in my trees 2 - feeding 3 - on my neighbor's roof 4 and in my neighbor's tree 2 more. Had to quick call my son to verify that they will go away once the deer is finished and not stay around pecking holes in my roof and nesting in my trees causing more damage - the other birds are in a dither singing and screeching and calling to each other and the squirrels are quickly running and hiding - quite a show - now if that pesky raccoon would only show up maybe it would be taken since it is doing damage to my roof - so with mixed emotions and yet for the better my dear little fawn is gone and these awful looking birds are bringing its life and death full circle.
-
Ode to a Turkey Vulture
“The other world is to be found, as usual,
inside this one.” ~ Susan Sontag
O companion of my heart,
I am kneeling at the long
window, hushed with you,
statuesque
gargoyle grotesque
on the cathedral barn.
In this, the attentiveness
of longing, you wait
in your placid eye,
onyx bead embedded
in the corrugated heart
of your featherless head.
You hunger, like me, taciturn
in a violent world. You lift
off into the blue
without sound, to travel
like John in the wilderness.
O calm and golden remiges,
soft oars stippled with sun,
my love, my inspiration,
my ferryman to the flowing sky,
your peaceful floating
a surrender to what rises,
the kitely sails of your wings
tilting, lilting on tides of heat
that carry fragrance
of decay. In this air,
what is death is your joy.
All the suffering in these little
ones who bring you sustenance
you did not wield with talon
or tooth. The pink and gray
fleshes gurgle over the gullet
stones of your hearted throat, all
their silenced cries,
their chests opened, every
disappointed beat and falling
enveloped in your beak,
lifted up, a mercy
in this fractured air.
And long
in the shadow of the tree
you clean yourself. Through you
all is purified. Tonight the moon shines cool
in a black No Man's Land, and we sleep.
-
Fawn
~ By Mary Barnard 1909–2001
Out of a high meadow where flowers
bloom above cloud, come down;
pursue me with reasons for smiling without malice.
Bring mimic pride like that of the seedling fir,
surprise in the perfect leg-stems
and queries unstirred by recognition or fear
pooled in the deep eyes.
Come down by regions where rocks
lift through the hot haze of pain;
down landscapes darkened, crossed
by the rift of death-shock; place print
of a neat hoof on trampled ground
where not one leaf or root
remains unbitten; but come down
always, accompany me to the morass
of the decaying mind. There
we’ll share one rotted stump between us.
-
The Fawn
~ Edna St. Vincent Millay
There it was I saw what I shall never forget
And never retrieve.
Monstrous and beautiful to human eyes, hard to
believe,
He lay, yet there he lay,
Asleep on the moss, his head on his polished cleft
small ebony hoves,
The child of the doe, the dappled child of the deer.
Surely his mother had never said, "Lie here
Till I return," so spotty and plain to see
On the green moss lay he.
His eyes had opened; he considered me.
I would have given more than I care to say
To thrifty ears, might I have had him for my friend
One moment only of that forest day:
Might I have had the acceptance, not the love
Of those clear eyes;
Might I have been for him in the bough above
Or the root beneath his forest bed,
A part of the forest, seen without surprise.
Was it alarm, or was it the wind of my fear lest he
depart
That jerked him to his jointy knees,
And sent him crashing off, leaping and stumbling
On his new legs, between the stems of the white
trees?
-
So sad about the fawn. Nature can be brutal, as well as beautiful.
"I would feel more optimistic about a bright future for man if he spent less
time proving tht he can outwit nature and mre time tasting her sweetness and
respecting her seniority." E. B. White
-
This one is for our mate, Gum.
Egrets
Once as I travelled through a quiet evening,
I saw a pool, jet-black and mirror-still.
Beyond, the slender paperbarks stood crowding;
each on its own white image looked its fill,
and nothing moved but thirty egrets wading -
thirty egrets in a quiet evening.
Once in a lifetime, lovely past believing,
your lucky eyes may light on such a pool.
As though for many years I had been waiting,
I watched in silence, till my heart was full
of clear dark water, and white trees unmoving,
and, whiter yet, those thirty egrets wading.
Judith Wright
-
What do you think of this one? Rough, but strong?
deaths adventure by nathan
im ready 2 die
but please dont shead a tear for this guy
ive had a full life but ppl say its just begun
my lil sista myt aswell be my daugther all though i would hve preferd a son
ive known tru luv and ive lost it to
so ive tasted dispair and not knoing what 2 do
i can look death in the face an say in ready
heart beat normal voice steady
if was to go i dnt need remebrance
ive known different culture lyk people from japan or france
hhmmm i wish i cuda learnt the salsa that looks lyk a sexy dance
lifes been gud i dnt need a second chance
so ill get ready and take my stance
strike me down coz i seak adventure
so i guess deaths my next venture
-
I like it Babi.
-
I am still in such a state of shock over Gum's passing - Then I look at the cookbook I ordered at her recommendation and teasing about Kangaroo tail soup and the feeling of helplessness washes over me. I guess I have turned what happened into a weekend to re-access what the heck I am doing with the life I do have.
-
I was looking through old post, and came on this Barb posted a few days ago, before we knew we'd lost out Gum:
The Rain, It Streams On Stone And Hillock
~ A. E. Housman
The rain, it streams on stone and hillock,
The boot clings to the clay.
Since all is done that's due and right
Let's home; and now, my lad, good-night,
For I must turn away.
Good-night, my lad, for nought's eternal;
No league of ours, for sure.
Tomorrow I shall miss you less,
And ache of heart and heaviness
Are things that time should cure.
Over the hill the highway marches
And what's beyond is wide:
Oh soon enough will pine to nought
Remembrance and the faithful thought
That sits the grave beside.
The skies, they are not always raining
Nor grey the twelvemonth through;
And I shall meet good days and mirth,
And range the lovely lands of earth
With friends no worse than you.
But oh, my man, the house is fallen
That none can build again;
My man, how full of joy and woe
Your mother bore you years ago
To-night to lie in the rain.
-
A friend sent this to me before I found out about Gum's passing. It seems so fitting.
A few weeks ago a woman was killed in an auto accident. She was very well liked, so the office shut down for her funeral and it was on the news.
On the day the workers came back to work, they found this poem in their e-mail that the deceased woman had sent on Friday before she left for home.
IF TOMORROW STARTS WITHOUT ME
If tomorrow starts without me,
And I'm not there to see,
If the sun should rise and find your eyes
All filled with tears for me;
I wish so much you wouldn't cry
The way you did today,
While thinking of the many things,
We didn't get to say.
I know how much you love me,
As much as I love you,
And each time that you think of me,
I know you'll miss me too;
But when tomorrow starts without me,
Please try to understand,
That an angel came and called my name,
And took me by the hand,
And said my place was ready,
In heaven far above,
And that I'd have to leave behind
All those I dearly love.
But as I turned to walk away,
A tear fell from my eye,
For all my life, I'd always thought,
I didn't want to die.
I had so much to live for,
So much left yet to do,
It seemed almost impossible,
That I was leaving you.
I thought of all the yesterdays,
The good ones and the bad,
I thought of all that we shared,
And all the fun we had.
If I could relive yesterday,
Just even for a while,
I'd say good-bye and hug you
And maybe see you smile.
But then I fully realized,
That this could never be,
For emptiness and memories,
Would take the place of me.
And when I thought of worldly things
I might miss some tomorrow,
I thought of you, and when I did,
My heart was filled with sorrow.
But when I walked through heaven's gates,
I felt so much at home.
When God looked down and smiled at me,
From His great golden throne,
He said, "This is eternity,
And all I've promised you.
Today your life on earth is past,
But here life starts anew.
I promise no tomorrow,
But today will always last,
And since each day is the same way,
There's no longing for the past. "
So when tomorrow starts without me,
Don't think we're far apart,
For every time you think of me,
I'm right there, in your heart.
Send this to all those you care about...
Show them how you care, before it's too late....
May God watch over you and your family now and always.
There is no right time to do the wrong thing....
There is no wrong time to tell someone you care.
-
Barb - you above almost everyone on here seem to do masses with every minute of your life - so don't get too despondent. You are interested in so many things - and still working as well - so don't do yourself down, as we say. I have a tendency to do exactly the same thing, but I am trying to fight it as it drives my elder daughter nuts - I think it impinges on her teenage right to wallow in gloom about her own life ;D
Have a good day - remember that poem you posted a while ago, "this day will not come again"? I have thought about that often.
Best wishes,
Rosemary
-
I love the Housman poem, JOAN. I'm glad you found it and let me read it again.
I can't but feel that these lines are an appropriate goodbye for all of us when
our time comes.
"Since all is done that's due and right
Let's home; and now, may lad, good-night,
For I must turn away."
BARB, may I just say I echo what Rosemary has just said about you. I think of all that
you do, and how you share it with others, and I am simply amazed. You have nothing to
berate yourself over. Peace, friend.
-
Oh thanks - something about the unexamined life creeps in when ever I feel at a loss - at heart, I am still that Catholic School kid who is always unconsciously trying to measure up to the gift of life and that silent quest shouted out with the speechlessness I felt upon hearing of Gum's passing.
Other's we have loved over the years were ill giving us cues that their life was ebbing - but Gum called us up short - in keeping with her life she sure has an impact. I am so thankful I knew her - what a banner she held high for good humor, curiosity, pride, adventure in mind and spirit, history of place and good will.
Someplace in the backroom of my mind there is a quote that I only can remember around the edges - something about 'Don't grieve the loss - smile with having known' - not an exact quote but it hits on a direction that acknowledges the gift that folks are in our lives -
Fervor (1969), Borges said he had “moderated its baroque excesses” and “eliminated sentimentality and haziness.” He declined to renounce his younger self, however, and said: “At the time, I was seeking out late afternoons, drab outskirts, and unhappiness; now I seek mornings, the center of town, peace.” The poem, “The Forging,” is taken from Fervor de Buenos Aires. Here is Christopher Maurer’s English version:
Like the blind man whose hands are precursors
that push aside walls and glimpse heavens
slowly, flustered, I feel
in the crack of night
the verses that are to come.
I must burn the abominable darkness
in their limpid bonfire:
the purple of words
on the flagellated shoulder of time.
I must enclose the tears of evening
in the hard diamond of the poem.
No matter if the soul
walks naked and lonely as the wind
if the universe of a glorious kiss
still embraces my life.
The night is good fertile ground
for a sower of verses.
And for Gum - this poem written by W H Auden when Yeats died seems so right...
Stop all the clocks, cut off the telephone,
Prevent the dog from barking with a a juicy bone,
Silence the pianos and with muffled drum
Bring out the coffin, let the mourners come.
Let aeroplanes circle moaning overhead
Scribbling on the sky the message (S)He Is Dead,
Put crepe bows round the white necks of the public doves,
Let the traffic policeman wear black cotton gloves.
(S)He was my North, my South, my East and West,
My working week and my Sunday rest,
My noon, my midnight, my talk, my song;
I though that love would last for ever : I was wrong.
The stars are not wanted now : put out ever one;
Pack up the moon and dismantle the sun;
Pour away the ocean and sweep up the wood.
For nothing now can ever come to any good.
Oh I am sure we will see more good but forever more my clock of time when it hits the 10th hour as the 10th month, October there will be a minutes silence, just long enough to catch my attention that will remind me of the blaze that Gum was in our lives. She really had to go when nature is at its busiest - for those of us north of the equator it is a blaze of autumn color and for those in her beloved Australia as in all the lands south of the equator it had to be the pushing up of early Spring.
-
Became curious about the symbolism of the 'Egrets' - it is wonderful and a great choice for Gum...
In Egypt the Heron/Egret is honored as the creator of light - Most Native American tribes took note of the heron’s inquisitiveness, curiosity and determination. Therefore, the heron/Egret as a symbol of wisdom in that this creature seemed to have good judgment skills especially as an expert fisher/hunter - As a Chinese symbol the Egret represents strength, purity, patience and long life - and as a water creature, going with the flow, and working with the elements of Mother nature rather than struggling against her.
-
Barb - Thanks. I only looked a two poems of Judith Wright's, and the second was "Egrets". I had no idea of their symbolism, but your research fits our Gumtree to a tee.
A link with a lovely pic of a heron/egret from Egyptian Mythology and some more universal meanings of the heron/egret.
www.dallasegrets.org/EgretArt/symbolism.html
-
There are some lovely lines on this page.
My shoulder is fickle, so Im catching up in degrees. If only arms didn't hang down, my pain would probably disappear, or certainly ease up a lot.
I think the Auden poem is the one from Four Weddings and a Funeral, am I right?
What a pity Gum is missing all the excitement of the Queen's visit to Perth for CHOGGM(spelling?).
-
I think you may be right Octavia - I forgot about that movie and I remember at the time everyone was caught up with the Auden poem quoted at the Funeral - do not remember if the funeral took place in Scotland or just one of the weddings although, I think it was during that Scottish wedding that he dies. It is a great poem that gets at death that comes unexpected and how flat out it feels so that you end up questioning even the sun, moon and stars.
All the typing is hard on our arms and shoulders since we seem to have replaced communicating from the phone to the computer. I have a neck vibrator that I have used for years to help when I am starting with a migraine but I noticed I can drape it over my shoulder and it gets just the spots I need after a day online - also, I am finding the Bach flower rescue cream to be helpful. What are you using to ease the pain in your arms and shoulder?
-
Yes it was the one read by John Hannah's character at Simon Callow's funeral in Four Weddings, but I think the funeral itself takes place in some rather grotty part of Essex - it's the death that occurs at the ceilidh after the doomed Scottish wedding.
Barb, my understanding was that it was written on the death of Auden's (male) partner, but I just had a look at Wikipedia (sorry), which says that it is unclear for whom (or indeed what) the poem was written.
In any event, it's brilliant.
-
I did enjoy reading about the egrets, and seeing the ancient Egyptian depiction of the Ra symbol.
Such things have always appealed to me.
-
I recently joined a "low vision" support group, and like most members, I have macular degeneration. These lines from Intimations of Immortality by William Wordsworth really speak to us.
What though the radiance which was so bright
Be taken now forever from my sight,
Though nothing can bring back the hour
Of splendor in the graqss, of glory in the flower,
We will not grieve,but rather find
Strength in what remains behind.
-
Thanks Rosemary for straightening out who and where in the movie and yes, this poem was NOT the one written when Yeats died. I found it and it is long but as I read so familiar - the Eulogy for Yeats has wolves in an evergreen forest rather than, dogs barking. Both Auden poems reach inside us in a way some of the early eulogies written by poets a hundred or more year ago do not.
Ah bellemere - a quote from the poem is such the reminder of the movie Splendor in the Grass - so filled with tension and what had been unspeakable in public was up there on the screen - I doubt there were many at the time though that understood the concept of therapy and so it was a challenging movie on more than one level - bottom line so many of us saw the movie as a love story with Natalie Wood and Warren Beatty who ended up having his come-up-pence.
Though nothing can bring back the hour is a line that will rattle in my head for awhile - so often there are experiences that we would like to repeat and some we could just as well do without and yet, all the circumstances will never be the same to bring back a similar experience or response. It was easy to conclude the line's truth from a positive memory but now I can see it as well for all past experiences. hmmm
Babi those Egyptian images are with us aren't they and they often pop up in unexpected ways.
-
In Memory of W. B. Yeats
~ by W. H. Auden
I
He disappeared in the dead of winter:
The brooks were frozen, the airports almost deserted,
And snow disfigured the public statues;
The mercury sank in the mouth of the dying day.
What instruments we have agree
The day of his death was a dark cold day.
Far from his illness
The wolves ran on through the evergreen forests,
The peasant river was untempted by the fashionable quays;
By mourning tongues
The death of the poet was kept from his poems.
But for him it was his last afternoon as himself,
An afternoon of nurses and rumours;
The provinces of his body revolted,
The squares of his mind were empty,
Silence invaded the suburbs,
The current of his feeling failed; he became his admirers.
Now he is scattered among a hundred cities
And wholly given over to unfamiliar affections,
To find his happiness in another kind of wood
And be punished under a foreign code of conscience.
The words of a dead man
Are modified in the guts of the living.
But in the importance and noise of to-morrow
When the brokers are roaring like beasts on the floor of the Bourse,
And the poor have the sufferings to which they are fairly accustomed,
And each in the cell of himself is almost convinced of his freedom,
A few thousand will think of this day
As one thinks of a day when one did something slightly unusual.
What instruments we have agree
The day of his death was a dark cold day.
II
You were silly like us; your gift survived it all:
The parish of rich women, physical decay,
Yourself. Mad Ireland hurt you into poetry.
Now Ireland has her madness and her weather still,
For poetry makes nothing happen: it survives
In the valley of its making where executives
Would never want to tamper, flows on south
From ranches of isolation and the busy griefs,
Raw towns that we believe and die in; it survives,
A way of happening, a mouth.
III
Earth, receive an honoured guest:
William Yeats is laid to rest.
Let the Irish vessel lie
Emptied of its poetry.
In the nightmare of the dark
All the dogs of Europe bark,
And the living nations wait,
Each sequestered in its hate;
Intellectual disgrace
Stares from every human face,
And the seas of pity lie
Locked and frozen in each eye.
Follow, poet, follow right
To the bottom of the night,
With your unconstraining voice
Still persuade us to rejoice;
With the farming of a verse
Make a vineyard of the curse,
Sing of human unsuccess
In a rapture of distress;
In the deserts of the heart
Let the healing fountain start,
In the prison of his days
Teach the free man how to praise.
-
(http://seniorlearn.org/bookclubs/poetry/poetry%20fall.jpg)
| Autumn Poetry~ Author Unknown
"Just before the death of flowers,
And before they are buried in snow,
There comes a festival season
When nature is all aglow."
- Famous Poets and Poems about Autumn (http://famouspoetsandpoems.com/thematic_poems/autumn_poems.html)
- Link to: Autumn Poems (http://poetry.about.com/od/ourpoemcollections/a/autumnpoems.htm)
~~ Discussion Leaders: Barb (augere@ix.netcom.com)
|
BARB, do you know what was meant by the line, "he is scattered among a hundred
cities"? I can feel wrinkles forming on my brow (new ones) trying to figure
that out.
I particularly love the last eight lines.
-
Babi it appears that Auden is carrying back and forth the metaphor of describing nature as if the body and mind of Yeats.
Although, in this stroph there are two sentences - you can see it better if you read the first line (the line you are questioning) with the last line.
Now he is scattered among a hundred cities
And wholly given over to unfamiliar affections,
To find his happiness in another kind of wood
And be punished under a foreign code of conscience.
The words of a dead man
Are modified in the guts of the living.
Notice this poem is using the alternating form on which the structure of this poem is based.
First a stanza describing something of the man followed by a stanza that relates to nature - tying the two thoughts together by repeating this turn which, if this was further structured for a Greek Chorus there would be a back and forth between the Chorus and the speaker - one describing the man and the other nature.
It appears Auden is making the point that not only his words but all Yeats stood for, all that he attempted to communicate, not only through his poetry but in addition, through the pattern of his life has been infused, and developed further by "the living."
And so it is not literal that his body has been "scattered among a hundred cities" and "modified" by "the living" but rather than his mind, his work (which is his writing), his lifestyle choices, his values were active as if running free in in "the evergreen forest" or as a "river" that avoided taking on "fashionable" thinking that he describes as "the quays" (most of his poetry is about an ancient historical and mythological Ireland) and then, all this outpouring of life and word is contained in the provinces of his body revolting that soon emptied his mind and his body of life -
Then Auden takes us back to the concept of running free by suggesting he is among a hundred cities but more, he said an evergreen forest so that all Yeats wrote and stood for is modified - which I take to mean adjusted as we each bring to the poetry of Yeats and our examination of life our own point of view based in our life experience described as "modified in the guts of the living."
-
Another short W H Auden poem that seems appropriate to the news here of late...
Epitaph on a Tyrant
by W. H. Auden
Perfection, of a kind, was what he was after,
And the poetry he invented was easy to understand;
He knew human folly like the back of his hand,
And was greatly interested in armies and fleets;
When he laughed, respectable senators burst with laughter,
And when he cried the little children died in the streets.
-
Ah, I see! Yes, thank you, BARB.
I've never seen the "Epitaph on a Tyrant" before. Most timely, with more people
revolting against such tyrants everywhere you turn. One can't help hoping that
this time, things will change for the better instead of just exchanging one
tyranny for another.
I found this quote, which fits our topic well.
The right of a nation to kill a tyrant, in cases of necessity, can no more be doubted, than to hang a robber, or kill a flea. But killing one tyrant only makes way for worse, unless the people have sense, spirit and honesty enough to establish and support a constitution guarded at all points against the tyranny of the one, the few, and the many.
JOHN ADAMS, A Defence of the Constitutions of Government
-
Than we have the words of Donne - tongue and check from him that still hundreds of years later can bring a draw out a smile...
The Sun Rising
~ John Donne
Busy old fool, unruly Sun,
Why dost thou thus,
Through windows and through curtains call on us?
Must to thy motions lovers' seasons run?
Saucy pedantic wretch, go chide
Late schoolboys and sour 'prentices,
Go tell court huntsmen that the King will ride,
Call country ants to harvest offices;
Love, all alike, no season knows, nor clime,
Nor hours, days, months, which are the rags of time.
Thy beams, so reverend and strong
Why shoulds't thou think?
I could eclipse and cloud them with a wink,
But that I would not lose her sight so long;
If her eyes have not blinded thine,
Look, and tomorrow late, tell me,
Whether both th'Indias of spice and mine
Be where thou left'st them, or lie here with me?
Ask for those kings whom thou saw'st yesterday,
And thou shalt hear, 'All here in one bed lay.'
She's all states, and all princes, I;
Nothing else is.
Princes do but play us; compared to this,
All honour's mimic, all wealth alchemy.
Thou, Sun, art half as happy as we,
In that the world's contracted thus;
Thine age asks ease, and since thy duties be
To warm the world, that's done in warming us.
Shine here, to us, and thou art everywhere;
This bed thy centre is, these walls, thy sphere.
-
Now this one is new to me but leave it to Billy Collins...
Memorizing "The Sun Rising" by John Donne
~ Billy Collins
Every reader loves the way he tells off
the sun, shouting busy old fool
into the English skies even though they
were likely cloudy on that seventeenth-century morning.
And it’s a pleasure to spend this sunny day
pacing the carpet and repeating the words,
feeling the syllables lock into rows
until I can stand and declare,
the book held closed by my side,
that hours, days, and months are but the rags of time.
But after a few steps into stanza number two,
wherein the sun is blinded by his mistress’s eyes,
I can feel the first one begin to fade
like sky-written letters on a windy day.
And by the time I have taken in the third,
the second is likewise gone, a blown-out candle now,
a wavering line of acrid smoke.
So it’s not until I leave the house
and walk three times around this hidden lake
that the poem begins to show
any interest in walking by my side.
Then, after my circling,
better than the courteous dominion
of her being all states and him all princes,
better than love’s power to shrink
the wide world to the size of a bedchamber,
and better even than the compression
of all that into the rooms of these three stanzas
is how, after hours stepping up and down the poem,
testing the plank of every line,
it goes with me now, contracted into a little spot within.
-
Oh, my, Donne was truly smitten, wasn't he. Most of his verses regarding women
and love tend to be somewhat sour, don't you think? Enraptured or grousing, he is
always great.
My compliments to Billy Collins, and now I must offer another, more ironic, Donne favorite.
Go and catch a falling star,
Get with child a mandrake root,
Tell me where all past years are,
Or who cleft the devil's foot,
Teach me to hear mermaids singing,
Or to keep off envy's stinging,
And find
What wind
Serves to advance an honest mind.
If thou be'st born to strange sights,
Things invisible to see,
Ride ten thousand days and nights,
Till age snow white hairs on thee,
Thou, when thou return'st, wilt tell me,
All strange wonders that befell thee,
And swear,
No where
Lives a woman true, and fair.
If thou find'st one, let me know,
Such a pilgrimage were sweet;
Yet do not, I would not go,
Though at next door we might meet;
Though she were true, when you met her,
And last, till you write your letter,
Yet she
Will be
False, ere I come, to two, or three.- John Donne
-
This is interesting - note; no mention of the Americas so it must be written before the existence of the Americas were common knowledge - aside from the literal it is awesome to think that tears could fall and make their way through ground water to the streams and rivers that flow into the sea where the moon regulates the tides - almost justifies the concept that the phases of the moon regulate a women's emotions since for [I wonder for how long?] a long time crying was considered the providence of women and of course our monthly cycle was considered in direct control by the moon.
A VALEDICTION OF WEEPING.
~ by John Donne
LET me pour forth
My tears before thy face, whilst I stay here,
For thy face coins them, and thy stamp they bear,
And by this mintage they are something worth.
For thus they be
Pregnant of thee ;
Fruits of much grief they are, emblems of more ;
When a tear falls, that thou fall'st which it bore ;
So thou and I are nothing then, when on a divers shore.
On a round ball
A workman, that hath copies by, can lay
An Europe, Afric, and an Asia,
And quickly make that, which was nothing, all.
So doth each tear,
Which thee doth wear,
A globe, yea world, by that impression grow,
Till thy tears mix'd with mine do overflow
This world, by waters sent from thee, my heaven dissolvèd so.
O ! more than moon,
Draw not up seas to drown me in thy sphere ;
Weep me not dead, in thine arms, but forbear
To teach the sea, what it may do too soon ;
Let not the wind
Example find
To do me more harm than it purposeth :
Since thou and I sigh one another's breath,
Whoe'er sighs most is cruellest, and hastes the other's death.
-
I'm a day or two late in my comment, but I have to add to Auden's Epitaph on a Tyrant. The last line is
"And when he cried the little children died in the streets."
If you know the reference, this is a stunning comment. The last line of John Motley's "The Rise of the Dutch Republic" refers to the death of William the Silent, a well-loved ruler:
"As long as he lived he was the guiding star of a whole brave nation,
and when he died the little children cried in the streets."
Wow.
-
Pat I found it - whee - and yes, the book is online
http://www.americanpresbyterianchurch.org/rise_of_the_dutch_republic.htm
And then Google does this thing where they reprint most but not all of a book and sure enough the very last page with the quote is included online in this Google site - hope the link goes to the proper page but if not it is on page 627 - http://tinyurl.com/3zcsgxz
As long as he lived, he was the guiding-star of a whole brave nation, and when he died the little children cried in the streets.
Looks like a book to read - though I may skim through - it appears to be the history of the how, when, where and who of the Dutch leaving the Catholic Church which I would think means Phillip of Spain is the king that is disposed - not sure who or how William of Orange fits but I need to read and learn.
Found this great quote today - This is not exact but very close
Learners inherit the future
The learned are equipped to live
in a world that
no longer exists.
As Senior Learn seems we are all a bunch of learners who will inherit the future...lovely...
-
That does sound like a most interesting book, though the language might be a bit florid. It
apparently dates from 1855. I wonder how hard it would be to find a printed copy? I've
jotted down the title and author; I'll have to see what I can find.
Actually, since the moon does affect the tides, I find it not at all implausible that
it could affect people as well.
-
I have no idea if Motley's book is even readable. I've seen the last line quoted in several places, so it's known, but I've never looked at the book.
-
I would imagine a copy of the book might be hard to find. I've placed the
link BARB found on my favorites, and I think I'll peruse that as time allows.
I read the opening about the abdication of Charles V. and found that
interesting. I should probably read the 'historical introduction', too, since I'm
not very knowledgeable there. It's been a very long time since my 'World
History' classes.
I'll let you know my preliminary impressions as it goes along.
-
November Night
~ By Adelaide Crapsey 1878–1914
Listen. .
With faint dry sound,
Like steps of passing ghosts,
The leaves, frost-crisp'd, break from the trees
And fall.
-
I Taught Myself To Live Simply
~ by Anna Akhmatova
I taught myself to live simply and wisely,
to look at the sky and pray to God,
and to wander long before evening
to tire my superfluous worries.
When the burdocks rustle in the ravine
and the yellow-red rowanberry cluster droops
I compose happy verses
about life's decay, decay and beauty.
I come back. The fluffy cat
licks my palm, purrs so sweetly
and the fire flares bright
on the saw-mill turret by the lake.
Only the cry of a stork landing on the roof
occasionally breaks the silence.
If you knock on my door
I may not even hear.
Here is a treat - while reading Anna Akhmatova's poem we can watch this YouTube video of this poem - I remember our AnnaFair introduced us to this Russian Poet and we spent a month discovering her poetry.
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=6_YDw_Dh7CE&feature=related
-
I must have missed the Akhmatova month, but strangely enough I did think of Annafair
while reading it. I can't 'wander long', but I think we all sleep better if we can
"tire my superfluous worries".
Here's another on the same theme:
The peace of wild things by Wendell Berry
When despair grows in me
and I wake in the middle of the night at the least sound
in fear of what my life and my children's lives may be,
I go and lie down where the wood drake
rests in his beauty on the water, and the great heron feeds.
I come into the peace of wild things
who do not tax their lives with forethought
of grief. I come into the presence of still water.
And I feel above me the day-blind stars
waiting for their light. For a time
I rest in the grace of the world, and am free.
-
Wonderful Babi - just wonderful - I think it is this line and then no, that line but in truth the entire poem is a wonder... so glad you found it and shared it.
-
It is gorgeous, isn't it? I was reminded that I had it on my computer before it crashed. One of these days I'll wake up and transfer stuff to storage promptly, instead of putting it off and losing the lot.
-
Been there, OCTAVIA. In fact, I'm still there. I've only moved one thing to
a disk, and that's only because I could never retrieve it again if I lost it. I
dug up some clever sayings about procrastination. They gave me a smile,
but I doubt if they'll make any difference. ;)
"If and When were planted, and Nothing grew." Proverb
"You may delay, but time will not." Benjamin Franklin
"Even if you're on the right track - you'll get run over if you just sit there." Will Rogers
-
Babi a trick I learned - all we have done is postpone what is not bringing us fun or relaxation or a feeling of success that matters - by scolding ourselves we simply enthrone a parent in our heads -
Amazing to me is how many famous quotes come from a negative point of view - realized this summer when I started a blog to encourage myself and it shocked me for weeks with one delete after another till I got the hang of quoting and re-writing from a positive perspective. Now I have 10 pages of quotes to review - some are mine, some with pictures - I learned that for every negative we hear it takes 5 positive statements to balance our thoughts.
If you are interested here is a link to my blog http://ican2012.tumblr.com/ and this gal has a great blog about using poetry to encourage her to get things done...http://windykai.wordpress.com/2011/04/19/getting-things-done/
Meadowlark Mending Song
by Margaret Hasse
What hurt you today
was taken out of your heart
by the meadowlark
who slipped the silver needle
of her song
in and out of the grey day
and mended what was torn.
-
Lovely poem, BARB. I enjoyed having a look at your blog and reading the quotes. I don't
allow myself to get involved with blogs, tho', since my computer time is limited. Valerie needs
it for her job, and my time here is pretty full already.
-
THANKS FOR THE MEMORIES
~ by Allison Goldstein
Curtains by the window,
Crickets by the door,
Loon song haunts the dark of night,
Beaver by the shore.
Dust along the roadways,
Daisies in the ditch.
Potpourri of wildflowers,
Tell me which is which.
Cows between the cornfields,
Barns of bygone days,
Bustling towns and villages,
Quiet lakes and bays.
Motorboats and cruisers,
Cradled in the locks,
Little kids and grandads,
Fishing off the docks.
Turtles sunning on a log,
"Gotta catch those rays!"
These are precious memories;
Our happy Rideau days.
-
Thanks to all of you who read and contribute to this discussion and especially Babi a daily regular - just realized how we assume how we feel that everyone is special
Memories
~ by Annabelle
Within my book of memories,
Are special thoughts of you.
And all the many nice things
You often say and do -
As I turn the pages,
And recall each single thought,
I realize the happiness
That knowing you has brought.
There are memories of the times we've shared
Both bright and sunny days.
There are memories of your kindness
And your friendly thoughtful ways.
There are memories of all those notes,
we would write back and forth,
When we would just get together,
And talk of this or that.
And when I recall these memories
As I go along life's way,
I find they grow more precious still
With every passing day.
-
November Evening
~ by Lucy Maud Montgomery
Come, for the dusk is our own; let us fare forth together,
With a quiet delight in our hearts for the ripe, still, autumn weather,
Through the rustling valley and wood and over the crisping meadow,
Under a high-sprung sky, winnowed of mist and shadow.
Sharp is the frosty air, and through the far hill-gaps showing
Lucent sunset lakes of crocus and green are glowing;
'Tis the hour to walk at will in a wayward, unfettered roaming,
Caring for naught save the charm, elusive and swift, of the gloaming.
Watchful and stirless the fields as if not unkindly holding
Harvested joys in their clasp, and to their broad bosoms folding
Baby hopes of a Spring, trusted to motherly keeping,
Thus to be cherished and happed through the long months of their sleeping.
Silent the woods are and gray; but the firs than ever are greener,
Nipped by the frost till the tang of their loosened balsam is keener;
And one little wind in their boughs, eerily swaying and swinging,
Very soft and low, like a wandering minstrel is singing.
Beautiful is the year, but not as the springlike maiden
Garlanded with her hopesrather the woman laden
With wealth of joy and grief, worthily won through living,
Wearing her sorrow now like a garment of praise and thanksgiving.
Gently the dark comes down over the wild, fair places,
The whispering glens in the hills, the open, starry spaces;
Rich with the gifts of the night, sated with questing and dreaming,
We turn to the dearest of paths where the star of the homelight is gleaming.
-
~ by Emily Dickinson ~
One Day is there of the Series
Termed Thanksgiving Day.
Celebrated part at Table
Part in Memory.
Neither Patriarch nor Pussy
I dissect the Play
Seems it to my Hooded thinking
Reflex Holiday.
Had there been no sharp Subtraction
From the early Sum --
Not an Acre or a Caption
Where was once a Room --
Not a Mention, whose small Pebble
Wrinkled any Sea,
Unto Such, were such Assembly
'Twere Thanksgiving Day.
-
We love you, too, BARB. :)
Much as I love Emily Dickinson, I find myself at a loss with this poem? Is this one of a 'Series'
that she wrote? I don't understand her reference to 'dissect the Play', or 'Reflex' holiday.
She speaks of a subtraction from the 'early Sum', but then speaks of an 'acre or a caption where there was once a room'. Obviously, and acre is much larger than a room. The 'mention'
and the 'assembly', to whom it would be a Thanksgiving Day, are equally obscure.
Am I the only one who doesn't understand any of this?
-
I think she is decrying the loss of a real feeling of thanks and giving thanks so that the day already in her time came to be simply a holiday that we celebrate with certain traditions but not the spontaneous heartfelt thanks that she believes was part of the first thanksgiving. I think she is suggesting that our heart is like land or a home with an acre or even the sea or a pebble or a wrinkle that I see as a wave that should be set aside from other feelings for thanksgiving so that she is turning inward to again decry and ask where has our ability to given heartfelt thanks disappeared.
-
I went back and read the Dickenson poem again, BARB, after reading your
post. I see, of course, that she does not feel we celebrate Thanksgiving as
it was originally intended. The rest of the poem, however, still reads to me
like so much gibberish. Forgive me, but I wonder if she had too much cider
or wine during that year's celebration. Even "Jabberwocky" made more
sense to me. ;)
-
Ya win some and Lose some ;) :D with so many poems to her credit I think we can giver her some slack but it must not give a message that folks can latch onto because when I found it I thought I was reading it for the first time so it is just not one of her more popular poems.
The time seems to be flying by and Thanksgiving is a week away - then Christmas - I have gotten to the stage in life where I am not getting as much accomplished in a day so I need to start planning differently - Here I am worrying about rain and trying to do some thing with the burned out spots on my lawn while the calendar rolls on with other tasks on my list for the day - ah so...better to be busy than bored.
Not a poem but I love this...
A large, still book is a piece of quietness, succulent and nourishing in a noisy world, which I approach and imbibe with "a sort of greedy enjoyment," as Marcel Proust said of those rooms of his old home whose air was "saturated with the bouquet of silence." ~ Holbrook Jackson
-
So true...all of it! And dear Emily remains one of my very favorite poets.
You might like this one.
Quiet Times
Sometimes
When I am especially quiet
I can hear the stars laughing
The rain pouring far away
A tiny, trusting voice
Whispering.
Sometimes
When I am especially quiet
I can hear my heartbeat thumping
I am so undeniably alive
And you are, too.
Sometimes
When I am especially quiet
The little things are huge
Everything is so important
A whole new way to live.
Sometimes
When I am especially quiet
The earth seems to be breathing
The planet seems to be singing
The world seems to be moving
The universe seems so
ALIVE.
Nina Dringo
-
That's a lovely poem, Babi.
I can't quite believe that Christmas is next month, it seems to be earlier every year :o
I really think the time has come to ditch the snow and holly etc on our Christmas cards. Most Australians have only experienced Christmas as sweltering heat and cold foods like prawns, chicken, and salads. It wouldn't be Christmas if it was cold!
-
Go for realism, OCTAVIA. There was no snow and holly in Bethelehem, either! ;)
-
OH Babi what a lovely and wonderful poem - yes, Quiet Times - regardless our age we are always seeking a time of whispers when we can hear the birds and the movement in creeks the slight stirring of air through the leaves - even as a child I remember those magical times when it felt like you could hear the earth breathing.
Octavia I'm with Babi on celebrating Christmas in warm climates - I do not know that I have ever seen snow on Christmas except a few times when I visit my daughter in the mountains of North Carolina. But here in Austin maybe once or I will even give it twice it snowed a bit before Christmas - some years it is warm enough for coffee on the patio - We are not in mid-summer temps as you are but the traditional look of holly and snow is strictly a fantasy. Like Babi says, there is no snow or holly in Bethlehem
I have a friend who is such the UT alumni fan that everything - E-V-E-R-Y thing is orange for Christmas - every light on her tree, every ornament, candle, ribbon, package wrap. She serves sweet potato and for salad does an orange Jello affair filled with nuts and fruit, half oranges surround her turkey and of course pumpkin pie for desert all for the color. She has so much fun with it that you can only laugh along with her.
One year I did a blue, green and white Christmas but did not go to the extent of color coordinating our meals.
With summer in full swing I can only imagine your garden in full bloom with lots of flowers to decorate the house and if it were me I think I would spray paint a large branch white and attach flowers and ivy to it - either hang it from the ceiling or stand it in a large ceramic pot instead of decorating a traditional fir tree.
We will be anxious to hear what you decide - what a fun time of year we can have with our homes.
Here is a fun Christmas Poem by - Shel Silverstein. You know from, Where the Sidewalk Ends.
I Made Myself A Snowball
I made myself a snowball,
As perfect as could be,
I thought I'd keep it as a pet,
And let it sleep with me.
I made it some pajamas,
And a pillow for its head,
Then last night it ran away,
But first - it wet the bed!
-
Got a smile from that one, BARB. It's easy to see why kids enjoy Silverstein so much.
Just for fun, I went looking for a 'silly' Christmas poem, too. How about this one?
When christmas comes already yet...
When christmas comes already yet,
Mit presents large and sweet.
The tings I like in mein stockings best,
By jiminiy, are my feet!
-
I finished ELEPHANT before I realized you all weree reading it an how much information you found. I just found a deightfully rendered tail of a relationshiip and an adventure History isnt my strong point but I do know wonderful writing when I read it. I've just started Saramagos THE DAY NO ONE DIED. I'LL READ EVERYTHING of his on my kindle. but discussion is limited to appreciation for me.. those elongated twisted sentences with cute little endings. I smile all the way through.
claire. 8)
-
ah Claire - glad to know you read and enjoyed the story - and so you also have a reading devise - I must say that for most books l really like the feel of a book in my hands but the large over 900 page books a kindle or something similar would be a boon - trying to read the new Haruki Murakami novel that is 926 pages and the effort to be comfortable - thanks goodness it is cold at night because placing it on a pillow on my lap seems to be the answer and if the weather was warm I would not want all that heating me up.
Here is an elephant poem....
My elephant thinks I'm wonderful.
My elephant thinks I'm cool.
My elephant hangs around with me
and follows me into school.
My elephant likes the way I look.
He thinks that I'm fun and smart.
He thinks that I'm kind and generous
and have a terrific heart.
My elephant thinks I'm brave and bold.
He's proud of my strength and guts.
But mostly he likes the way I smell.
My elephant thinks I'm nuts.
--Kenn Nesbitt
I am remembering as a kid we used to sing song out...
I asked my mother for fifty cents. To see the elephant jump the fence. He jumped so high he touched the sky, And never came back till the Fourth of July
-
Thanks, BARB. Both the poem and the little jingle gave me a smile. I remember how those
things would catch our imagination as kids and we would sing them over and over. Remember
"John Jacob Jingleheimer Smith"? Silly, but fun.
-
Things to Think About
~ by Bob Bly
Think in ways you've never thought before.
If the phone rings, think of it as carrying a message
Larger than anything you've ever heard,
Vaster than a hundred lines of Yeats.
Think that someone may bring a bear to your door,
Maybe wounded and deranged; or think that a moose
Has risen out of the lake, and he's carrying on his antlers
A child of your own whom you've never seen.
When someone knocks on the door,
Think that he's about
To give you something large: tell you you're forgiven,
Or that it's not necessary to work all the time,
Or that it's been decided that if you lie down no one will die.
-
The Word
~ Tony Hoagland
Down near the bottom
of the crossed-out list
of things you have to do today,
between "green thread"
and "broccoli" you find
that you have penciled "sunlight."
Resting on the page, the word
is as beautiful, it touches you
as if you had a friend
and sunlight were a present
he had sent you from some place distant
as this morning—to cheer you up,
and to remind you that,
among your duties, pleasure
is a thing,
that also needs accomplishing
Do you remember?
that time and light are kinds
of love, and love
is no less practical
than a coffee grinder
or a safe spare tire?
Tomorrow you may be utterly
without a clue
but today you get a telegram,
from the heart in exile
proclaiming that the kingdom
still exists,
the king and queen alive,
still speaking to their children,
—to any one among them
who can find the time,
to sit out in the sun and listen.
-
November Memories
~ By Delicia Powers
Standing tall on the hills,
Evergreens fill the white horizon
With the sweet fragrance of yesterday.
The blue sea below
By the forgotten fields of hay-
And there, beyond,
Stretching as far as you can see...
November memories.
-
(http://seniorlearn.org/bookclubs/poetry/winterwaterhouse%20(335x225)%20(3).jpg) John William Waterhouse - Famous Poets and Poems - Winter (http://famouspoetsandpoems.com/thematic_poems/winter_poems.html)
- Winter Poems (http://poetry.about.com/od/ourpoemcollections/a/winterpoems.htm)
Discussion Leaders: Barb (augere@ix.netcom.com) | Share With Us
The Magic, The Words Of...
Winter Poetry
Deer Park
~ Wang Wei
An empty mountain. No one seen,
but heard is someone talking here.
The sun re-enters forest depths;
green lights on mosses reappear.
|
-
The closing lines on Mr. Bly's poem sound like the perfect motto for
the harried housewife/mother.
Oh, that Waterhouse painting is simply beautiful. I'm so glad you found
and chose it for this season.
-
So glad you like the Waterhouse - it is beautiful isn't it and can work on several levels as a metaphor for this time of year and if we think of our inner life as a forest many of us listen looking for something that sheds light.
To me this is one of those perfect winter poems so here are the first three stanzas of Keat's long poem
The Eve of St Agnes
~ by John Keats
St Agnes' Eve---Ah, bitter chill it was!
The owl, for all his feathers, was a-cold;
The hare limp'd trembling through the frozen grass,
And silent was the flock in woolly fold:
Numb were the Beadsman's fingers, while he told
His rosary, and while his frosted breath,
Like pious incense from a censer old,
Seem'd taking flight for heaven, without a death,
Past the sweet Virgin's picture, while his prayer he saith.
His prayer he saith, this patient, holy man;
Then takes his lamp, and riseth from his knees,
And back returneth, meagre, barefoot, wan,
Along the chapel aisle by slow degrees:
The sculptur'd dead, on each side, seem to freeze,
Emprison'd in black, purgatorial rails:
Knights, ladies, praying in dumb orat'ries,
He passeth by; and his weak spirit fails
To think how they may ache in icy hoods and mails.
Northward he turneth through a little door,
And scarce three steps, ere Music's golden tongue
Flatter'd to tears this aged man and poor;
But no--already had his deathbell rung;
The joys of all his life were said and sung:
His was harsh penance on St. Agnes' Eve:
Another way he went, and soon among
Rough ashes sat he for his soul's reprieve,
And all night kept awake, for sinners' sake to grieve.
-
the poem is just too wonderful to leave it - I will break it up so we do not have a post a mile long.
That ancient Beadsman heard the prelude soft;
And so it chanc'd, for many a door was wide,
From hurry to and fro. Soon, up aloft,
The silver, snarling trumpets 'gan to chide:
The level chambers, ready with their pride,
Were glowing to receive a thousand guests:
The carved angels, ever eager-eyed,
Star'd, where upon their heads the cornice rests,
With hair blown back, and wings put cross-wise on their breasts.
At length burst in the argent revelry,
With plume, tiara, and all rich array,
Numerous as shadows haunting faerily
The brain, new stuff'd, in youth, with triumphs gay
Of old romance. These let us wish away,
And turn, sole-thoughted, to one Lady there,
Whose heart had brooded, all that wintry day,
On love, and wing'd St. Agnes' saintly care,
As she had heard old dames full many times declare.
They told her how, upon St. Agnes' Eve,
Young virgins might have visions of delight,
And soft adorings from their loves receive
Upon the honey'd middle of the night,
If ceremonies due they did aright;
As, supperless to bed they must retire,
And couch supine their beauties, lily white;
Nor look behind, nor sideways, but require
Of Heaven with upward eyes for all that they desire.
-
Full of this whim was thoughtful Madeline:
The music, yearning like a God in pain,
She scarcely heard: her maiden eyes divine,
Fix'd on the floor, saw many a sweeping train
Pass by--she heeded not at all: in vain
Came many a tiptoe, amorous cavalier,
And back retir'd; not cool'd by high disdain,
But she saw not: her heart was otherwhere:
She sigh'd for Agnes' dreams, the sweetest of the year.
She danc'd along with vague, regardless eyes,
Anxious her lips, her breathing quick and short:
The hallow'd hour was near at hand: she sighs
Amid the timbrels, and the throng'd resort
Of whisperers in anger, or in sport;
'Mid looks of love, defiance, hate, and scorn,
Hoodwink'd with faery fancy; all amort,
Save to St. Agnes and her lambs unshorn,
And all the bliss to be before to-morrow morn.
So, purposing each moment to retire,
She linger'd still. Meantime, across the moors,
Had come young Porphyro, with heart on fire
For Madeline. Beside the portal doors,
Buttress'd from moonlight, stands he, and implores
All saints to give him sight of Madeline,
But for one moment in the tedious hours,
That he might gaze and worship all unseen;
Perchance speak, kneel, touch, kiss--in sooth such things have been.
He ventures in: let no buzz'd whisper tell:
All eyes be muffled, or a hundred swords
Will storm his heart, Love's fev'rous citadel:
For him, those chambers held barbarian hordes,
Hyena foemen, and hot-blooded lords,
Whose very dogs would execrations howl
Against his lineage: not one breast affords
Him any mercy, in that mansion foul,
Save one old beldame, weak in body and in soul.
-
Ah, happy chance! the aged creature came,
Shuffling along with ivory-headed wand,
To where he stood, hid from the torch's flame,
Behind a broad half-pillar, far beyond
The sound of merriment and chorus bland:
He startled her; but soon she knew his face,
And grasp'd his fingers in her palsied hand,
Saying, "Mercy, Porphyro! hie thee from this place;
They are all here to-night, the whole blood-thirsty race!
"Get hence! get hence! there's dwarfish Hildebrand;
He had a fever late, and in the fit
He cursed thee and thine, both house and land:
Then there's that old Lord Maurice, not a whit
More tame for his gray hairs--Alas me! flit!
Flit like a ghost away."--"Ah, Gossip dear,
We're safe enough; here in this arm-chair sit,
And tell me how"--"Good Saints! not here, not here;
Follow me, child, or else these stones will be thy bier."
He follow'd through a lowly arched way,
Brushing the cobwebs with his lofty plume,
And as she mutter'd "Well-a--well-a-day!"
He found him in a little moonlight room,
Pale, lattic'd, chill, and silent as a tomb.
"Now tell me where is Madeline," said he,
"O tell me, Angela, by the holy loom
Which none but secret sisterhood may see,
When they St. Agnes' wool are weaving piously."
-
"St. Agnes! Ah! it is St. Agnes' Eve--
Yet men will murder upon holy days:
Thou must hold water in a witch's sieve,
And be liege-lord of all the Elves and Fays,
To venture so: it fills me with amaze
To see thee, Porphyro!--St. Agnes' Eve!
God's help! my lady fair the conjuror plays
This very night: good angels her deceive!
But let me laugh awhile, I've mickle time to grieve."
Feebly she laugheth in the languid moon,
While Porphyro upon her face doth look,
Like puzzled urchin on an aged crone
Who keepeth clos'd a wond'rous riddle-book,
As spectacled she sits in chimney nook.
But soon his eyes grew brilliant, when she told
His lady's purpose; and he scarce could brook
Tears, at the thought of those enchantments cold,
And Madeline asleep in lap of legends old.
Sudden a thought came like a full-blown rose,
Flushing his brow, and in his pained heart
Made purple riot: then doth he propose
A stratagem, that makes the beldame start:
"A cruel man and impious thou art:
Sweet lady, let her pray, and sleep, and dream
Alone with her good angels, far apart
From wicked men like thee. Go, go!--I deem
Thou canst not surely be the same that thou didst seem."
"I will not harm her, by all saints I swear,"
Quoth Porphyro: "O may I ne'er find grace
When my weak voice shall whisper its last prayer,
If one of her soft ringlets I displace,
Or look with ruffian passion in her face:
Good Angela, believe me by these tears;
Or I will, even in a moment's space,
Awake, with horrid shout, my foemen's ears,
And beard them, though they be more fang'd than wolves and bears."
"Ah! why wilt thou affright a feeble soul?
A poor, weak, palsy-stricken, churchyard thing,
Whose passing-bell may ere the midnight toll;
Whose prayers for thee, each morn and evening,
Were never miss'd." - Thus plaining, doth she bring
A gentler speech from burning Porphyro;
So woful, and of such deep sorrowing,
That Angela gives promise she will do
Whatever he shall wish, betide her weal or woe.
Which was, to lead him, in close secrecy,
Even to Madeline's chamber, and there hide
Him in a closet, of such privacy
That he might see her beauty unespy'd,
And win perhaps that night a peerless bride,
While legion'd faeries pac'd the coverlet,
And pale enchantment held her sleepy-ey'd.
Never on such a night have lovers met,
Since Merlin paid his Demon all the monstrous debt.
-
"It shall be as thou wishest," said the Dame:
"All cates and dainties shall be stored there
Quickly on this feast-night: by the tambour frame
Her own lute thou wilt see: no time to spare,
For I am slow and feeble, and scarce dare
On such a catering trust my dizzy head.
Wait here, my child, with patience; kneel in prayer
The while: Ah! thou must needs the lady wed,
Or may I never leave my grave among the dead."
So saying, she hobbled off with busy fear.
The lover's endless minutes slowly pass'd;
The dame return'd, and whisper'd in his ear
To follow her; with aged eyes aghast
From fright of dim espial. Safe at last,
Through many a dusky gallery, they gain
The maiden's chamber, silken, hush'd, and chaste;
Where Porphyro took covert, pleas'd amain.
His poor guide hurried back with agues in her brain.
Her falt'ring hand upon the balustrade,
Old Angela was feeling for the stair,
When Madeline, St. Agnes' charmed maid,
Rose, like a mission'd spirit, unaware:
With silver taper's light, and pious care,
She turn'd, and down the aged gossip led
To a safe level matting. Now prepare,
Young Porphyro, for gazing on that bed;
She comes, she comes again, like ring-dove fray'd and fled.
Out went the taper as she hurried in;
Its little smoke, in pallid moonshine, died:
She clos'd the door, she panted, all akin
To spirits of the air, and visions wide:
No uttered syllable, or, woe betide!
But to her heart, her heart was voluble,
Paining with eloquence her balmy side;
As though a tongueless nightingale should swell
Her throat in vain, and die, heart-stifled, in her dell.
-
A casement high and triple-arch'd there was,
All garlanded with carven imag'ries
Of fruits, and flowers, and bunches of knot-grass,
And diamonded with panes of quaint device,
Innumerable of stains and splendid dyes,
As are the tiger-moth's deep-damask'd wings;
And in the midst, 'mong thousand heraldries,
And twilight saints, and dim emblazonings,
A shielded scutcheon blush'd with blood of queens and kings.
Full on this casement shone the wintry moon,
And threw warm gules on Madeline's fair breast,
As down she knelt for heaven's grace and boon;
Rose-bloom fell on her hands, together prest,
And on her silver cross soft amethyst,
And on her hair a glory, like a saint:
She seem'd a splendid angel, newly drest,
Save wings, for heaven:--Porphyro grew faint:
She knelt, so pure a thing, so free from mortal taint.
Anon his heart revives: her vespers done,
Of all its wreathed pearls her hair she frees;
Unclasps her warmed jewels one by one;
Loosens her fragrant boddice; by degrees
Her rich attire creeps rustling to her knees:
Half-hidden, like a mermaid in sea-weed,
Pensive awhile she dreams awake, and sees,
In fancy, fair St. Agnes in her bed,
But dares not look behind, or all the charm is fled.
Soon, trembling in her soft and chilly nest,
In sort of wakeful swoon, perplex'd she lay,
Until the poppied warmth of sleep oppress'd
Her soothed limbs, and soul fatigued away;
Flown, like a thought, until the morrow-day;
Blissfully haven'd both from joy and pain;
Clasp'd like a missal where swart Paynims pray;
Blinded alike from sunshine and from rain,
As though a rose should shut, and be a bud again.
A good stopping place - let's finish the story of St. Agnes tomorrow...
-
Such a beautifully written story. I almost dread the ending, tho'. I remember reading it when
I was just a girl, and being so upset and angry at the ending. Now, I can at least appreciate more
fully the sheer beauty of the poem.
-
And so we continue...
The Eve of St. Agnes
~ John Keats
Stol'n to this paradise, and so entranced,
Porphyro gaz'd upon her empty dress,
And listen'd to her breathing, if it chanced
To wake into a slumberous tenderness;
Which when he heard, that minute did he bless,
And breath'd himself: then from the closet crept,
Noiseless as fear in a wide wilderness,
And over the hush'd carpet, silent, stept,
And 'tween the curtains peep'd, where, lo!--how fast she slept.
Then by the bed-side, where the faded moon
Made a dim, silver twilight, soft he set
A table, and, half anguish'd, threw thereon
A cloth of woven crimson, gold, and jet:--
O for some drowsy Morphean amulet!
The boisterous, midnight, festive clarion,
The kettle-drum, and far-heard clarinet,
Affray his ears, though but in dying tone:--
The hall door shuts again, and all the noise is gone.
And still she slept an azure-lidded sleep,
In blanched linen, smooth, and lavender'd,
While he forth from the closet brought a heap
Of candied apple, quince, and plum, and gourd;
With jellies soother than the creamy curd,
And lucent syrops, tinct with cinnamon;
Manna and dates, in argosy transferr'd
From Fez; and spiced dainties, every one,
From silken Samarcand to cedar'd Lebanon.
These delicates he heap'd with glowing hand
On golden dishes and in baskets bright
Of wreathed silver: sumptuous they stand
In the retired quiet of the night,
Filling the chilly room with perfume light.
"And now, my love, my seraph fair, awake!
Thou art my heaven, and I thine eremite:
Open thine eyes, for meek St. Agnes' sake,
Or I shall drowse beside thee, so my soul doth ache."
Thus whispering, his warm, unnerved arm
Sank in her pillow. Shaded was her dream
By the dusk curtains:- 'twas a midnight charm
Impossible to melt as iced stream:
The lustrous salvers in the moonlight gleam;
Broad golden fringe upon the carpet lies:
It seem'd he never, never could redeem
From such a stedfast spell his lady's eyes;
So mus'd awhile, entoil'd in woofed phantasies.
Awakening up, he took her hollow lute,
Tumultuous, - and, in chords that tenderest be,
He play'd an ancient ditty, long since mute,
In Provence call'd, "La belle dame sans mercy":
Close to her ear touching the melody;
Wherewith disturb'd, she utter'd a soft moan:
He ceas'd--she panted quick--and suddenly
Her blue affrayed eyes wide open shone:
Upon his knees he sank, pale as smooth-sculptured stone.
-
Her eyes were open, but she still beheld,
Now wide awake, the vision of her sleep:
There was a painful change, that nigh expell'd
The blisses of her dream so pure and deep
At which fair Madeline began to weep,
And moan forth witless words with many a sigh;
While still her gaze on Porphyro would keep;
Who knelt, with joined hands and piteous eye,
Fearing to move or speak, she look'd so dreamingly.
"Ah, Porphyro!" said she, "but even now
Thy voice was at sweet tremble in mine ear,
Made tuneable with every sweetest vow;
And those sad eyes were spiritual and clear:
How chang'd thou art! how pallid, chill, and drear!
Give me that voice again, my Porphyro,
Those looks immortal, those complainings dear!
Oh leave me not in this eternal woe,
For if thy diest, my Love, I know not where to go."
Beyond a mortal man impassion'd far
At these voluptuous accents, he arose
Ethereal, flush'd, and like a throbbing star
Seen mid the sapphire heaven's deep repose;
Into her dream he melted, as the rose
Blendeth its odour with the violet,--
Solution sweet: meantime the frost-wind blows
Like Love's alarum pattering the sharp sleet
Against the window-panes; St. Agnes' moon hath set.
-
'Tis dark: quick pattereth the flaw-blown sleet:
"This is no dream, my bride, my Madeline!"
'Tis dark: the iced gusts still rave and beat:
"No dream, alas! alas! and woe is mine!
Porphyro will leave me here to fade and pine.
Cruel! what traitor could thee hither bring?
I curse not, for my heart is lost in thine,
Though thou forsakest a deceived thing;
A dove forlorn and lost with sick unpruned wing."
"My Madeline! sweet dreamer! lovely bride!
Say, may I be for aye thy vassal blest?
Thy beauty's shield, heart-shap'd and vermeil dyed?
Ah, silver shrine, here will I take my rest
After so many hours of toil and quest,
A famish'd pilgrim,--sav'd by miracle.
Though I have found, I will not rob thy nest
Saving of thy sweet self; if thou think'st well
To trust, fair Madeline, to no rude infidel.
"Hark! 'tis an elfin-storm from faery land,
Of haggard seeming, but a boon indeed:
Arise--arise! the morning is at hand;
The bloated wassaillers will never heed:
Let us away, my love, with happy speed;
There are no ears to hear, or eyes to see,
Drown'd all in Rhenish and the sleepy mead:
Awake! arise! my love, and fearless be,
For o'er the southern moors I have a home for thee."
She hurried at his words, beset with fears,
For there were sleeping dragons all around,
At glaring watch, perhaps, with ready spears
Down the wide stairs a darkling way they found.
In all the house was heard no human sound.
A chain-droop'd lamp was flickering by each door;
The arras, rich with horseman, hawk, and hound,
Flutter'd in the besieging wind's uproar;
And the long carpets rose along the gusty floor.
They glide, like phantoms, into the wide hall;
Like phantoms, to the iron porch, they glide;
Where lay the Porter, in uneasy sprawl,
With a huge empty flaggon by his side:
The wakeful bloodhound rose, and shook his hide,
But his sagacious eye an inmate owns:
By one, and one, the bolts full easy slide:
The chains lie silent on the footworn stones;
The key turns, and the door upon its hinges groans.
And they are gone: aye, ages long ago
These lovers fled away into the storm.
That night the Baron dreamt of many a woe,
And all his warrior-guests, with shade and form
Of witch, and demon, and large coffin-worm,
Were long be-nightmar'd. Angela the old
Died palsy-twitch'd, with meagre face deform;
The Beadsman, after thousand aves told,
For aye unsought for slept among his ashes cold.
-
This is not the ending I remember. I must have confused "Eve of St. Agnes" with another poem.
What was the one that ended with the maiden's body found in a chest? Well, I'm glad this young
couple did get safely away, and hopefully had a happy life.
-
Oh yes, Babi vaguely I remember - kinda nice to read a mouthful of words we are not in the habit of using in our daily speech - there are so many wonders that I think I will dip into these Victorians for awhile...Hardy, the Bronte's, Byron, Shelley, Tennyson, the Browning's, Rossetti, Mary Elizabeth Coleridge, Hopkins, Wilde - who of the better known poets from this era is not on the list? Yes, for awhile I think I will be reading the Victorians...beside they did Christmas very nicely...
-
here is a poet I did not know...
A Child's Song Of Christmas
~ Marjorie L. C. Pickthall
My counterpane is soft as silk,
My blankets white as creamy milk.
The hay was soft to Him, I know,
Our little Lord of long ago.
Above the roofs the pigeons fly
In silver wheels across the sky.
The stable-doves they cooed to them,
Mary and Christ in Bethlehem.
Bright shines the sun across the drifts,
And bright upon my Christmas gifts.
They brought Him incense, myrrh, and gold,
Our little Lord who lived of old.
Oh, soft and clear our mother sings
Of Christmas joys and Christmas things.
God's holy angels sang to them,
Mary and Christ in Bethlehem.
Our hearts they hold all Christmas dear,
And earth seems sweet and heaven seems near,
Oh, heaven was in His sight, I know,
That little Child of long ago.
-
And did you know Longfellow wrote a
Christmas Carol
I hear along our street
Pass the minstrel throngs;
Hark! they play so sweet,
On their hautboys, Christmas Songs!
Let us by the fire
Ever higher
Sing them till the night expire!
In December ring
Every day the chimes;
Loud the gleemen sing
In the streets their merry rhymes.
Let us by the fire
Ever higher
Sing them till the night expire!
Shepherds at the grange,
Where the Babe was born,
Sang, with many a change,
Christmas carols until morn.
Let us by the fire
Ever higher
Sing them till the night expire!
These good people sang
Songs devout and sweet;
While the rafters rang,
There they stood with freezing feet.
Let us by the fire
Ever higher
Sing them till the night expire!
Nuns in frigid cells
At this holy tide,
For want of something else,
Christmas songs at times have tried.
Let us by the fire
Ever higher
Sing them till the night expire!
Washerwomen old,
To the sound they beat,
Sing by rivers cold,
With uncovered heads and feet.
Let us by the fire
Ever higher
Sing them till the night expire!
Who by the fireside stands
Stamps his feet and sings;
But he who blows his hands
Not so gay a carol brings,
Let us by the fire
Ever higher
Sing them till the night expire!
-
Yes, it's time for Christmas carols and Christmas poems! Let me see....
How about Thomas Hardy's "Oxen"?
The Oxen
Thomas Hardy (1915)
Christmas Eve, and twelve of the clock.
“Now they are all on their knees,”
An elder said as we sat in a flock
By the embers in hearthside ease.
We pictured the meek mild creatures where
They dwelt in their strawy pen.
Nor did it occur to one of us there
To doubt they were kneeling then.
So fair a fancy few believe
In these years! Yet, I feel,
If someone said on Christmas Eve
“Come; see the oxen kneel
“In the lonely barton by yonder comb
Our childhood used to know,”
I should go with him in the gloom,
Hoping it might be so.
-
Keats and Waterhouse together. Such a rare treat. Thanks Barb.
Such tenderness in these words and an old favourite.
Awakening up, he took her hollow lute,
Tumultuous, - and, in chords that tenderest be,
He play'd an ancient ditty, long since mute,
In Provence call'd, "La belle dame sans mercy":
Close to her ear touching the melody;
Wherewith disturb'd, she utter'd a soft moan:
He ceas'd--she panted quick--and suddenly
Her blue affrayed eyes wide open shone:
Upon his knees he sank, pale as smooth-sculptured stone.
-
That begs for the follow up...
Original version of La Belle Dame Sans Merci, 1819
~ John Keats
Oh what can ail thee, knight-at-arms,
Alone and palely loitering?
The sedge has withered from the lake,
And no birds sing.
Oh what can ail thee, knight-at-arms,
So haggard and so woe-begone?
The squirrel's granary is full,
And the harvest's done.
I see a lily on thy brow,
With anguish moist and fever-dew,
And on thy cheeks a fading rose
Fast withereth too.
I met a lady in the meads,
Full beautiful - a faery's child,
Her hair was long, her foot was light,
And her eyes were wild.
I made a garland for her head,
And bracelets too, and fragrant zone;
She looked at me as she did love,
And made sweet moan.
I set her on my pacing steed,
And nothing else saw all day long,
For sidelong would she bend, and sing
A faery's song.
She found me roots of relish sweet,
And honey wild, and manna-dew,
And sure in language strange she said -
'I love thee true'.
She took me to her elfin grot,
And there she wept and sighed full sore,
And there I shut her wild wild eyes
With kisses four.
And there she lulled me asleep
And there I dreamed - Ah! woe betide! -
The latest dream I ever dreamt
On the cold hill side.
I saw pale kings and princes too,
Pale warriors, death-pale were they all;
They cried - 'La Belle Dame sans Merci
Hath thee in thrall!'
I saw their starved lips in the gloam,
With horrid warning gaped wide,
And I awoke and found me here,
On the cold hill's side.
And this is why I sojourn here
Alone and palely loitering,
Though the sedge is withered from the lake,
And no birds sing.
-
NOTHING'S A GIFT
Wislawa Szymborska
Nothing's a gift, it's all on loan.
I'm drowning in debts up to my ears.
I'll have to pay for myself
with my self,
give up my life for my life.
Here's how it's arranged:
The heart can be repossessed,
the liver, too,
and each single finger and toe.
Too late to tear up the terms,
my debts will be repaid,
and I'll be fleeced,
or, more precisely, flayed.
I move about the planet
in a crush of other debtors.
some are saddled with the burden
of paying off their wings.
Others must, willy-nilly,
account for every leaf.
Every tissue in us lies
on the debit side.
Not a tenacle or tendril
is for keeps.
The inventory, infinitely detailed,
implies we'll be left
not just empty-handed
but handless too.
I can't remember
where, when, and why
I let someone open
this account in my name.
We call the protest against this
the soul.
And it's the only item
not included on the lis
-
Oh, ouch, BARB. Where did you find that cheerful little item? I think my one
benefit in having so small an income is that it's not worth anyone's trouble to
open an account in my name!
-
Oh Babi I would never consider your account so small - look at all you do here on Senior Learn alone, much less your contribution to your family - we think of ourselves as a debt but when you realize your look on life and acceptance of what life offers is often the life buoy that holds up others.
She brings to our attention that all our life is is a loan - a loan of a body that allows our soul, our values, to be put out in the world and communicate with the other loans - in that we are really all the same - our body and life here on earth is only a loan. I think at times I pay a high interest rate for the loan of my body till I hear about others when I am humbled in the face of thier interest rate that I then must live as full as I can to be blessed with the lower interest rate I enjoy.
She seems to rail at her situation but then she is from Poland born in 1931 she was an early teen living in Kraków during the war. She does not talk about her experience but her poems have something that says she saw a different life than most of us. After the war she attended university and more recently she is the Goethe Prize winner (1991) and Herder Prize winner (1995). She has a degree of Honorary Doctor of Letters of Poznan University (1995). In 1996 she received the Polish PEN Club prize and she is a Noble Prize winner.
-
Another of her poems
STILL LIFE WITH TOY BALLOON
Instead of the return of memories
at the hour of death
I order up the return
of lost objects.
Through the windows, the doors - umbrellas,
a suitcase, gloves, a coat,
so I can say:
What use is all that to me?
Safety pins, this comb or that,
a paper rose, a string, a knife,
so I can say:
I have no regrets about anything.
Wherever you may be, key,
try to arrive on time,
so I can say:
It's all rust, my dear friend, rust.
A cloud of certificates will descend,
of passes and questionnaires,
so I can say:
The sun is setting.
o watch, swim out of the river,
let me take you in my hand,
so I can say:
Don't still pretend to indicate the hour.
The toy balloon torn loose by the wind
will also reappear,
so I can say:
There are no children here.
-
I like that a lot.
-
Well said, BARB, and I thank you for the compliment. Hackers who steal
ID's and open up accounts in the name of other people, however, are
only interested in how much money is available. They could care less
about our non-financial 'contributions'.
I, too, like the second poem better. It would be nice, tho', if I
could 'order up' only the good memories. Surely, by then, it's time to
be rid of the bad ones.
-
Reading many who help us see that how someone praises God and how the support love and comfort each other is not placed in the hands of one religion - here are some marvels said over time.
Dwell
On the beauty of life.
Watch the stars, and
See yourself running
With them.
Marcus Aurelius
-
There is no despair so absolute as that
Which comes with the first moments of our first
Great sorrow,
When we have not yet known
What it is to have suffered
And healed,
To have despaired and have recovered
Hope!
George Eliot
-
What
Do sad people have in
Common?
It seems
They have all built a shrine
To the past
And often go there
And do a strange wail and
Worship.
What is the beginning of
Happiness?
It is to stop being
So religious
Like That.
Hafiz (1320-1389)
-
The seed of suffering in you may be strong,
But don’t wait until you have no more suffering before allowing yourself to be happy.
When one tree in the garden is sick, you have to care for it.
But don’t overlook all the healthy trees.
Even while you have pain in your heart, you can enjoy
The many wonders of life—the beautiful sunset, the smile of a child, the many flowers and
trees.
To suffer is not enough. Please don’t
Be imprisoned by your suffering.
Thich Nhat Hanh
-
I am no longer just one drop.
I have become the Sea.
I speak the language of the heart where every
particle of me, united, shouts in ecstasy
Rumi
-
Here's a verse from a poem by James W. Foley, "A Toast to Merriment"
Make merry! What of frets and fears?
There is no happiness in tears.
You tremble at the cloud and lo!
'Tis gone--and so 'tis with our woe,
Full half of it but fancied ills.
Make merry! 'Tis the gloom that kills.
( >:( I had a longer post, but lost it when the post started jumping and I hit that correlation button.)
-
ah don't you just hate it when you loose a post or in your case a poem that you chose - this one is just prefect thought - coming from someone else the idea of packing up your troubles in an old kit bag and smile smile smile using different words is so helpful rather than my trying to convince myself - it just doesn't ring with conviction no matter how many poets suggest the same thing - seems I have been holding on the that religion as Hafiz calls it for over 20 years - I try but it always feels wrong - now I can see I am not taking care of my other trees if I only pay attention to the one - and now your poem is finally making me feel it is not just my lazy bones crying uncle it is how it should be because gloom kills.
here is a wonderment that shows how Mayo Angelou looked at herself...
Still I Rise
~ Maya Angelou
You may write me down in history
With your bitter, twisted lies,
You may trod me in the very dirt
But still, like dust, I'll rise.
Does my sassiness upset you?
Why are you beset with gloom?
'Cause I walk like I've got oil wells
Pumping in my living room.
Just like moons and like suns,
With the certainty of tides,
Just like hopes springing high,
Still I'll rise.
Did you want to see me broken?
Bowed head and lowered eyes?
Shoulders falling down like teardrops.
Weakened by my soulful cries.
Does my haughtiness offend you?
Don't you take it awful hard
'Cause I laugh like I've got gold mines
Diggin' in my own back yard.
You may shoot me with your words,
You may cut me with your eyes,
You may kill me with your hatefulness,
But still, like air, I'll rise.
Does my sexiness upset you?
Does it come as a surprise
That I dance like I've got diamonds
At the meeting of my thighs?
Out of the huts of history's shame
I rise
Up from a past that's rooted in pain
I rise
I'm a black ocean, leaping and wide,
Welling and swelling I bear in the tide.
Leaving behind nights of terror and fear
I rise
Into a daybreak that's wondrously clear
I rise
Bringing the gifts that my ancestors gave,
I am the dream and the hope of the slave.
I rise
I rise
I rise.
-
And James W. Foley writes -
A Toast to Merriment
Make merry! Though the day be gray
Forget the clouds and let's be gay!
How short the days we linger here:
A birth, a breath, and then--the bier!
Make merry, you and I, for when
We part we may not meet again!
What tonic is there in a frown?
You may go up and I go down,
Or I go up and you--who knows
The way that either of us goes?
Make merry! Here's a laugh, for when
We part we may not meet again!
Make merry! What of frets and fears?
There is no happiness in tears.
You tremble at the cloud and lo!
'Tis gone--and so 'tis with our woe,
Full half of it but fancied ills.
Make merry! 'Tis the gloom that kills.
Make merry! There is sunshine yet,
The gloom that promised, let's forget,
The quip and jest are on the wing,
Why sorrow when we ought to sing?
Refill the cup of joy, for then
We part and may not meet again.
A smile, a jest, a joke--alas!
We come, we wonder, and we pass.
The shadow falls; so long we rest
In graves, where is no quip or jest.
Good day! Good cheer! Good-bye! For then
We part and may not meet again!
-
I really haven't read enough of Maya Angelou; she really deserves the
attention. I was delighted at the image of walking "like I got oil wells
pumping in my living room".
I have a wonderful memory from many years ago, when buses were still
segregated. I rode daily to a part-time job on the bus, and the route
took me through one of the black wards. One day this positivly elegant
woman, beautiful, and looking as though she stepped off the pages of Vogue,
stepped into the bus and walked firmly to the back. One couldn't really
tell, just from looking at her, whether she was 'white' or 'black'.
The bus driver was in a quandary, looking back several times and clearly
trying to decide what he should do. Finally, he stood up, walked to the
back, and went to the back. He very quietly asked the woman a question
and she coolly and firmly answered it. He then returned to his seat and
started the bus, clearly unhappy. I was smiling, and had to restrain
myself from applauding! She was simply wonderful.
-
What a great story Babi - just wonderful - some folks can just put things together and make them happen with such style -
Well I am going to fill us up so I can get the new page with the heading and then I will be in very sporadically through December so please carry on - I miss Gum don't you - I am really looking forward this year to my visit - this year no one was able to visit since last Christmas and this is Cade's last year before he is off the college - they become so grown up once they go away to school like that - they are filled with the neatest topics for conversation but there is a difference - no more being a little kid and so I want to gobble up every minute during my visit.
-
The Hunt being associated with Christmas here is an old Medieval poem
Beasts of the Hunt
My hide unto the Huntsman
So freely I would give,
My body to the hounds,
For I'd rather die than live:
So shoot him, whip him, strip him,
To the Huntsman let him go;
For he's neither fit to ride upon,
Nor in any team to draw.
Poor old horse! You must die!
traditional sung by the Mummers of Richmond, Yorkshire
-
The Foolish Fir-Tree
~ by Henry Van Dyke
"A tale that the poet Ruckert told
To German children, in days of old;
Disguised in a random, rollicking rhyme
Like a merry mummer of ancient time,
And sent, in its English dress, to please
The little folk of the Christmas trees."
A Little fir grew in the midst of the wood
Contented and happy, as young trees should.
His body was straight and his boughs were clean;
And summer and winter the bountiful sheen
Of his needles bedecked him, from top to root,
In a beautiful, all-the-year, evergreen suit.
But a trouble came into his heart one day,
When he saw that the other trees were gay
In the wonderful raiment that summer weaves
Of manifold shapes and kinds of leaves:
He looked at his needles so stiff and small,
And thought that his dress was the poorest of all.
Then jealousy clouded the little tree's mind,
And he said to himself, "It was not very kind
"To give such an ugly old dress to a tree!
"If the fays of the forest would only ask me,
"I'd tell them how I should like to be dressed,
"In a garment of gold, to bedazzle the rest!"
So he fell asleep, but his dreams were bad.
When he woke in the morning, his heart was glad;
For every leaf that his boughs could hold
Was made of the brightest beaten gold.
I tell you, children, the tree was proud;
He was something above the common crowd;
And he tinkled his leaves, as if he would say
To a peddler who happened to pass that way,
"Just look at me! don't you think I am fine?
"And wouldn't you like such a dress as mine?"
"Oh, yes!" said the man, "and I really guess
I must fill my pack with your beautiful dress."
So he picked the golden leaves with care,
And left the little tree shivering there.
"Oh, why did I wish for golden leaves?"
The fir-tree said, "I forgot that thieves
"Would be sure to rob me in passing by.
"If the fairies would give me another try,
"I'd wish for something that cost much less,
"And be satisfied with glass for my dress!"
Then he fell asleep; and, just as before,
The fairies granted his wish once more.
When the night was gone, and the sun rose clear,
The tree was a crystal chandelier;
And it seemed, as he stood in the morning light,
That his branches were covered with jewels bright.
"Aha!" said the tree. "This is something great!"
And he held himself up, very proud and straight;
But a rude young wind through the forest dashed,
In a reckless temper, and quickly smashed
The delicate leaves. With a clashing sound
They broke into pieces and fell on the ground,
Like a silvery, shimmering shower of hail,
And the tree stood naked and bare to the gale.
Then his heart was sad; and he cried, "Alas
"For my beautiful leaves of shining glass!
"Perhaps I have made another mistake
"In choosing a dress so easy to break.
"If the fairies only would hear me again
"I'd ask them for something both pretty and plain:
"It wouldn't cost much to grant my request,
"In leaves of green lettuce I'd like to be dressed!"
By this time the fairies were laughing, I know;
But they gave him his wish in a second; and so
With leaves of green lettuce, all tender and sweet,
The tree was arrayed, from his head to his feet.
"I knew it!" he cried, "I was sure I could find
"The sort of a suit that would be to my mind.
"There's none of the trees has a prettier dress,
"And none as attractive as I am, I guess."
But a goat, who was taking an afternoon walk,
By chance overheard the fir-tree's talk.
So he came up close for a nearer view;
"My salad!" he bleated, "I think so too!
"You're the most attractive kind of a tree,
"And I want your leaves for my five-o'clock tea."
So he ate them all without saying grace,
And walked away with a grin on his face;
While the little tree stood in the twilight dim,
With never a leaf on a single limb.
Then he sighed and groaned; but his voice was weak
He was so ashamed that he could not speak.
He knew at last that he had been a fool,
To think of breaking the forest rule,
And choosing a dress himself to please,
Because he envied the other trees.
But it couldn't be helped, it was now too late,
He must make up his mind to a leafless fate!
So he let himself sink in a slumber deep,
But he moaned and he tossed in his troubled sleep,
Till the morning touched him with joyful beam,
And he woke to find it was all a dream.
For there in his evergreen dress he stood,
A pointed fir in the midst of the wood!
His branches were sweet with the balsam smell,
His needles were green when the white snow fell.
And always contented and happy was he,
The very best kind of a Christmas tree.
-
Ring out, wild bells
- by Alfred, Lord Tennyson
Ring out, wild bells, to the wild sky,
The flying cloud, the frosty light;
The year is dying in the night;
Ring out, wild bells, and let him die.
Ring out the old, ring in the new,
Ring, happy bells, across the snow:
The year is going, let him go;
Ring out the false, ring in the true.
Ring out the grief that saps the mind,
For those that here we see no more,
Ring out the feud of rich and poor,
Ring in redress to all mankind.
Ring out a slowly dying cause,
And ancient forms of party strife;
Ring in the nobler modes of life,
With sweeter manners, purer laws.
Ring out the want, the care the sin,
The faithless coldness of the times;
Ring out, ring out my mournful rhymes,
But ring the fuller minstrel in.
Ring out false pride in place and blood,
The civic slander and the spite;
Ring in the love of truth and right,
Ring in the common love of good.
Ring out old shapes of foul disease,
Ring out the narrowing lust of gold;
Ring out the thousand wars of old,
Ring in the thousand years of peace.
Ring in the valiant man and free,
The larger heart, the kindlier hand;
Ring out the darkness of the land,
Ring in the Christ that is to be.
-
Christmas Cheer
~ by Thomas Tusser
Good husband and housewife, now chiefly be glad,
Things handsome to have, as they ought to be had.
They both do provide, against Christmas do come,
To welcome their neighbors, good cheer to have some.
Good bread and good drink, a good fire in the hall,
Brawn, pudding, and souse, and good mustard withal.
Beef, mutton, and pork, and good pies of the best,
Pig, veal, goose, and capon, and turkey well drest,
Cheese, apples and nuts, and good carols to hear,
As then in the country is counted good cheer.
What cost to good husband, is any of this?
Good household provision only it is:
Of other the like, I do leave out a many,
That costeth the husband never a penny.
-
(http://seniorlearn.org/bookclubs/poetry/winterwaterhouse%20(335x225)%20(3).jpg) John William Waterhouse - Famous Poets and Poems - Winter (http://famouspoetsandpoems.com/thematic_poems/winter_poems.html)
- Winter Poems (http://poetry.about.com/od/ourpoemcollections/a/winterpoems.htm)
Discussion Leaders: Barb (augere@ix.netcom.com) | Share With Us
The Magic, The Words Of...
Winter Poetry
Deer Park
~ Wang Wei
An empty mountain. No one seen,
but heard is someone talking here.
The sun re-enters forest depths;
green lights on mosses reappear.
|
-
Winter
and the waves
gush pearls
from their snowy throats
As the come
leaping
over the moss-green
black-green
glass=green roughage
as they crumble
on the incline
scattering whatever they carry
in their invisible
and motherly hands
stones,
seaweed,
mussels,
icy and plump
with waled shells
waiting
for the gatherers,
who come flying
on their long white wings
who come walking,
who come muttering
thank you
old dainties,
dark wreckage
coins of the sea,
in my pockets’
and plenty for the gulls.,
and the wind still pounding,
and the sea still streaming in, like a mother wild with gifts.
In this world I am as rich
As I need to be.
Mary Oliver
-
I hope you enjoy every minute of your Christmas visit, BARB. We do see
less of the younger generations once they become involved in the busy-ness
of their lives. But we can still take pride in their accomplishments, and take
pleasure in watching them become the kind of people we wanted them to be.
-
"still take prpide in their accomplishments" - how true! I miss the little girl who used to climb onto my lap for stories, but how proud this grandmother felt of the beautiful soprano, singing the Domine Deus inVivaldi's
Gloria" at her college Christmas concert!
-
You know what else is wonderful? That I can imagine it, and enjoy it with
you.
I'm sure you well remember these lyrics:
Sunrise, Sunset”
(Tevye)
Is this the little girl I carried?
Is this the little boy at play?
(Golde)
I don't remember growing older
When did they?
(Tevye)
When did she get to be a beauty?
When did he grow to be so tall?
(Golde)
Wasn't it yesterday
When they were small?
(Men)
Sunrise, sunset
Sunrise, sunset
Swiftly flow the days
Seedlings turn overnight to sunflowers
Blossoming even as we gaze
(Women)
Sunrise, sunset
Sunrise, sunset
Swiftly fly the years
One season following another
Laden with happiness and tears
(Tevye)
What words of wisdom can I give them?
How can I help to ease their way?
(Golde)
Now they must learn from one another
Day by day
(Perchik)
They look so natural together
(Hodel)
Just like two newlyweds should be
(Perchik & Hodel)
Is there a canopy in store for me?
(All)
Sunrise, sunset
Sunrise, sunset
Swiftly fly the years
One season following another
Laden with happiness and tears
My granddaughter Jessi will be married in January, complete with a canopy
made up of personalized panels from all those who love her. It should be a
big canopy!
-
Oh, boy, Babi, that is an incredible tear jerker.
-
If you've never seen "Fiddler on the Roof", BELLEMERE, I urge you to do so. It's an unforgettable classic.
-
I agree. The combination of Sholem Aleichem's humor, the music (who wrote the music?), and Isaac Stern playing the violin (hopefully not actually on a roof) is unforgettable.
-
Forgive me, but I'm in the mood for Coleridge. :)
Kubla Khan
In Xanadu did Kubla Khan
A stately pleasure-dome decree :
Where Alph, the sacred river, ran
Through caverns measureless to man
Down to a sunless sea.
So twice five miles of fertile ground
With walls and towers were girdled round :
And there were gardens bright with sinuous rills,
Where blossomed many an incense-bearing tree ;
And here were forests ancient as the hills,
Enfolding sunny spots of greenery.
But oh ! that deep romantic chasm which slanted
Down the green hill athwart a cedarn cover !
A savage place ! as holy and enchanted
As e'er beneath a waning moon was haunted
By woman wailing for her demon-lover !
And from this chasm, with ceaseless turmoil seething,
As if this earth in fast thick pants were breathing,
A mighty fountain momently was forced :
Amid whose swift half-intermitted burst
Huge fragments vaulted like rebounding hail,
Or chaffy grain beneath the thresher's flail :
And 'mid these dancing rocks at once and ever
It flung up momently the sacred river.
Five miles meandering with a mazy motion
Through wood and dale the sacred river ran,
Then reached the caverns measureless to man,
And sank in tumult to a lifeless ocean :
And 'mid this tumult Kubla heard from far
Ancestral voices prophesying war !
The shadow of the dome of pleasure
Floated midway on the waves ;
Where was heard the mingled measure
From the fountain and the caves.
It was a miracle of rare device,
A sunny pleasure-dome with caves of ice !
A damsel with a dulcimer
In a vision once I saw :
It was an Abyssinian maid,
And on her dulcimer she played,
Singing of Mount Abora.
Could I revive within me
Her symphony and song,
To such a deep delight 'twould win me,
That with music loud and long,
I would build that dome in air,
That sunny dome ! those caves of ice !
And all who heard should see them there,
And all should cry, Beware ! Beware !
His flashing eyes, his floating hair !
Weave a circle round him thrice,
And close your eyes with holy dread,
For he on honey-dew hath fed,
And drunk the milk of Paradise.
Samuel Taylor Coleridge
-
Frost at Midnight
Frost at Midnight
By Samuel Taylor Coleridge 1772–1834
The Frost performs its secret ministry,
Unhelped by any wind. The owlet's cry
Came loud—and hark, again! loud as before.
The inmates of my cottage, all at rest,
Have left me to that solitude, which suits
Abstruser musings: save that at my side
My cradled infant slumbers peacefully.
'Tis calm indeed! so calm, that it disturbs
And vexes meditation with its strange
And extreme silentness. Sea, hill, and wood,
This populous village! Sea, and hill, and wood,
With all the numberless goings-on of life,
Inaudible as dreams! the thin blue flame
Lies on my low-burnt fire, and quivers not;
Only that film, which fluttered on the grate,
Still flutters there, the sole unquiet thing.
Methinks, its motion in this hush of nature
Gives it dim sympathies with me who live,
Making it a companionable form,
Whose puny flaps and freaks the idling Spirit
By its own moods interprets, every where
Echo or mirror seeking of itself,
And makes a toy of Thought.
But O! how oft,
How oft, at school, with most believing mind,
Presageful, have I gazed upon the bars,
To watch that fluttering stranger ! and as oft
With unclosed lids, already had I dreamt
Of my sweet birth-place, and the old church-tower,
Whose bells, the poor man's only music, rang
From morn to evening, all the hot Fair-day,
So sweetly, that they stirred and haunted me
With a wild pleasure, falling on mine ear
Most like articulate sounds of things to come!
So gazed I, till the soothing things, I dreamt,
Lulled me to sleep, and sleep prolonged my dreams!
And so I brooded all the following morn,
Awed by the stern preceptor's face, mine eye
Fixed with mock study on my swimming book:
Save if the door half opened, and I snatched
A hasty glance, and still my heart leaped up,
For still I hoped to see the stranger's face,
Townsman, or aunt, or sister more beloved,
My play-mate when we both were clothed alike!
Dear Babe, that sleepest cradled by my side,
Whose gentle breathings, heard in this deep calm,
Fill up the intersperséd vacancies
And momentary pauses of the thought!
My babe so beautiful! it thrills my heart
With tender gladness, thus to look at thee,
And think that thou shalt learn far other lore,
And in far other scenes! For I was reared
In the great city, pent 'mid cloisters dim,
And saw nought lovely but the sky and stars.
But thou, my babe! shalt wander like a breeze
By lakes and sandy shores, beneath the crags
Of ancient mountain, and beneath the clouds,
Which image in their bulk both lakes and shores
And mountain crags: so shalt thou see and hear
The lovely shapes and sounds intelligible
Of that eternal language, which thy God
Utters, who from eternity doth teach
Himself in all, and all things in himself.
Great universal Teacher! he shall mould
Thy spirit, and by giving make it ask.
Therefore all seasons shall be sweet to thee,
Whether the summer clothe the general earth
With greenness, or the redbreast sit and sing
Betwixt the tufts of snow on the bare branch
Of mossy apple-tree, while the nigh thatch
Smokes in the sun-thaw; whether the eave-drops fall
Heard only in the trances of the blast,
Or if the secret ministry of frost
Shall hang them up in silent icicles,
Quietly shining to the quiet Moon.
Samuel Taylor Coleridge
-
Oh, BELLEMERE, that is wonderful! I hadn't read that one before. It says so much; I could
spend hours just thinking about all that it brought to my mind. Durn, I wish my printer worked.
I wonder if I can find it in one of my books of poetry? Thank you for a lovely gift.
-
Winter moon.
The stones on the path
Crunch underfoot. --- Buson
I can't read that "crunch" without shivering.
-
February
February
By Margaret Atwood b. 1939 Margaret Atwood
Winter. Time to eat fat
and watch hockey. In the pewter mornings, the cat,
a black fur sausage with yellow
Houdini eyes, jumps up on the bed and tries
to get onto my head. It’s his
way of telling whether or not I’m dead.
If I’m not, he wants to be scratched; if I am
He’ll think of something. He settles
on my chest, breathing his breath
of burped-up meat and musty sofas,
purring like a washboard. Some other tomcat,
not yet a capon, has been spraying our front door,
declaring war. It’s all about sex and territory,
which are what will finish us off
in the long run. Some cat owners around here
should snip a few testicles. If we wise
hominids were sensible, we’d do that too,
or eat our young, like sharks.
But it’s love that does us in. Over and over
again, He shoots, he scores! and famine
crouches in the bedsheets, ambushing the pulsing
eiderdown, and the windchill factor hits
thirty below, and pollution pours
out of our chimneys to keep us warm.
February, month of despair,
with a skewered heart in the centre.
I think dire thoughts, and lust for French fries
with a splash of vinegar.
Cat, enough of your greedy whining
and your small pink bumhole.
Off my face! You’re the life principle,
more or less, so get going
on a little optimism around here.
Get rid of death. Celebrate increase. Make it be spring.
Margaret Atwood
-
The winter 'crunch' is so rare around here, JOAN, it inspires me more with
fear of falling. On the occasions things ice over, we can't even get off our
porch until we've melted the ice. Valerie had one bad fall because she didn't
see the ice; cracked her tailbone.
Oh, my, there's a lady who knows cats well. We have one like that, except
he has to go get in Valerie's face in the morning; I keep my bedroom door
shut! (We also feed only dry cat food, unless, maybe, a tin of canned food
for Christmas with their new toys. At least their breath isn't bad.)
-
In Frost at Midnight the "stranger" refers to the fluttering film of soot formed on the grate of the fireplace. The supersittion was that it portended a visitor. Thus the little boy Coleridge couldhope it was to be his sister visiting his school.
Oh, yes, I saw Fiddler on the Roof in New York and I believe it was the incredible, wonderful Zero Mostel as Tevye.
-
bellemere - that poem of Atwood's is so accurate that it is uncanny. Good stuff! My beautiful girl jumps up on the bed when it is cold; goes around in a circle until she is pleased with her bed to be; meows loudly to let me know that she is there; and then puts her paw gently on my face to check if I am still alive.
-
Have any of you seen the "Cutest Pet" competitions that show up on the 'Animal Planet' station
from time to time. They've had competitions for the cutest dog, cat, etc., but this latest one
looked at all kinds of pets. They were incredible, and of course..utterly adorable. Can you believe
a big-eyed loris who goes in ecstasies on being scrached. Or a baby penquin who laughs
with delight on being tickled. Then there is the bird that goes into a really wild dance when the
music is rocking. Try the 'search' mode on your menu and see if you can find them.
-
Just a quickie -
Babi the Kubla Khan is one of my favorites - I have it on a tape that my car still has a tape deck so when I am driving further than to the local grocery I can listen to poetry - as many times as I hear a poem I still love the sounds of those words.
Oh and Bellemere The Frost at Midnight is wonderful - thanks for sharing it - that is one I even read out to my Grandson who was on his way out the door so he had some words to rattle around in his head other than 'the sky is falling' or 'I gotta rush' as if rushing through life can allow us to hear and see the beauty around us. He actually said thanks as he left...wow...from a 17 year old...
JoanK - I like the idea of listening to the crunch - a dark night and here the paths are gravel or dirt and so crunch is always the sound when a foot meets the ground. But a winter crunch - now that is a special snow isn't it - and like you say brrrrr.
roshanarose - what color is your beautiful girl and what is her name?
Here is a poem that says it...this year we were not able to manage but this Christmas visit so we have lots of catching up - Next year there are at least two visits already scheduled and so my grands won't have to hear their grandmother sound like a cartoon as she says = good grief look how you have grown. ;)
Family
~ Ryan Guerrero
Not enough hours in the day, we often say
we watch as the business of life allows time slip away.
Before we know days turn to months and months into years,
Time is mapped with laughter and cheers,
the long road sometimes landmarked with sadness and tears.
Elders pass and children grow,
has it been that long we ask, where does the time go?
Not every chance to gather is taken.
"We'll see them next time" we say and hope we're not mistaken.
A chance like now comes once in a lifetime it seems,
when the bright light of family is nurtured and beams,
there will be laughter and time to reminisce
we will all be proud this is a chance we did not miss.
-
Your 17-yr. old grandson deserves a smile, BARB. Not every kid that age would be able to
appreciate those words...or be thoughtful enough to acknowledge it with a 'Thanks'.
Valerie put some lighted decorations in the windows last night; it's beginning to look more like
Christmas should.
-
Barb - Her name is Roxana Taj (Afghan) and she has silver eyes, and a very thick grey and white coat. Do you have a cat too?
-
Winter moon.
The stones on the path
Crunch underfoot. --- Buson
I can't read that "crunch" without shivering.
For me, haiku leave me with a visual or sensual feeling, and that's true of this one, a long time favorite, also by Buson.
A tethered horse,
snow
in both stirrups.
-
"Elders pass and children grow', that's the sort of year we've had here. My youngest grandson has been stressing everyone out by still being in the crawling stage on his second Birthday. We all gave a huge sigh of relief when not long ago, he just launched himself, and was away and running.
There's too much lovely poetry here to comment on it all, but I've certainly enjoyed it now that my laptop has quit freezing up. Perhaps it's been all the stormy weather, a particularly violent one a few days ago, brought traffic chaos, and trees down everywhere.
I hope it doesn't interfere with the Carols on TV tomorrow night. It's a lovely sight with massed crowds sitting on the grass with their lighted candles.
-
So glad you were able to stop into poetry Octavia - we miss you and I've my fingers crossed for you that the TV stays healthy for the upcoming Christmas programs.
Wow I like that one Pat - snow in both stirupps - I am assuming that means the snow he riding through is that deep -
roshanarose, nope no cat or dog - nor bird or fish - nor hampster or turtle - I watch the deer - that are out of doors - I have this thing where I just think animals belong outside with fields, barns, barnyards etc. - but then I hated circuses for the same reason - I want my animals to be left to be animals and not childlike companions for people - ah so - no offense here - there are more folks who like animals in the house than the few grumps like me who humbug that idea.
And yes, Babi he is a great 17 year old - he makes us all laugh and has so much energy - sheesh - I guess we all had that kind of energy when we were in our teens. I remember swimming around islands and walking a couple of miles to a favorite spot just for the heck of it because my friends and I were bored. Supposed to get cold tonight - brrr and grrr - hate being cold...
-
Octavia, this is the kind of December day Barb and I are more likely to find...
"That's no December sky!
Surely 'tis June
Holds now her state on high
Queen of the noon.
Only the tree-tops bare
Crowning the hill,
Clear-cut in perfect air,
Warn us that still
Winter, the aged chief,
Mighty in power,
Exiles the tender leaf,
Exiles the flower."
- Robert Fuller Murray (1863-1894), A December Day
-
BARB: i agree with you about animals. I love to watch wild birds, and my friends don't understand why I DON'T want a caged bird.
" I am assuming that means the snow he riding through is that deep". I see it as meaning that the horse has stood there so long waiting for his master that the snow has accumulated.
The zen like to meditate on the motion that is in stillness, and the stillness that is in motion. this poem exemplifies that for me.
-
]Oh, well, somebody had to do it. But always read it aloud, not silently, you'll lose the magic.
Stopping by Woods on a Snowy Evening
whose woods these are I think I know.
His house is in the village, though.
He wil not see me stopping here
To watch his woods fill up with snow.
My little horse must think it queer
To stop without a farmhouse near,
Between the woods and frozen lake
The coldest evening of the year.
He gives his tiny bells a shake
To ask if there is some mistake.
The only other sounds the sweep
Of easy wind and downy flake.
The woods are lovely, dark and deep.
But I have promises to keep,
And miles to go before I sleep.
And miles to go before I sleep.
-
Thanks for reminding me of that poem, bellemere, it's a real favorite.
Reading it after the Buson haiku is kind of interesting. They intersect a bit, but are also very different. A similar scene--the snow falling, the stationary horse. Buson does what haiku are designed to do—give you an instant, but with words so carefully chosen that they lead to all sorts of thoughts. Frost also gives us a moment, but he fills it in more; he spells out the conflict between enjoying beauty and going on to the demands of duty. For him it’s a stolen pleasure to watch the falling snow.
Both have a moment of quiet, no motion but the swirling snow, but Frost then adds the gentle jingle of the horse’s bells, the call to duty, the suggestion of more to come.
And, as you point out, the scene is indeed magic.
-
Barb - My cat is my best companion and friend. Every night she sleeps within touch, so I can reach out to her and feel comfort through her fur. I do anthropomorphise her to a great extent, but she is my baby. Loony - maybe? I don't take offense at all - but my cat is fat and content with me. If she were feral, who knows? I can't think for her :)
On the other other hand ;) I have set two birds free from cages and rejoiced in the freedom of what appeared to be their wider wing span. I was not popular at all with their owners, but they did eventually see me side. I hate zoos, especially those in which I can see the animals pacing up and down, up and down. I have seen thoroughbred Abyssinian cats kept in cages with just concrete as their beds and surrounds, just so they would not become infected by anything, and sell at a higher price. What humans do to animals is shocking. I just love mine with all my heart.
The Naming Of Cats by T. S. Eliot
The Naming of Cats is a difficult matter,
It isn't just one of your holiday games;
You may think at first I'm as mad as a hatter
When I tell you, a cat must have THREE DIFFERENT NAMES.
First of all, there's the name that the family use daily,
Such as Peter, Augustus, Alonzo or James,
Such as Victor or Jonathan, George or Bill Bailey--
All of them sensible everyday names.
There are fancier names if you think they sound sweeter,
Some for the gentlemen, some for the dames:
Such as Plato, Admetus, Electra, Demeter--
But all of them sensible everyday names.
But I tell you, a cat needs a name that's particular,
A name that's peculiar, and more dignified,
Else how can he keep up his tail perpendicular,
Or spread out his whiskers, or cherish his pride?
Of names of this kind, I can give you a quorum,
Such as Munkustrap, Quaxo, or Coricopat,
Such as Bombalurina, or else Jellylorum-
Names that never belong to more than one cat.
But above and beyond there's still one name left over,
And that is the name that you never will guess;
The name that no human research can discover--
But THE CAT HIMSELF KNOWS, and will never confess.
When you notice a cat in profound meditation,
The reason, I tell you, is always the same:
His mind is engaged in a rapt contemplation
Of the thought, of the thought, of the thought of his name:
His ineffable effable
Effanineffable
Deep and inscrutable singular Name.
Roxana Taj's everyday name often varies - From Doo Doo to Princess. From Shitty Kitty to Wussy Pussy. She prefers Baby Girl.
She holds me in thrall -
The Cat That Walked by Himself
"He will kill mice, and he will be kind to babies when he is in the house, just as long as they do not pull his tail too hard. But when he has done that, and between times, and when the moon gets up and night comes, he is the Cat that walks by himself, and all places are alike to him. Then he goes out to the Wet Wild Woods or up the Wet Wild Trees or on the Wet Wild Roofs, waving his wild tail and walking by his wild lone."
Rudyard Kipling
-
Re the horse haiku
The horse is tethered, tied up. With no rider in the saddle. There are so many pursuits the rider could be engaged in being off his/her horse. There is snow on the stirrups left by the rider's boots as he/she dismounted. My imagination is challenged by what the rider could be doing. That is what haiku is all about.
-
Pat I love your sharing your thoughts on the two winter poems - and how close the underlying thoughts are to each other - those last lines bring back wonderful memories of Girl Scout camp - we often sang as a three part round
I have promises to keep,
And miles to go before I sleep.
And miles to go before I sleep.
Thanks for sharing the Robert Frost Bellemere - it was the perfect companion to the Haiku
Babi great - you found the perfect poem that nailed it doesn't it
That's no December sky!
Surely 'tis June :)
ah roshanarose T.S. Elliot's The Naming of Cats - I have a tape of Elliot himself speaking the poem and of course now when I hear it I put the characters looks from the famous musical written after the poem - great stuff...I forgot about the Kipling - haven't read it or heard it in years - nice reminder.
strange winter this year - one minute it is sunny, in the high 60s and low 70s even here in the mountains and the next the temps drop into the 40s with a gusty wind - one minute the heat is on and the next you almost feel like putting on the AC to take the humidity out of the house - and the fog in the evening after dark and in the early morning - no wonder there are not a string of auto accidents.
Winter-Time
~ by Robert Louis Stevenson (1890)
Late lies the wintry sun a-bed,
A frosty, fiery sleepy-head;
Blinks but an hour or two; and then,
A blood-red orange, sets again.
Before the stars have left the skies,
At morning in the dark I rise;
And shivering in my nakedness,
By the cold candle, bathe and dress.
Close by the jolly fire I sit
To warm my frozen bones a bit;
Or with a reindeer-sled, explore
The colder countries round the door.
When to go out, my nurse doth wrap
Me in my comforter and cap,
The cold wind burns my face, and blows
Its frosty pepper up my nose.
Black are my steps on silver sod;
Thick blows my frosty breath abroad;
And tree and house, and hill and lake,
Are frosted like a wedding-cake.
-
Winter: A Dirge
~ (1781) by Robert Burns
The wintry west extends his blast,
And hail and rain does blaw;
Or the stormy north sends driving forth
The blinding sleet and snaw:
While, tumbling brown, the burn comes down,
And roars frae bank to brae;
And bird and beast in covert rest,
And pass the heartless day.
"The sweeping blast, the sky o'ercast,"
The joyless winter day
Let others fear, to me more dear
Than all the pride of May:
The tempest's howl, it soothes my soul,
My griefs it seems to join;
The leafless trees my fancy please,
Their fate resembles mine!
Thou Power Supreme, whose mighty scheme
These woes of mine fulfil,
Here firm I rest; they must be best,
Because they are Thy will!
Then all I want—O do Thou grant
This one request of mine!—
Since to enjoy Thou dost deny,
Assist me to resign.
-
(http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-6rAv4SwW8V4/TuciYXizykI/AAAAAAAAMIA/4v2I6f5ZOdQ/s1600/GoldenPavillon.3.jpg)
Hello! Light the fire!
I'll bring inside
a lovely bright ball of snow
-
Just gorgeous Barb - I would love to be in the snow, just once in my life, at Christmas time.
Interesting what you say about the weather. I was just reading about Kiwilady's weather in New Zealand and it is very similar to here. Although our summer officially starts in December the weather has been most unseasonable. We have only had two or three really hot days, the remainder have been humid, but not too humid, and cloudy. I enjoy weather like this. I hate the humidity and heat.
I like this poem. It was written by a New England (Australia) poet who had migrated from Poland. He lived in a small country town called Tenterfield, not far from where I grew up, so "our bush summer experience" is similar.
Summer in the Country
Summer in the country
was brushing away
flies from your face
and wiping sweat from your eyes—
watching grasses and grains
shimmer in paddocks
or sheep and cattle
grazing beyond a windbreak of pines.
Galahs clanged over the homestead.
A windmill turned
when a breeze sprung up.
Cockatoos screeched from the pepper tree.
Only crows frightened me
with their sorrowful cries
and the way they flew slowly
like black crosses.
The old slab-split shed
was a treasure-trove
of harnesses, bridles, farm
machinery, forty-four-gallon drums—
its walls covered
with cobwebs that housed
unimaginable spiders
but where it was cool inside.
I didn’t miss Europe
like my parents did—
nor a Christmas without snow
I’d hear them talking about.
Summer in the country
was being given a glass of cold lemonade
and falling asleep
under a red-gum’s shade.
– Peter Skrzynecki
-
I have T. S. Eliot's "Cats". It is a quiet amusement when I am in the need of
whimsy. I love them all.
How perfectly Stevenson describes the cold on one's face and the "frosty
pepper" that makes one vigorously rub one's nose. 'Frosty pepper' us so apt.
This verse from Burns surprised me, but then I realized how little I know
about his life.
The tempest's howl, it soothes my soul,
My griefs it seems to join;
The leafless trees my fancy please,
Their fate resembles mine!
-
roshanarose I am so glad you found and shared the Australian poem that touches on the holiday experience in your part of the world. I found a site with the work of several Australian poets however, it would not let me copy to paste one of the poems here and they were far too long to type out one of the poems - I remember last year hearing how y'all celebrate Christmas with a barbeque or a swim party - not sure I want to be able to swim on Christmas or New Year's day but I loved it when I was home and could enjoy coffee on the patio - since I have been at my daughter's here in the mountains of NC there is no coffee-on-the-patio-warm - and some years, like last year there was snow on the ground the entire time I was here - this year seems warmer than any I can remember. It is lovely to see the bright sun with large trees, especially, pine trees silhouetted against the blue sky.
Babi the Burns' poem using the word 'grief' does sound like his life experience before he was recognized for his poetry doesn't it - plus he sure did sprinkle the earth with children and yet, his grief may have been not only because of his experiences resulting from poverty but out of the 9 children he and Jean had together only 3 survived - I did not realize he only lived 37 years - even at that time in history it was a short life.
Poverty
~ By Jane Taylor
I saw an old cottage of clay,
And only of mud was the floor;
It was all falling into decay,
And the snow drifted in at the door.
Yet there a poor family dwelt,
In a hovel so dismal and rude;
And though gnawing hunger they felt,
They had not a morsel of food.
The children were crying for bread,
And to their poor mother they’d run;
‘Oh, give us some breakfast,’ they said,
Alas! their poor mother had none.
She viewed them with looks of despair,
She said (and I’m sure it was true),
‘’Tis not for myself that I care,
But, my poor little children, for you.’
O then, let the wealthy and gay
But see such a hovel as this,
That in a poor cottage of clay
They may know what true misery is.
And what I may have to bestow
I never will squander away,
While many poor people I know
Around me are wretched as they.
-
Barb - Jane Taylor's poem reminded me so much of Thomas Hardy's work. So sad, so real.
I am thinking about Gum a lot, in fact every time I log in here I think of Gum. I miss her very much. I see everywhere posts that she would love to answer to and add extra information, as was her wont.
-
Thanks for telling me a bit about Burns life, BARB. Poverty, and the loss
of so many children....no wonder the man was bowed down with grief.
I wholly empathize with Jane Taylor. I remember when I was a young woman
seeing a man gambling at a table in Las Vegas. He had a thick roll of $100.
bills, and he kept ripping them off one by one and tossing them on the table.
I watched him, and thought what a terrible waste of money that could be doing some good. I think he got uncomfortable with my staring, as he glanced at me and left. I wish I could believe it made him do some thinking, but probably not.
-
Some say that ever 'gainst that season comes
Wherein our Saviour's birth is celebrated,
The bird of dawning singeth all night long:
And then, they say, no spirit dares stir abroad;
The nights are wholesome; then no planets strike,
No fairy takes, nor witch hath power to charm,
So hallow'd and so gracious is the time.
Hamlet,
Act I
Scene I
-
Erlkönig
~ von J.W. Goethe - Translation by Hyde Flippo
Who rides so late through the night and wind?
It's the father with his child;
He has the boy safe in his arm,
He holds him secure, he holds him warm.
“My son, what makes you hide your face in fear?” –
Father, don't you see the Erlking?
The Erlking with crown and flowing robe? –
“My son, it's a wisp of fog.” –
You dear child, come along with me!
Such lovely games I'll play with you;
Many colorful flowers are at the shore,
My mother has many a golden garment.”
My father, my father, and do you not hear
What the Erlking promises me so softly? –
“Be quiet, stay quiet, my child;
In the dry leaves the wind is rustling.” –
“Won't you come along with me, my fine boy?
My daughters shall attend to you so nicely.
My daughters do their nightly dance,
And they'll rock you and dance you and sing you to sleep.”
My father, my father, and do you not see over there
Erlking's daughters in that dark place? –
“My son, my son, I see it most definitely:
It's the willow trees looking so grey.”
“I love you; I'm charmed by your beautiful form;
And if you're not willing, then I'll use force.”
My father, my father, now he's grabbing hold of me!
Erlking has done me harm! –
The father shudders, he rides swiftly,
He holds in (his) arms the moaning child.
He reaches the farmhouse with effort and urgency.
In his arms the child was dead.
-
Oh, good, BELLEMERE. A Christmas verse. I want to read some, too.
I found the Erlkonig story unpleasant, if I may put it that way. Of course,
the translation may be a bit awkward, but the basic story remains unsatisfactory.
Here's a lovely Christmas poem.
[The Christ-child lay on Mary's Lap
The Christ-child lay on Mary's lap,
His hair was like a light.
(O weary, weary were the world,
But here is all aright.)
The Christ-child lay on Mary's breast
His hair was like a star.
(O stern and cunning are the kings,
But here the true hearts are.)
The Christ-child lay on Mary's heart,
His hair was like a fire.
(O weary, weary is the world,
But here the world's desire.)
The Christ-child stood on Mary's knee,
His hair was like a crown,
And all the flowers looked up at Him,
And all the stars looked down[/color]
G. K. Chesterton
-
(http://seniorlearn.org/bookclubs/poetry/winterwaterhouse%20(335x225)%20(3).jpg) John William Waterhouse - Famous Poets and Poems - Winter (http://famouspoetsandpoems.com/thematic_poems/winter_poems.html)
- Winter Poems (http://poetry.about.com/od/ourpoemcollections/a/winterpoems.htm)
| Share With Us
The Magic, The Words Of...Winter PoetryDeer Park ~ Wang Wei
An empty mountain. No one seen,
but heard is someone talking here.
The sun re-enters forest depths;
green lights on mosses reappear.
Discussion Leaders: Barb (augere@ix.netcom.com)
|
Christmas is wonderful. But also hectic: we too often run ourselves ragged doing things that have nothing to do with what Christmas is about.
In that spirit, I'd like to post a poem (with her permission) by my wonderful 92 year old neighbor, Alma Blanton. She wrote a book "God and Mrs. Adam" in which she wrote a poem about each of the women in the bible. Here, for those who are exhausted from Christmas preparations, is Mrs. Noah.
Gen 6 through 9
Mrs Noah
by Alma Blanton
Sometime
When the kids fight
And the cats want in and out
And dinner burns
And the PTA committee chairwoman calls
And your husband goes fishing
And the lawn needs care
And the house needs paint
And Marge and bill are coming
Think about Mrs Noah.
Her husband built an ark
In the desert!
(You know how dry it is there)
And went around telling everyone there'd be
Oi. Such a flood!
And gathered up pairs of animals
And left them for her to feed
While he gathered up birds
And cooped her and the wild life
And the kids and the in-laws*
On a boat for nearly a year
Then when it was over
Got royally drunk and decided to raise
grapes
*Mrs Noah's three sons were already married: but they all came home and stayed for the entire year.
-
Great story JoanK - And Babi from what I understand the Erlkönig is part of the story of the Norwegian little men that are were not elves till recently and were something to be feared during the holiday season - I am sure there was much to fear during winter a hundred and more years ago.
The Nicest Present
Under the tree the gifts enthrall,
But the nicest present of them all
Is filling our thoughts with those who care,
Wanting our Christmas joy to share.
To you, whom we're often thinking of,
We send our holiday joy and love.
By Joanna and Karl Fuchs
-
"Mrs. Noah" was fun, BARB. Yes, I'd vaguely heard of an 'erlking' before, but
knew little about it.
I thought of you when I opened my Jan. "Smithsonian" yesterday. They have a regular feature called "My Kind of Town", and this issue features Austin, Tx. It's written by ZZ Packer, who apparently sees it as a hip and quirky city. I haven't read it yet. If you'd like to read it, here's the link.
http://www.smithsonianmag.com/travel/Keeping-it-Weird-in-Austin-Texas.html
-
Thanks Babi - she nailed Austin very nicely :D
-
SEAON'S BLESSINGS ON US ALL!
-
I never got "The Erlking" either. Fate? What? I do know that the song written by Schubert tests the left hand of every accompanist! It's the theme you used to hear in horror mivies or cartoons to announce the coming of big trouble!
-
Over the years I have heard various interpretations of the Goethe Erlkönig - for me it is part of my early childhood when we were still more German than we were During and After WWII - my father was the great sing song repeater of long poems like Paul Revere's Ride and the Wreck of the Hesperus. Days before Christmas he always gave us Erlkönig which sobered us up and we were filled with questions about mortality and God and the benefits of cleanliness so disease had no foothold and and and - later in childhood we heard the poem off and on that was a way of realizing there was a power greater than ourselves and the best laid plans of mice and men paraphrasing Sir Walter Scott is not how our life is controlled. As we would say today - Things Happen.
Realizing and speaking of this from early childhood helped us to realize not everyone shared our life's experience and that made them no less and we should have compassion and that Advent was a serious time not just about looking forward to the excitement of gifts, special food and family gatherings.
Today we are preparing here and the atmosphere is filled with anticipation - we probably could use a bit of Goethe but I that is up to my daughter and her husband. Have a blessed Christmas Eve and a wonderful Christmas day tomorrow.
-
New Year's Poem
~ By Margaret Avison
The Christmas twigs crispen and needles rattle
Along the window-ledge.
A solitary pearl
Shed from the necklace spilled at last week’s party
Lies in the suety, snow-luminous plainness
Of morning, on the window-ledge beside them.
And all the furniture that circled stately
And hospitable when these rooms were brimmed
With perfumes, furs, and black-and-silver
Crisscross of seasonal conversation, lapses
Into its previous largeness.
I remember
Anne’s rose-sweet gravity, and the stiff grave
Where cold so little can contain;
I mark the queer delightful skull and crossbones
Starlings and sparrows left, taking the crust,
And the long loop of winter wind
Smoothing its arc from dark Arcturus down
To the bricked corner of the drifted courtyard,
And the still window-ledge.
Gentle and just pleasure
It is, being human, to have won from space
This unchill, habitable interior
Which mirrors quietly the light
Of the snow, and the new year.
-
Good Neighbors
~ Jill Neugebauer
Thank you for being good neighbors,
Thanks for the holiday cheer-
We wish you good health and best wishes,
For a safe and Happy New Year!!
-
New Year’s Toast
Here’s to the new year...
May it bring more joy and success
And less grief and regret.
To our dreams...
May we never stop believing in them
And taking the actions that will make them a reality.
To our friends, loved ones, associates (or colleagues)...
May we take the time to let them know
How much it means to us
To have them in our lives.
Let us encourage more and criticize less,
Give more and need less.
And whenever we can,
Let us create harmony and peace.
To new beginnings...
Let us start fresh, right now,
To make this the very best year ever.
A very Happy New Year to all of us!
By Joanna Fuchs
-
I've found a good end-of-year poem, too.
Year’s End By Richard Wilbur
Now winter downs the dying of the year,
And night is all a settlement of snow;
From the soft street the rooms of houses show
A gathered light, a shapen atmosphere,
Like frozen-over lakes whose ice is thin
And still allows some stirring down within.
I’ve known the wind by water banks to shake
The late leaves down, which frozen where they fell
And held in ice as dancers in a spell
Fluttered all winter long into a lake;
Graved on the dark in gestures of descent,
They seemed their own most perfect monument.
There was perfection in the death of ferns
Which laid their fragile cheeks against the stone
A million years. Great mammoths overthrown
Composedly have made their long sojourns,
Like palaces of patience, in the gray
And changeless lands of ice. And at Pompeii
The little dog lay curled and did not rise
But slept the deeper as the ashes rose
And found the people incomplete, and froze
The random hands, the loose unready eyes
Of men expecting yet another sun
To do the shapely thing they had not done.
These sudden ends of time must give us pause.
We fray into the future, rarely wrought
Save in the tapestries of afterthought.
More time, more time. Barrages of applause
Come muffled from a buried radio.
The New-year bells are wrangling with the snow.
-
What an interesting poem Babi - i like it - a bit dark but then profound. A poem that needs several readings.
-
Yeah. Those lines, ...We fray into the future, rarely wrought
Save in the tapestries of afterthought. So true. It takes a lot of
'afterthought' to understand all that was happening in the past.
-
A fitting end to the holiday celebrations, old Irish folk song:
"The Parting Glass"
Oh all the money that e'er I spent
I spent it in good company
And all the harm that e'er I've done
Alas, it was to none but me
And all the harm that e'er I've done
Alas, it was to none but me
And all I've done for want of wit
To memory now I can't recall
So fill to me the parting glass
Good night and joy be with you all
Oh all the comrades that e'er I've had
Are sorry for my going away
And all the sweethearts that e'er I've had
Would wish me one more day to stay
But since it falls unto my lot
That I should rise and you should not
-
oops! clipped off the final"
Must have been a wee bit too much in the parting glass.
"So fill to me the parting glass
Good night and joy be with you all.
You can probably hear some group sing it on You Tube/
-
Neat, Bellemere. I like that.
Here's one by Thomas Hardy...not as gloomy as some of his work.
At the Entering of the New Year by Thomas Hardy
Our songs went up and out the chimney,
And roused the home-gone husbandmen;
Our allemands, our heys, poussettings,
Our hands-across and back again,
Sent rhythmic throbbings through the casements
On to the white highway,
Where nighted farers paused and muttered,
"Keep it up well, do they!"
The contrabasso's measured booming
Sped at each bar to the parish bounds,
To shepherds at their midnight lambings,
To stealthy poachers on their rounds;
And everybody caught full duly
The notes of our delight,
As Time unrobed the Youth of Promise
Hailed by our sanguine sight.
-
Wow Babi - not gloomy at all - in fact quite gay - I wonder what instrument the farmers were playing to get the sound to the level of a contrabasso which is a full octave below any other instrument. You can almost hear the floor boards rocking with all that dancing going on.
Bellemere including the Parting Glass sent me to YouTube where I spent a lovely half hour listening to a young boy singing on the British version of whatever that TV program is where they compete to win a contract. He was age 14 with a clear soprano voice that Simon brought up would change probably within the year.
Well here is to Winter my least favorite time of the year - regardless what appears to be unbearable heat give me days over 100 any time to days below 60 much less nights below 35.
Now Winter Nights Enlarge
~ Thomas Campion (1617)
Now winter nights enlarge
The number of their hours,
And clouds their storms discharge
Upon the airy towers.
Let now the chimneys blaze,
And cups o’erflow with wine;
Let well-tuned words amaze
With harmony divine.
Now yellow waxen lights
Shall wait on honey love,
While youthful revels, masques, and courtly sights
Sleep’s leaden spells remove.
This time doth well dispense
With lovers’ long discourse;
Much speech hath some defence,
Though beauty no remorse.
All do not all things well;
Some measures comely tread,
Some knotted riddles tell,
Some poems smoothly read.
The summer hath his joys
And winter his delights;
Though love and all his pleasures are but toys,
They shorten tedious nights.
-
Ah, yes. It was all those long, cold winter nights that produced all those
autumn babies! ;)
-
Babi - There seem to be a lot of September babies in Australia too, but it is not cold. I have always attributed the greater number to Christmas holidays, when the air is thick with beauitful tropical scents like frangipani and jasmine, both of which grow profusely where I live. These heady exotic perfumes suggest romance to many parents and lovers alike. I think sex is a better word than romance here, but I am trying to be aware of everyone's tender sensibilities. ;) Campion puts it perfectly. Thanks Barb.
The summer hath his joys
And winter his delights;
Though love and all his pleasures are but toys,
They shorten tedious nights.
-
Well phrased, ROSHANA. :)
-
Here is a favorite about jasmine. Is it really that potent?
Malaga
The scent of unseen jasmine on a warm night beach
The tram along the sea-road all the way from town,
Through its wide open sides drank unseen jasmine down.
Living was nothing all those nights but that strong flower
Whose hidden voice on darkness grew to such mad power
I could have sworn for once I traveled through full peace
And even love at last had perfect calm release.
Only by breathing in the unseen jasmine scent,
That ruled us all that summer every hour we went.
The tranquil unrushed wine drunk on the daytime beach
Or from an open room all that our sight could reach
Was heat, sea, light, unending images of peace;
And then at last the night brought jasmine’s great release.
Not images but calm uncovetous content
The wide-eyed heart alert at last in June’s own scent.
In daylight’s humdrum town from small child after child,
We bought cluster on cluster of the starflowers wild,
White widow’s heads they’d rewired on strong weed stalks they’d trimmed
To long green elegance, but still the whole month brimmed,
At night along the beach with a strong voice like peace.
And each morning the mind stayed crisp in such release.
Some hint of certainty, still worth longing I could reach
Lies lost in a scent of jasmine down a summer beach.
Pearse Hutchinson
-
Bellemere Jasmin is quite fragrant - there are several types of Jasmin, some a bit more fragrant than others. My side yard is covered in Yellow Jasmin that blooms in early Spring - almost like up North you have Forsythia except this is on huge sprawling and bending branches that use a 6 foot wood fence as a support and over the years spread from a small single growing to cover an area that is probably 18 feet long. And yes, when the windows are open the scent wafts through the house however, the Confederate Jasmin that blooms in Summer is even more fragrant.
My Indonesian friends are particularly found of Jasmin that is more fragrant than what grows here - I believe the Jasmin is their national flower however it is a different variety than we grow here - they bring back and serve Jasmin tea as a specialty and flavor rice with Jasmin.
Here is a Shakespeare that is probably more like a Northern Winter - this year we so far are enjoying a mild and warm Winter with Temps most often in the 70s during the day. I think the only reason we are not seeing bushes and bulbs pop open is because we are so dry - we had a bit of rain but not near enough.
When icicles hang by the wall,
And Dick the shepherd blows his nail,
And Tom bears logs into the hall,
And milk comes frozen home in pail,
When blood is nipp'd, and ways be foul,
Then nightly sings the staring owl,
To-whit! To-who!—a merry note,
While greasy Joan doth keel the pot.
When all aloud the wind doe blow,
And coughing drowns the parson's saw,
And birds sit brooding in the snow,
And Marian's nose looks red and raw,
When roasted crabs hiss in the bowl,
Then nightly sings the staring owl,
To-whit! To-who!—a merry note,
While greasy Joan doth keel the pot.
-
Yes, I remember gresy Joan! and I have Marian's red nose. So far no snow here i n New England other than our freaky Halloween blizzard.
I see jasmine plants for sale ; they don't seem overpowering like gardenias.
I would like to take that open sided tram along the beach road in Malaga; I would like to smell that jasmine on a warm summer night, most of all I would like to have a
"wide-eyed heart."
Has anybody been to Malaga? There is now probably a 4-lane highway along the beach and all the jasmine plants ripped out to build condos. But Hutchinson did a great job preserving it the way it was, did n't he?
-
Nope - Not been to any part of Spain - for some reason not high on my list of places I would like to see. Now the Cinque Terre villages are still way up there on my list - I understand they still need time to rebuild after a devastating sea storm a couple of years ago.
-
Loved my trip to Spain! In Madrid, met with a "Women Welcome Women " member who was an art historian and took us throug the Prado. Loved Goya, el Greco. Ate tapas with the young afterwork crowd and even some grandparents with the baby stroller parked at the bar. Watched Flamenco; the men looked silly in those tight pants but the women would take your breath away . Drank wine out of a bag. Ate fried calamari and thick hot chocolate. Loved Toledo, perfect medieval town. Loved Seville, the courtyard gardens, the fountains,bought castenets for granddaughters, loved the Alhambra and the Arab quarter in Granada. All over, a sense of the darkly beautiful and mysterious, just such a different place.
Would go back tomorrow if I could afford it.
-
“The use of traveling is to regulate imagination by reality, and instead of thinking how things may be, to see them as they are.” – Samuel Johnson
“He who does not travel does not know the value of men.” – Moorish proverb
“People travel to faraway places to watch, in fascination, the kind of people they ignore at home.” – Dagobert D. Runes
“All travel has its advantages. If the passenger visits better countries, he may learn to improve his own. And if fortune carries him to worse, he may learn to enjoy it.” – Samuel Johnson
-
Oh,I would love to visit a 'perfect medieval town'. I like to sit in such
old places and imagine it the way is was a few centuries ago, filled with
ordinary people going about their business just as they did then. Let it come alive for me.
And then, any place with beautiful gardens..where once again I sit and enjoy, then stroll to another lovely spot and sit and enjoy some more.
-
One of the best things I did while traveling, before macular degeneration took over y eyesight, was to get a sketch book with good pencils and an eraser of course. With absolutely no talent or training in drawing, I sat and really looked at doorways, arches, trees, etc. so much better than just snapping photos willy-nilly.
-
Problem - our imagination is based on how we live today so that the reality of Medieval life long since gone by the boards is forgotten - I have yet been to a Medieval town except those in the Alps of Switzerland where the streets are constructed, usually of brick or some stone and in the middle there is a slant that slides to a dip with stones and bricks running the other way - this was an open sewer - all streets had in the center this open sewer that was also used as a public bathroom - go to the streets in a Mexican barrio like the huge one in Juarez and you can see the same thing - theirs are probably even more accurate with few bricks or stones but simply hard-packed dirt and a canal only inches deep that in bad weather over flows.
Each day chamber pots were dumped out the windows and doorways along with pans of dishwater all aiming for the open sewer - the smell, need I say more - than add to that how little bathing was done and how most folks were involved in physical labor.
I may be part of the dwindling middle class but if I lived during Medieval Europe the best I could imagine for myself is to be the daughter, wife and mother on the land rather than in town - and then new challenges - Winter would be an annual challenge along with the burden of caring for babies in winter -
So there is enough wood to build a fire up every night before bedtime - the best banked fire in a fireplace - not a furnace - a fireplace will not last till sunup - In the pitch dark - candles were only used for special occasions - in the freezing cold you would have to attend an infant - than you wonder why so many were brought to bed to sleep with the parents and how the parents in their sleep would roll over onto the baby - If the child was sick you had no way to see to even clean up the babe till light of day.
Sorry but to me I can admire the architecture and gardens but oh dear not Medieval life with so many unpleasant rudimentary facilities the norm - not like now were you have to visit a barrio in some far off city to experience what some in this world still contend with.
What confuses and amazes is how these cities using these sewer systems grew all over Europe and yet, the Romans had worked out underground water and sewer systems hundreds of years before - Most cities grew from encampments along the age old start location - next to a river - That was what I remember about hiking in Mexico - if you are lost or in doubt or need any help find the river because in rural Mexico folks live where the streams and creeks are not only their source of water but their sewer and laundry and home to the ducks that provide a meal now and then as well as the trough for animals. And so I can see how these European cities probably started the same way - but why did open sewers then become the norm - were they following the concept of re-creating the river...
I wonder maybe because the Romans were so hated that nothing of their advances was adopted - but then Rome governed and populated England for 400 years - you would think - and even in France right next to - for that matter even in Northern Italy you see these Medieval towns with the streets constructed that you know they modernized what was the old open sewer. I wonder what and when the practice changed because the communities built here in North America even as early as the 1600s did not use the open sewer system where as Mexico with the Spanish influence uses the system.
Just thought - I wonder if this system, not only the source of wretched smells but of disease was not given its due because of beliefs that sickness was the result of sin, therefore, the many prayers, indulgences and pilgrimages and something about balancing the fluids in your body so that the cause of disease from outside the body was not even imagined.
For me, I enjoy walking a Medieval town to see how the people today have enhanced the town and how the buildings so close together reflect living close together with families enjoying dinner on balconies and reaching over to hand the other family a glass of wine or part of the meal or the daily newspaper and how the clothing is dried on poles and lines strung across these ancient streets that are too narrow for many modern vehicles. And shops are mingled so that there is no need for a kitchen with lots of food storage space. No more laundry at the wells, now fountains that dot the cross streets but the secluded area around a fountain is often crowded with flowerpots where as the structures with courtyards that opened to a street with a shared well are now out door bistros.
It all sounds so romantic and in our imagination we can construct the best parts that are the parts most of the historical novels and mysteries build their stories around - but to really contemplate life in a Medieval town - and then the attitude about woman... oh dear...
Here is a mild example of that attitude about woman.
BEWARE (THE BLYNDE ETETH MANY A FLYE)
~ By John Ludgate
Loke wel aboute, ye that lovers bee,
Let not youre lustes lede you to dotage.
Be not anamoured on al thing that ye see:
Sampson the fort and Salomon the sage,
Deceyved were for al thaire grete courage.
Men deeme it right that they see at eye,
But ever beware: the blynde eteth many a flie!
I meen in women, for all thaire cheres queynt,
Trust not to moche; thaire trouthe is but geson.
The fairest outward wel can they peynt;
Thayre stedfastnesse endureth but a seson.
They fayne frendlynes and worchen treson,
And sith thay be chaungeable naturally,
Beware, therfore: the blynde eteth many a flye.
Thogh all this world doo his besy cure
To make women stande in stablenesse,
It may not be, it is ageyne nature:
The world is doo whan thay lak doublenesse.
They lagh and love not, this know men expresse;
In theyme to trust, it is but fantasie.
Therfore, beware: the blynde eteth many a flie.
What wight on lyve that trusteth on thaire cheres,
Shal have at last his guerdon and his mede.
They shave nerer than doth rasour or sheres;
Al is not gold that shineth, men take hede!
Thaire galle is hid under a sugred wede;
It is ful queynte thaire fantasies to aspie.
Beware, therfore: the blynde eteth many a flye.
Women of kynde have condicions thre:
The first is thay be full of deceite;
To spynne also is thaire propreté;
And women have a wonderful conceite:
They wepen oft, and all is but a sleight;
And whan hem lust, the teere is in the eye.
Therfore, beware: the blynde eteth many a flye.
In sothe to sey, thogh al the erthe so wan
Were parchemyn smothe, white, and scribable,
And the grete see, called occian,
Were turned ink, blacker than is sable,
Eche stikk a penne, ech man a scrivener able,
Nought coude thay write womens trecherie.
Beware, therfore: the blynde eteth many a flye!
-
Barb, your poem reminded of this one by John Donne--later, and not totally relevant, but a man complaining about woman's fickleness while ignoring his own.
GO and catch a falling star,
Get with child a mandrake root,
Tell me where all past years are,
Or who cleft the devil's foot,
Teach me to hear mermaids singing,
Or to keep off envy's stinging,
And find
What wind
Serves to advance an honest mind.
If thou be'st born to strange sights,
Things invisible to see,
Ride ten thousand days and nights,
Till age snow white hairs on thee,
Thou, when thou return'st, wilt tell me,
All strange wonders that befell thee,
And swear,
No where
Lives a woman true and fair.
If thou find'st one, let me know,
Such a pilgrimage were sweet;
Yet do not, I would not go,
Though at next door we might meet,
Though she were true, when you met her,
And last, till you write your letter,
Yet she
Will be
False, ere I come, to two, or three.
-
ohhh god - yes, and to think there are still many men who believe this nonsense and are so needy for the upper hand they must put down women...ahgugh
All strange wonders that befell thee,
And swear,
No where
Lives a woman true and fair.
If thou find'st one, let me know,
Such a pilgrimage were sweet;
Yet do not, I would not go,
Though at next door we might meet,
Though she were true, when you met her,
And last, till you write your letter,
Yet she
Will be
False, ere I come, to two, or three. ahgugh
-
Oh, BArb, I would definitely not want to live in medieval times. As you
said, the sanitation and odor was appalling. No, what I visualize is simply
people, real everyday people who would have walked those streets and entered those buildings for hundeds of years. It gives me a sense of timelessness, or maybe, eternity.
Poor Mr. Ludgate. Some woman, I would guess, has flirted with him and
not been at all serious about it. I do think men are smarter today, for the
most part, than to think instablity is the 'nature' of women.
I was amused, watching a show yesterday about that "Ace of Cakes"
company. They baked a cake for a couple about to be married, tho' the
man had often said they would marry 'when pigs fly'. The cake ordered by
the bride was a flying pig! ;D
-
I know John Donne's sentiments may be unacceptable to us now, but don't you still think he was a brilliant poet? The cadence of those lines is wonderful, IMHO. I studied him for college entrance exams, and was spellbound by his achievements - he was a real polymath/Renaissance man, into everything, and he did write some great love poems.
Rosemary
-
Oh, I totally agree, ROSEMARY. He was a brilliant man, and I confess to being a tad disappointed when I first learned he was a bit of a misanthrope.
Ah, well we all have cause for complaints of some kind as we make our way
through this life; we just cannot express ourselves so so well! :D
I think this is one we seniors can appreciate....
Winter's Roads
by Ron Carnell
I cannot speak for all who stem
'Long roads less traveled as their way,
Nor question choices made by them
In days long past or nights long dim
by words they spoke and did not say.
Each road is long, though short it seems,
And credence gives each road a name
Of fantasies sun-drenched in beams
Or choices turned to darkened dreams,
To where each road wends just the same.
From North to South, then back again,
I followed birds like all the rest
Escaping nature's snowy den
On roads I've seen and places been,
Forsaking roads that traveled West.
This journey grows now to its end,
As road reflections lined in chrome
Give way to roads with greater bend
And empty signs that still pretend
They point the way to home sweet home.
But all roads lead to where we go
And where we go is where we've been,
So home is just a word we know,
That space in time most apropos
For where we want to be again.
For even home, it seems to me,
Is still a choice we all must face
From day to day and endlessly,
To choose if home is going to be
Another road - or just a place.
-
Rosemary, I haven't studied Donne, but agree with you. This isn't a love poem:
Death be not proud, though some have called thee
Mighty and dreadfull, for, thou art not soe,
For, those, whom thou think'st, thou dost overthrow,
Die not, poore death, nor yet canst thou kill mee.
From rest and sleepe, which but thy pictures bee,
Much pleasure, then from thee, much more must flow,
And soonest our best men with thee doe goe,
Rest of their bones, and soules deliverie.
Thou art slave to Fate, Chance, kings, and desperate men,
And dost with poyson, warre, and sicknesse dwell,
And poppie, or charmes can make us sleepe as well,
And better then thy stroake; why swell'st thou then?
One short sleepe past, wee wake eternally,
And death shall be no more; death, thou shalt die.
-
ah - great poems and yes, John Donne - for me he is one of the early poets that is the most readable - most of the poems from his time are written using so much early English that it is a slog to get through them.
here is one of his heart rendering thoughts on love and intimacy with a woman.
SWEETEST love, I do not go,
For weariness of thee,
Nor in hope the world can show
A fitter love for me ;
But since that I
At the last must part, 'tis best,
Thus to use myself in jest
By feigned deaths to die.
Yesternight the sun went hence,
And yet is here to-day ;
He hath no desire nor sense,
Nor half so short a way ;
Then fear not me,
But believe that I shall make
Speedier journeys, since I take
More wings and spurs than he.
O how feeble is man's power,
That if good fortune fall,
Cannot add another hour,
Nor a lost hour recall ;
But come bad chance,
And we join to it our strength,
And we teach it art and length,
Itself o'er us to advance.
When thou sigh'st, thou sigh'st not wind,
But sigh'st my soul away ;
When thou weep'st, unkindly kind,
My life's blood doth decay.
It cannot be
That thou lovest me as thou say'st,
If in thine my life thou waste,
That art the best of me.
Let not thy divining heart
Forethink me any ill ;
Destiny may take thy part,
And may thy fears fulfil.
But think that we
Are but turn'd aside to sleep.
They who one another keep
Alive, ne'er parted be.
-
Another by Ron Carnell - a gentle thought as if on his perfect breeze.
Treasures
It's so hard to find the perfect breeze,
One blowing none too hard nor soft,
Carrying a scent of wild flowers,
And moving clouds about aloft.
It's so hard to find the perfect sky,
One blue and deep and bright,
Carrying a sense of openness
With geese and wrens in flight.
It's so hard to find the perfect night,
One warm, quiet and unflawed,
Carrying a mood of solitude,
And a closeness to our God.
Yet no perfection's so hard to find
As that which you extend
And none I'll ever treasure more,
Than to simply be your friend.
-
No remembrance of John Donne can be complete with his bit of fun on love and sex...
THE FLEA
MARK but this flea, and mark in this,
How little that which thou deniest me is ;
It suck'd me first, and now sucks thee,
And in this flea our two bloods mingled be.
Thou know'st that this cannot be said
A sin, nor shame, nor loss of maidenhead ;
Yet this enjoys before it woo,
And pamper'd swells with one blood made of two ;
And this, alas ! is more than we would do.
O stay, three lives in one flea spare,
Where we almost, yea, more than married are.
This flea is you and I, and this
Our marriage bed, and marriage temple is.
Though parents grudge, and you, we're met,
And cloister'd in these living walls of jet.
Though use make you apt to kill me,
Let not to that self-murder added be,
And sacrilege, three sins in killing three.
Cruel and sudden, hast thou since
Purpled thy nail in blood of innocence?
Wherein could this flea guilty be,
Except in that drop which it suck'd from thee?
Yet thou triumph'st, and say'st that thou
Find'st not thyself nor me the weaker now.
'Tis true ; then learn how false fears be ;
Just so much honour, when thou yield'st to me,
Will waste, as this flea's death took life from thee.
-
I'm glad you posted The Flea, Barb, that was a close second in my choice of Donne poems to post.
-
red pepper
put wings on it
red dragonfly
– Basho
Winter solitude--
in a world of one color
the sound of wind.
– Basho
trying to fill out the page so I can upload the heading - Haiku a bit off our Donne poems but quick and appropriate for mid winter... glad you like The Flea - I still get a kick out of hearing it all these years later - I guess that is was written so many 100s of years ago is astonishing to me that we can share the same humor. Fleas are still with us and probably part of some love nights for those with beds shared by the pesky things.
-
(http://seniorlearn.org/bookclubs/poetry/poetrymarch.jpg) - Famous Poets and Poems - Winter (http://famouspoetsandpoems.com/thematic_poems/winter_poems.html)
- Winter Poems (http://poetry.about.com/od/ourpoemcollections/a/winterpoems.htm)
Discussion Leaders: Barb (augere@ix.netcom.com)
| To The Magic, The Words Of...
Winter Poetry
A Cup of Tea
~ J. Jonker, Amsterdam, c.1670
When the world is all at odds
And the mind is all at sea
Then cease the useless tedium
And brew a cup of tea.
There is magic in its fragrance,
There is solace in its taste;
And the laden moments vanish
Somehow into space.
And the world becomes a lovely thing!
There's beauty as you'll see;
All because you briefly stopped
To brew a cup of tea.
Tea helps our head and heart.
Tea medicates most every part.
Tea rejuvenates the very old.
Tea warms the hands of those who're cold.
|
-
Winter solitude--
in a world of one color
the sound of wind.
Barb, you weren't in our discussion of Ursula K. Le Guin's The Left Hand of Darkness, but there is a memorable, vivid sequence involving a desperate trek across frozen mountains. JoanK posted this haiku there, and it summed up the landscape perfectly.
-
Sorta remember the title and looked it up on Amazon - it was a fantasy novel - sometimes I am enchanted by a fantasy novel and other times I have novels that are riddled with enough fantastical scenes to bring smiles and wonderment to my face and brain.
I am still swayed by the sound of words and where some fantasy is filled with images of color beyond my imagination I did not join the read as I remember because I prefer writers whose writing stirs me as much as their colorful described characters and scenes. I think I have figured out I like a story with a philosophical bent that I can chew upon.
But the Haiku from Busho is magical isn't it - for that reason another I like to read is Han Shan the Cold Mountain poet - his poetry also has that magic of description that includes words that conjure up sounds and smells.
The path to Han-shan's place is laughable,
A path, but no sign of cart or horse.
Converging gorges - hard to trace their twists
Jumbled cliffs - unbelievably rugged.
A thousand grasses bend with dew,
A hill of pines hums in the wind.
And now I've lost the shortcut home,
Body asking shadow, how do you keep up?
Cold Mountain has many hidden wonders,
People who climb here are always getting scared.
When the moon shines, water sparkles clear
When the wind blows, grass swishes and rattles.
On the bare plum, flowers of snow
On the dead stump, leaves of mist.
At the touch of rain it all turns fresh and live
At the wrong season you can't ford the creeks.
On top of Cold Mountain the lone round moon
Lights the whole clear cloudless sky.
Honor this priceless natural treasure
Concealed in five shadows, sunk deep in the flesh.
Gone, and a million things leave no trace
Loosed, and it flows through galaxies
A fountain of light, into the very mind -
Not a thing, and yet it appears before me:
Now I know the pearl of the Buddha nature
Know its use: a boundless perfect sphere.
-
"Death Be Not Proud" is also a book title, one that caught my eye because
of the power of that phrase from Donne. It was a sad but powerful book; John
Gunther's story of the death of his son.
BARB, I think that poem, "Sweetest love..." shows so much of what is best
in Donne. I have to think how true it is that our good fortune is often so
quickly forgotten, while we seem to hang on to 'bad chance' and 'teach it
art and length'.
Love the tea poem in the heading. I am surprised it wasn't written by an
Englishman.
-
Sergei Aleksandrovitch Esenin's Last Poem
~ by Jane Ellen Glasser
Here's the night table with its lit candle.
Here the looped rope dangling from a pipe
like a question mark or a passenger's handle
on a crowded bus. I am going on a trip.
Not far away. One step. One small kick,
a little dance and the light goes out.
I am sick of the industry of living, sick
of sleepless nights. Elizaveta, no doubt
true to your word, unopened my poem
written in the wine of my blood
sits in your pocket like a worry stone.
No stitched brow. No flood
of tears. A last breath, the psyche flies.
Goodbye, my friend, goodbye.
Short Bio Sergei Aleksandrovich Esenin (http://www.bookrags.com/biography/sergei-aleksandrovich-esenin/)
-
Shaganet, o my love, Shaganet!
~ Sergei Aleksandrovich Esenin
Shaganet, o my love, Shaganet!
You will know because I am Nordic;
I can tell you a meadow, most scenic,
Moonlit rye waves one cannot forget.
Shaganet, o my love, Shaganet,
You will know because I am Nordic;
So bright shines the moon out there
That it may outglow any glare
Of Shiraz blazing forth from its tunic.
You will know because I am Nordic;
I can tell you a meadow, most scenic,
For my hair was gifted from rye,
Twixt your fingers you may intertwine -
I don’t feel any pain, any heartache.
I can tell you a meadow, most scenic.
Moonlit rye waves, one cannot forget,
Look so much like my curly hair, darling.
Oh, my love, please keep joking and smiling,
But don’t let me think of the silhouette
Of the rye waves, one cannot forget.
Shaganet, o my love, Shaganet!
There, up north, lives a maiden who also
Does resemble you terribly close,
May be now she’s thinking of me…
Shaganet, o my love, Shaganet.
-
Here is this Happiness
~ Sergei Aleksandrovich Esenin
Here is this happiness — silly —
Windows looking out to the lawn.
The sunset is peaceful, it’s gliding
On the lake like a scarlet-necked swan.
Greetings to you, golden stillness,
The birch, white and svelte as a stork.
Over the roof, a flock of jackdaws
Tends vespers to Lodestar.
Coyly, somewhere in the garden
Right where the guelder rose blooms,
A delicate girl in a white gown —
Chants her delicate tunes.
Grey haze ascends from the pastures;
Little night cold slowly creeps.
Happiness — silly and precious —
The innocent rose of your cheeks
-
No More Searching Footsteps
~ Sergei Aleksandrovich Esenin
No more searching footsteps in the groves,
No more strolling in the leaves…
With your flaxen hair like a sheaf of oats
You have disappeared from my dreams.
Skin in crimson berry juices splashes;
You were sweet, and beautiful, and kind!
Like the dusk, last sunrays in your lashes,
And like snow, radiant and bright.
As a subtle tune, your name has faded;
And your eyes, like berries, withered and grew cold.
Yet the scent of honey from your chaste hands
Still remains inside your rumpled shawl.
On the roof, when a quiet sleepy morning
Like a kitten cleanses lips by hand,
Honeycombs about you are chanting,
And their chants are echoed by the wind.
Let the blue eve whisper to me, sometimes,
How you were a fantasy, a dream,
Yet the dreamer of your slender waist and shoulders,
Has affixed his lips to the secret realm…
No more searching footsteps in the groves,
No more strolling in the leaves…
With your flaxen hair like a sheaf of oats
You have disappeared from my dreams.
-
What a sad life. The third poem, on happiness, came as a welcome relief.
I read that one again.
-
You may already know this site, but i share w/ you just in case you don't.................
http://www.learnoutloud.com/Catalog/Literature/Poetry/37-American-Poems/34570
from learnoutloud.com's "free learning guide."
Jean
-
Thanks Jean - looks like a good site...
-
Love After Love
~ Derek Walcott
The time will come
when, with elation
you will greet yourself arriving
at your own door, in your own mirror
and each will smile at the other's welcome,
and say, sit here. Eat.
You will love again the stranger who was your self.
Give wine. Give bread. Give back your heart
to itself, to the stranger who has loved you
all your life, whom you ignored
for another, who knows you by heart.
Take down the love letters from the bookshelf,
the photographs, the desperate notes,
peel your own image from the mirror.
Sit. Feast on your life.
-
After The Storm
~ Derek Walcott
There are so many islands!
As many islands as the stars at night
on that branched tree from which meteors are shaken
like falling fruit around the schooner Flight.
But things must fall,and so it always was,
on one hand Venus,on the other Mars;
fall,and are one,just as this earth is one
island in archipelagoes of stars.
My first friend was the sea.Now,is my last.
I stop talking now.I work,then I read,
cotching under a lantern hooked to the mast.
I try to forget what happiness was,
and when that don't work,I study the stars.
Sometimes is just me,and the soft-scissored foam
as the deck turn white and the moon open
a cloud like a door,and the light over me
is a road in white moonlight taking me home.
Shabine sang to you from the depths of the sea.
-
Pentecost
~ by Derek Walcott
Better a jungle in the head
than rootless concrete.
Better to stand bewildered
by the fireflies' crooked street;
winter lamps do not show
where the sidewalk is lost,
nor can these tongues of snow
speak for the Holy Ghost;
the self-increasing silence
of words dropped from a roof
points along iron railings,
direction, in not proof.
But best is this night surf
with slow scriptures of sand,
that sends, not quite a seraph,
but a late cormorant,
whose fading cry propels
through phosphorescent shoal
what, in my childhood gospels,
used to be called the Soul.
-
Definitely a new name to me. I find myself frowing from time to time, trying
to figure out what he's saying.
the self-increasing silence
of words dropped from a roof
points along iron railings,
direction, in not proof.
Those lines, for instance.??? ??? Is the 'in' correct in the last line? It surely
increases the confusion.
-
I wonder if it is his dialect - he is from the Islands - St. Lucia in the West Indiies - the 1992 Noble Prise winner in Literature.
-
"Love After Love" is most beautiful. Have we felt this way? Oh, yes.
-
The Sea is History
~ by Derek Walcott
Where are your monuments, your battles, martyrs?
Where is your tribal memory? Sirs,
in that grey vault. The sea. The sea
has locked them up. The sea is History.
First, there was the heaving oil,
heavy as chaos;
then, like a light at the end of a tunnel,
the lantern of a caravel,
and that was Genesis.
Then there were the packed cries,
the shit, the moaning:
Exodus.
Bone soldered by coral to bone,
mosaics
mantled by the benediction of the shark's shadow,
that was the Ark of the Covenant.
Then came from the plucked wires
of sunlight on the sea floor
the plangent harps of the Babylonian bondage,
as the white cowries clustered like manacles
on the drowned women,
and those were the ivory bracelets
of the Song of Solomon,
but the ocean kept turning blank pages
looking for History.
Then came the men with eyes heavy as anchors
who sank without tombs,
brigands who barbecued cattle,
leaving their charred ribs like palm leaves on the shore,
then the foaming, rabid maw
of the tidal wave swallowing Port Royal,
and that was Jonah,
but where is your Renaissance?
Sir, it is locked in them sea-sands
out there past the reef's moiling shelf,
where the men-o'-war floated down;
strop on these goggles, I'll guide you there myself.
It's all subtle and submarine,
through colonnades of coral,
past the gothic windows of sea-fans
to where the crusty grouper, onyx-eyed,
blinks, weighted by its jewels, like a bald queen;
and these groined caves with barnacles
pitted like stone
are our cathedrals,
and the furnace before the hurricanes:
Gomorrah. Bones ground by windmills
into marl and cornmeal,
and that was Lamentations—
that was just Lamentations,
it was not History;
then came, like scum on the river's drying lip,
the brown reeds of villages
mantling and congealing into towns,
and at evening, the midges' choirs,
and above them, the spires
lancing the side of God
as His son set, and that was the New Testament.
Then came the white sisters clapping
to the waves' progress,
and that was Emancipation—
jubilation, O jubilation—
vanishing swiftly
as the sea's lace dries in the sun,
but that was not History,
that was only faith,
and then each rock broke into its own nation;
then came the synod of flies,
then came the secretarial heron,
then came the bullfrog bellowing for a vote,
fireflies with bright ideas
and bats like jetting ambassadors
and the mantis, like khaki police,
and the furred caterpillars of judges
examining each case closely,
and then in the dark ears of ferns
and in the salt chuckle of rocks
with their sea pools, there was the sound
like a rumour without any echo
of History, really beginning.
-
I like the Walcott poems very much. The last reminded me of a poem by a Greek poet I studied:
Marina of the Rocks (Odysseus Elytis)
You have a taste of tempest on your lips—But where did you wander
All day long in the hard reverie of stone and sea?
An eagle-bearing wind stripped the hills
Stripped your longing to the bone
And the pupils of your eyes received the message of chimera
Spotting memory with foam!
Where is the familiar slope of short September
On the red earth where you played, looking down
At the broad rows of the other girls
The corners where your friends left armfuls of rosemary.
But where did you wander
All night long in the hard reverie of stone and sea?
I told you to count in the naked water its luminous days
On your back to rejoice in the dawn of things
Or again to wander on yellow plains
With a clover of light on your breast, iambic heroine.
You have a taste of tempest on your lips
And a dress red as blood
Deep in the gold of summer
And the perfume of hyacinths—But where did you wander
Descending toward the shores, the pebbled bays?
There was cold salty seaweed there
But deeper a human feeling that bled
And you opened your arms in astonishment naming it
Climbing lightly to the clearness of the depths
Where your own starfish shone.
Listen. Speech is the prudence of the aged
And time is a passionate sculptor of men
And the sun stands over it, a beast of hope
And you, closer to it, embrace a love
With a bitter taste of tempest on your lips.
It is not for you, blue to the bone, to think of another summer,
For the rivers to change their bed
And take you back to their mother
For you to kiss other cherry trees
Or ride on the northwest wind.
Propped on the rocks, without yesterday or tomorrow,
Facing the dangers of the rocks with a hurricane hairstyle
You will say farewell to the riddle that is yours.
I don't think the English translation of propped is appropriate here. I will check the Greek.
-
Great poem, ROSE. It took me a while to understand what had happened,
but the poem has so many great images and lines. Perhaps the simplest was
".. time is a passionate sculptor of men".
-
Nice Roshanarose - darkish - sounds like the backdrop for a wonderful adventure story
here is one, shorter, on land, but in a similar mood...
Bleak House
~ Jerry Hughes
I used to pass it on my way to school,
an eerie place with a tumbled-down fence
and gates that groaned on windy days.
Around its terraces gargoyles leered
at passers-by in stoney silence.
Ivy wrapped the house in a green cocoon
and the curtains were always drawn.
A crone lived there they said - died long ago,
but I'll swear I saw her framed by a window
dressed in crinoline and lace.
A Gainsborough lady of such exquisite beauty
she took my breath away.
Such are the fantasies of an adolescent boy
on the threshold of pubescence.
-
Poem by Yakamochi, dated 739 A.D., on his young wife’s death
Though it is destined
to come but to this,
my wife and I trusted in life
as if it would last
a thousand years.
-
Bleak House, White Cloister
In the poet's morn, the pale sun
Encrimsones the hills folded in mist
And sets slowly ajar
The nail-studded gates of my heart.
In the poet's morn, I see myself
Frenzied in the cloister of solitude
Meditating upon Man and Time,
Lying on the palliasse.
Indiscriminately chosen
Underactions of the Play
Irresistibly throw about
The pandemonium fair,
Implacably draw me
Somewhere away.
I am lost in the mirror,
A narcissus face.
"There's a withered flower
Forgotten on the floor
In the formed by the window
Sunlit tetragon..."
My broken-nailed fingers
Blurred in delirium
Scratch words of quatrains
For grown up children.
Just another martyr
Waiting on the shore,
Paralyzed in his chair,
Tied to the dawn.
With feelings gone
In the vanity of his obscure thoughts,
Looking small, alone,
With blind eyes staring eastward.
The walls entwine me and whisper,
They whisper with a silent grin,
"The time has come,
The ceremony must begin.
Hero, are you still asleep?"
Are they whispering to me?
Another mute heroic posture
With restricted incidence.
In the mirror I can see
A white relentless mask
Gazing at me, and I shiver inside.
I tremble like a captured deer
Trying hopelessly to reach
That dead flower on the floor.
But the mask has already said
That it is now too late.
It is a custom here,
A custom to feel lonely.
I cried to the mask:
"Don't leave me to my thoughts!"
It disappeared, in the mirror -
Just the bleak house
With rooms chained in webs,
The hero and the icy narcissus.
A carpet-knight latched in his dreams.
-
Who is the poet on that last one, BARB? He does sound in dire straits.
I saw a beautiful picture of a snowbird a few weeks ago, and since then the
old song "Snowbird" has been running through my head...what I could recall of
it, anyway. I'm hoping that offering it here may help me get it out of my head!
You may remember Anne Murray had a hit with this.
SnowbirdWritten by Gene MacLellan
Beneath this snowy mantle cold and clean
The unborn grass lies waiting for its coat to turn to green
The snowbird sings the song he always sings
And speaks to me of flowers that will bloom again in spring
When I was young my heart was young then, too
Anything that it would tell me, that's the thing that I would do
But now I feel such emptiness within
For the thing that I want most in life's the thing that I can't win
CHORUS
Spread your tiny wings and fly away
And take the snow back with you
Where it came from on that day
The one I love forever is untrue
And if I could you know that I would
Fly away with you
The breeze along the river seems to say
That he'll only break my heart again should I decide to stay
So, little snowbird, take me with you when you go
To that land of gentle breezes where the peaceful waters flow
CHORUS
Yeah, if I could I know that I would fl-y-y-y-y away with you
-
Babi I cannot be sure if the poet is the same guy whose web site where I found this bleak bleak poem. After Bleak House was chosen and since I am anxious for anything but bleak I thought I would have fun and find a few poems centered around the concept and word bleak.
The site if from a guy in Bulgaria and his name is Robert Heinlein - his English is quite good however, I cannot figure out if all that he offers is his work or is he gathering and translating the work of others in his region
http://www.gotterdammerung.org/
I am trying to remember the performer that made Snow Bird popular - was it Anne Murray from Canada...?
-
Yes, Anne Murray. One of my very favorite pop singers.
and P.S. - Robert Heinlein is an author of sci-fi and space travel books. Very famous. He passed away in 1988.
-
Ah so...thanks Tomereader -
I will be without a computer for a few days - its been hacked into and some programing now has to be changed. Since I send it to my son-in-law's Computer Direct Outlet store and service SC this could take about a week...
-
BARB, as TOMEREADER says, there is a Robert Heinlein who writes a kind of
science fiction. I don't care for him as I find him...and his characters..
too cynical and world-weary. So, that could very well be his poetry.
-
The Belgian writer has a quote from heinlein at the top of his website, but that's not his name.
-
So, we still don't know who wrote the poem, right? Not that it matters in
the grand scheme of things. ;)
-
Computer back in business again - we sure are connected aren't we - it was like what I imagine withdrawal must be like - huh I wonder if we are all addicts - but then we would be addicts to any muchine that we use each day wouldn't we - as much as I could manage without a phone or stove I think it would be just as awful as it has been to be without a computer.
We are having one sign of Spring after the other so here are a few first robin poems.
TO THE FIRST ROBIN
~ by: Louisa May Alcott (1832-1888)
ELCOME, welcome, little stranger,
Fear no harm, and fear no danger;
We are glad to see you here,
For you sing "Sweet Spring is near."
Now the white snow melts away;
Now the flowers blossom gay:
Come dear bird and build your nest,
For we love our robin best.
-
FIRST ROBIN
~ Albert Laighton
Robin, tell it far and wide
On many a leafless spray,
Last night the sullen Winter died,
And Spring was born to-day!
Pour forth the gladness of thy breast
In music clear and strong.
And fill again each empty nest
With echoes of thy song.
Tell that the prisoned woodland stream
Its fetter soon will break;
And from its long and frozen dream
The violet awake.
Tell that the zephyrs soft and warm
Will kiss the budding trees,
The maple's garnet blossoms swarm
Like myriads of bees,
By moss-clad walls the columbine
Uplift its scarlet bloom,
By grassy paths the eglantine
Exhale its sweet perfume.
O robin, tell it in thy song
Of joy, this sunny morn.
And bid the hearts that waited long
Rejoice, for Spring is born!
-
~ Emily Dickinson
I dreaded that first Robin, so,
But He is mastered, now,
I'm accustomed to Him grown,
He hurts a little, though --
I thought If I could only live
Till that first Shout got by --
Not all Pianos in the Woods
Had power to mangle me --
I dared not meet the Daffodils --
For fear their Yellow Gown
Would pierce me with a fashion
So foreign to my own --
I wished the Grass would hurry --
So -- when 'twas time to see --
He'd be too tall, the tallest one
Could stretch -- to look at me --
I could not bear the Bees should come,
I wished they'd stay away
In those dim countries where they go,
What word had they, for me?
They're here, though; not a creature failed --
No Blossom stayed away
In gentle deference to me --
The Queen of Calvary --
Each one salutes me, as he goes,
And I, my childish Plumes,
Lift, in bereaved acknowledgment
Of their unthinking Drums --
-
That is the way I felt about Spring after my mother died.
But it's too early for Spring now. Today is the day halfway between the shortest day of the year and the Spring Equinox. It's celebrated in many countries in different ways. In England, I believe it's called Candlemas, the day the churches get new candles. The US custom of Groundhog Day comes from German immegrants, only in Germany, bears were used instead of groundhogs. So, if any of you see a bear, he's right on time.
-
:-* :) Smile Joan its coming your way
But it's too early for Spring now.
A week ago Sunday our yards were covered with Robins heading north - and each day since we have had beyond flocks - what could be the word that describes these thousands of fluttering, fleeting, can't be still a minute birds of various species on their way north - Austin is in a flyway out of Mexico and points further south - in town and in my front yard the daffodils are in bloom in addition to the Jasmin in bloom covering the side fence. Spring is here...!
-
This has been the shortest, mildest winter we've had in a long time. I
suppose after the terrible hot, dry summer Texas suffered, we needed
a break. I only hope we've gotten enough rain to restore the water
tables.
We get some flocks of birds thru' here, tho' not as many as you
describe, BARB. Enough to coat the telephone wires like a line of dark,
plumb clothespins. Here's a poem about migrating birds and poets.
Birds of Passage by: Henry Wadsworth Longfellow (1807-1882)
Black shadows fall
From the lindens tall,
That lift aloft their massive wall
Against the southern sky;
And from the realms
Of the shadowy elms
A tide-like darkness overwhelms
The fields that round us lie.
But the night is fair,
And everywhere
A warm, soft vapor fills the air,
And distant sounds seem near,
And above, in the light
Of the star-lit night,
Swift birds of passage wing their flight
Through the dewy atmosphere.
I hear the beat
Of their pinions fleet,
As from the land of snow and sleet
They seek a southern lea.
I hear the cry
Of their voices high
Falling dreamily through the sky,
But their forms I cannot see.
O, say not so!
Those sounds that flow
In murmurs of delight and woe
Come not from wings of birds.
They are the throngs
Of the poet's songs,
Murmurs of pleasures, and pains, and wrongs,
The sound of winged words.
This is the cry
Of souls, that high
On toiling, beating pinions, fly,
Seeking a warmer clime,
From their distant flight
Through realms of light
It falls into our world of night,
With the murmuring sound of rhyme.
-
BAbi what a wonderful poem you shared - those American poets from the eighteenth through the nineteenth century capture nature like no other - I think we take from their poems our idealized view of what our nation looks like and fantasize it is still running over with woods, forests, large gardens, flocks of birds and busy insects, when in reality we are not near the country of 1755 much less 1855.
-
Sadly, too true, BARB. I am prepared to testify, however, that the
insects seem to be more than plentiful enough!
What a perfect place for Bobbie Burns little gem!
To A Louse
On Seeing One On A Lady's Bonnet, At Church
Robert Burns
Ha! whaur ye gaun, ye crowlin ferlie?
Your impudence protects you sairly;
I canna say but ye strunt rarely,
Owre gauze and lace;
Tho', faith! I fear ye dine but sparely
On sic a place.
Ye ugly, creepin, blastit wonner,
Detested, shunn'd by saunt an' sinner,
How daur ye set your fit upon her -
Sae fine a lady?
Gae somewhere else and seek your dinner
On some poor body.
Swith! in some beggar's haffet squattle;
There ye may creep, and sprawl, and sprattle,
Wi' ither kindred, jumping cattle,
In shoals and nations;
Whaur horn nor bane ne'er daur unsettle
Your thick plantations.
Now haud you there, ye're out o' sight,
Below the fatt'rels, snug and tight;
Na, faith ye yet! ye'll no be right,
Till ye've got on it -
The verra tapmost, tow'rin height
O' Miss' bonnet.
My sooth! right bauld ye set your nose out,
As plump an' grey as ony groset:
O for some rank, mercurial rozet,
Or fell, red smeddum,
I'd gie you sic a hearty dose o't,
Wad dress your droddum.
I wad na been surpris'd to spy
You on an auld wife's flainen toy;
Or aiblins some bit dubbie boy,
On's wyliecoat;
But Miss' fine Lunardi! fye!
How daur ye do't?
O Jeany, dinna toss your head,
An' set your beauties a' abread!
Ye little ken what cursed speed
The blastie's makin:
Thae winks an' finger-ends, I dread,
Are notice takin.
O wad some Power the giftie gie us
To see oursels as ithers see us!
It wad frae mony a blunder free us,
An' foolish notion:
What airs in dress an' gait wad lea'e us,
An' ev'n devotion!
-
Wonderful!!! Just perfect - within the poem I love these lines
There ye may creep, and sprawl, and sprattle,
Wi' ither kindred, jumping cattle,
In shoals and nations; I just love saying them - they sort roll on the tonge and make me smile.
As to insects I think it is according - we still hear of the dangerous loss of bees - acknowledging bees rather than sharing one of Emily's many bee poems here is one [with lots of metaphors] by of all people, Sylvia Plath, written in 1963.
The Bee Meeting
Who are these people at the bridge to meet me? They are the
villagers-----
The rector, the midwife, the sexton, the agent for bees.
In my sleeveless summery dress I have no protection,
And they are all gloved and covered, why did nobody tell me?
They are smiling and taking out veils tacked to ancient hats.
I am nude as a chicken neck, does nobody love me?
Yes, here is the secretary of bees with her white shop smock,
Buttoning the cuffs at my wrists and the slit from my neck to my knees.
Now I am milkweed silk, the bees will not notice.
Thev will not smell my fear, my fear, my fear.
Which is the rector now, is it that man in black?
Which is the midwife, is that her blue coat?
Everybody is nodding a square black head, they are knights in visors,
Breastplates of cheesecloth knotted under the armpits.
Their smiles and their voices are changing. I am led through a beanfield.
Strips of tinfoil winking like people,
Feather dusters fanning their hands in a sea of bean flowers,
Creamy bean flowers with black eyes and leaves like bored hearts.
Is it blood clots the tendrils are dragging up that string?
No, no, it is scarlet flowers that will one day be edible.
Now they are giving me a fashionable white straw Italian hat
And a black veil that molds to my face, they are making me one of them.
They are leading me to the shorn grove, the circle of hives.
Is it the hawthorn that smells so sick?
The barren body of hawthorn, etherizing its children.
Is it some operation that is taking place?
It is the surgeon my neighbors are waiting for,
This apparition in a green helmet,
Shining gloves and white suit.
Is it the butcher, the grocer, the postman, someone I know?
I cannot run, I am rooted, and the gorse hurts me
With its yellow purses, its spiky armory.
I could not run without having to run forever.
The white hive is snug as a virgin,
Sealing off her brood cells, her honey, and quietly humming.
Smoke rolls and scarves in the grove.
The mind of the hive thinks this is the end of everything.
Here they come, the outriders, on their hysterical elastics.
If I stand very still, they will think I am cow-parsley,
A gullible head untouched by their animosity,
Not even nodding, a personage in a hedgerow.
The villagers open the chambers, they are hunting the queen.
Is she hiding, is she eating honey? She is very clever.
She is old, old, old, she must live another year, and she knows it.
While in their fingerjoint cells the new virgins
Dream of a duel they will win inevitably,
A curtain of wax dividing them from the bride flight,
The upflight of the murderess into a heaven that loves her.
The villagers are moving the virgins, there will be no killing.
The old queen does not show herself, is she so ungrateful?
I am exhausted, I am exhausted -
Pillar of white in a blackout of knives.
I am the magician's girl who does not flinch.
The villagers are untying their disguises, they are shaking hands.
Whose is that long white box in the grove, what have they accomplished,
why am I cold.
-
Ph, my. I'm going to have to read that several times.
-
(http://seniorlearn.org/bookclubs/poetry/poetrymarch.jpg) - Famous Poets and Poems - Winter (http://famouspoetsandpoems.com/thematic_poems/winter_poems.html)
- Winter Poems (http://poetry.about.com/od/ourpoemcollections/a/winterpoems.htm)
Discussion Leaders: Barb (augere@ix.netcom.com)
| To The Magic, The Words Of...
Winter Poetry
Tea and Cupcakes With Fairies
~ Justin Gildow
Sitting down
With me and them in a circle
There's laughter all around
As we prepare for tea and cupcakes
Tea gets poured
While cupcakes get passed around
After a few words
We eat our cupcakes
And drink our tea
Everything is perfect
Nothing more and nothing less
It's all good
|
Now, I would have found that visit to the bees fascinating. I was amused when she hoped the bees would mistake her for a bit of cow parsley. Really, it must have been simply the fear and anxiety that made Ms. Plath feel so cold and exhausted. Really exhausting emotions, those.
-
Of all the minor creatures of mythology,
fairies are the most beautiful,
the most numerous,
the most memorable
**
There are Birthday fairies in your garden,
And they’re flying everywhere
Over trees and under leaves
And spinning in the air.
There are Birthday fairies in your garden,
And it’s plain for all to see
So look into you’re garden now
And you’ll see some just like me
**
. . .every child can remember laying his head in the grass, staring into the infinitesimal forest and seeing it grow populous with fairy armies ..
~Robert Louis Stevenson
**
We are all fairies living underneath a leaf of a lily pad.
~Tori Amos
**
The little Plumpuppets are fairies of beds;
They have nothing to do but watch sleepyheads;
They turn down the sheets and they tuck you in tight,
And dance on your pillow to wish you good night!
~Christopher Morley
**
When a new baby laughs for the first time a new fairy is born, and as there are always new babies there are always new fairies.
**
Then clear on a flute of purest gold
A sweet little fairy played.
And wonderful fairy tales she told
and marvelous music made.
~Ida Rentoul Outhwaite
**
From gray woods they come, on silent feet
Into a cone of light.
A lifting note, O fair! O fleet!
There the night through
We take out pleasure,
Dancing to such a measure
As earth never knew.
~Seumus O'Sullivan
**
The wall is silence, the grass is sleep,
Tall trees of peace their vigil keep,
And the Fairy of Dreams with moth-wings furled.
Plays soft on her flute to the drowsy world.
~Ida Rentoul Outhwaite
-
Barb - What lovely fairy poems. Thank You.
-
Fairies! What a lovely theme to start the day. I have a collection of
angels of all sorts, but many of them look to me more like fairies than
angels. I think the 'real thing' would be big and awesome, not dainty
or childlike. I have more than once reminded people that in scripture,
the first words of an angel to a human were usually, "Fear not!" There
has to be a reason for that. :o
-
BARB: how lovely. Thank you.
-
Babi - Maybe it was those big wings sprouting out the back!
-
Even Shakespeare got in on the Fairy symbol...
Over hill, over dale,
Thorough bush, thorough brier,
Over park, over pale,
Thorough flood, thorough fire!
I do wander everywhere,
Swifter than the moon's sphere;
And I serve the Fairy Queen,
To dew her orbs upon the green;
The cowslips tall her pensioners be;
In their gold coats spots you see;
Those be rubies, fairy favours;
In those freckles live their savours;
I must go seek some dewdrops here,
And hang a pearl in every cowslip's ear.
-
Oh and remember this from grade school...
The Fairies
~ by William Allingham
Up the airy mountain
Down the rushy glen,
We dare n't go a-hunting,
For fear of little men;
Wee folk, good folk,
Trooping all together;
Green jacket, red cap,
And white owl's feather.
Down along the rocky shore
Some make their home,
They live on crispy pancakes
Of yellow tide-foam;
Some in the reeds
Of the black mountain-lake,
With frogs for their watch-dogs,
All night awake.
High on the hill-top
The old King sits;
He is now so old and gray
He's nigh lost his wits.
With a bridge of white mist
Columbkill he crosses,
On his stately journeys
From Slieveleague to Rosses;
Or going up with music,
On cold starry nights,
To sup with the Queen,
Of the gay Northern Lights.
They stole little Bridget
For seven years long;
When she came down again
Her friends were all gone.
They took her lightly back
Between the night and morrow;
They thought she was fast asleep,
But she was dead with sorrow.
They have kept her ever since
Deep within the lake,
On a bed of flag leaves,
Watching till she wake.
By the craggy hill-side,
Through the mosses bare,
They have planted thorn trees
For pleasure here and there.
Is any man so daring
As dig them up in spite?
He shall find the thornies set
In his bed at night.
Up the airy mountain
Down the rushy glen,
We dare n't go a-hunting,
For fear of little men;
Wee folk, good folk,
Trooping all together;
Green jacket, red cap,
And white owl's feather.
-
Mushrooms and Winkle Fairy
~ Myrea Pettit
High up on a steep bank in a dense carpet of green leaves covered in the starry blue flowers of the periwinkle, their bright yellow centres shining like stars, I gasped with surprise, for there resting gently against a large winkle shell was the most beautiful fairy I had ever seen, I hardly dare breathe lest I disturb her from playing with the tiny periwinkle which she was shaking in her hand, fascinated by the pollen which like fairy dust fell gently onto her face a thousand fairy kisses as freckles over her tiny nose….
-
I don't believe I've ever read Allingham's poem before. You say
you read/heard it in grade school? You would think little Bridget
might be too scary for that age group.
I love Myrea Pettit's little whimsy. I wonder where one would see a
field of periwinkles? I don't see where the mushrooms come it, tho.,
....unless that was the fairy. ;)
-
Yep, Babi we used to jump rope to the first stanza - children's stories were filled iwth all sorts of what today we think of as horrors - what was the one where the children or boiled in a pot - many of the old stories are still depicted in Europe where as we seem to have gotten very Disney Land with our choices and views of childhood stories and characters.
-
True, BARB. Grimm's 'fairy tales' were pretty grim. Don't remember children in a boiling pot,
but there were the two,..Hansel and Gretel...who shoved a witch into her own oven to escape
her. And wolves eating up grandmothers! Strange fare for the kids.
-
This is not the one I was thinking of but it is another - http://www.pitt.edu/~dash/grimm047.html
And then the full version of the three pigs is that they boil the wolf in a big black pot.
Walt Disney and The Great Depression
In 1933, Walt Disney released an eight-minute animated film of the "Three Little Pigs." According to the Encyclopedia of Disney Animated Shorts, the short film inspired many Americans through The Great Depression. Americans used the "Big Bad Wolf" as a symbol of the strife in their lives. Just as the three little pigs were able to overcome adversity through hard-work, many Americans believed that their hard work would eventually lead them out of the Great Depression.
Child-friendly Adaptation
The modern-day version of "Three Little Pigs" was adapted by Joseph Jacobs, in which he made changes to appeal to a younger audience. According to Roli Books, in the original story, the "Big Bad Wolf" was boiled in a pot and eaten by the three pigs. Rather than end the fairy tale in such a gruesome manner, Jacobs adapted the tale, so that the "Big Bad Wolf" came down the chimney and burned his tail. In the Disney interpretation, the wolf lands in a pot of boiling turpentine, but runs away in pain through the chimney.
-
Nursery Rhyme of Innocence and Experience
~ Natalie Merchant
I had a silver penny
And an apricot tree
And I said to the sailor
On the white quay
‘Sailor O sailor
Will you bring me
If I give you my penny
And my apricot tree
‘A fez from Algeria
An Arab drum to beat
A little gilt sword
And a parakeet?’
And he smiled and he kissed me
As strong as death
And I saw his red tongue
And I felt his sweet breath
‘You may keep your penny
And your apricot tree
And I’ll bring your presents
Back from sea.’
O the ship dipped down
On the rim of the sky
And I waited while three
Long summers went by
Then one steel morning
On the white quay
I saw a grey ship
Come in from sea
Slowly she came
Across the bay
For her flashing rigging
Was shot away
All round her wake
The seabirds cried
And flew in and out
Of the hole in her side
Slowly she came
In the path of the sun
And I heard the sound
Of a distant gun
And a stranger came running
Up to me
From the deck of the ship
And he said, said he
‘O are you the boy
Who would wait on the quay
With the silver penny
And the apricot tree?
‘I’ve a plum-coloured fez
And a drum for thee
And a sword and a parakeet
From over the sea.’
‘O where is the sailor
With bold red hair?
And what is that volley
On the bright air?
‘O where are the other
Girls and boys?
And why have you brought me
Children’s toys?’
-
I wonder if he wrote this after the wreck in Scotland that killed 348 passangers in 1853
THE SONG OF THE WRECK
~ by: Charles Dickens (1812-1870)
HE wind blew high, the waters raved,
A ship drove on the land,
A hundred human creatures saved
Kneel'd down upon the sand.
Threescore were drown'd, threescore were thrown
Upon the black rocks wild,
And thus among them, left alone,
They found one helpless child.
A seaman rough, to shipwreck bred,
Stood out from all the rest,
And gently laid the lonely head
Upon his honest breast.
And travelling o'er the desert wide
It was a solemn joy,
To see them, ever side by side,
The sailor and the boy.
In famine, sickness, hunger, thirst,
The two were still but one,
Until the strong man droop'd the first
And felt his labors done.
Then to a trusty friend he spake,
"Across the desert wide,
Oh, take this poor boy for my sake!"
And kiss'd the child and died.
Toiling along in weary plight
Through heavy jungle, mire,
These two came later every night
To warm them at the fire.
Until the captain said one day
"O seaman, good and kind,
To save thyself now come away,
And leave the boy behind!"
The child was slumbering near the blaze:
"O captain, let him rest
Until it sinks, when God's own ways
Shall teach us what is best!"
They watch'd the whiten'd, ashy heap,
They touch'd the child in vain;
They did not leave him there asleep,
He never woke again.
-
A CHILD'S HYMN
~ by: Charles Dickens (1812-1870)
EAR my prayer, O heavenly Father,
Ere I lay me down to sleep;
Bid Thy angels, pure and holy,
Round my bed their vigil keep.
My sins are heavy, but Thy mercy
Far outweighs them, every one;
Down before Thy cross I cast them,
Trusting in Thy help alone.
Keep me through this night of peril
Underneath its boundless shade;
Take me to Thy rest, I pray Thee,
When my pilgrimage is made.
None shall measure out Thy patience
By the span of human thought;
None shall bound the tender mercies
Which Thy Holy Son has bought.
Pardon all my past transgressions,
Give me strength for days to come;
Guide and guard me with Thy blessing
Till Thy angels bid me home.
-
Dickens poem/prayer set a very different tone from his cynically
humorous books. I've never read any of his poems before. I don't
think his poetry as skilled as his prose, but I appreciate the insight into
another side of the man.
-
I agree with you Babi - his poems all seem to be very dark and this was the lightest I could find - since his books show the seamy part of life he has the ability to inject humor and cheer that just does not show up in his poetry. To me a person's poetry is closer to their soul and after reading of his childhood it all makes sense.
-
Quilts
~ by Nikki Giovanni
(for Sally Sellers)
Like a fading piece of cloth
I am a failure
No longer do I cover tables filled with food and laughter
My seams are frayed my hems falling my strength no longer able
To hold the hot and cold
I wish for those first days
When just woven I could keep water
From seeping through
Repelled stains with the tightness of my weave
Dazzled the sunlight with my
Reflection
I grow old though pleased with my memories
The tasks I can no longer complete
Are balanced by the love of the tasks gone past
I offer no apology only
this plea:
When I am frayed and strained and drizzle at the end
Please someone cut a square and put me in a quilt
That I might keep some child warm
And some old person with no one else to talk to
Will hear my whispers
And cuddle
near
-
On Gifts For Grace
~ by Bernadette Mayer
I saw a great teapot
I wanted to get you this stupendous
100% cotton royal blue and black checked shirt,
There was a red and black striped one too
Then I saw these boots at a place called Chuckles
They laced up to about two inches above your ankles
All leather and in red, black or purple
It was hard to have no money today
I won't even speak about the possible flowers and kinds of lingerie
All linen and silk with not-yet-perfumed laces
Brilliant enough for any of the Graces
Full of luxury, grace notes, prosperousness and charm
But I can only praise you with this poem—
Its being is the same as the meaning of your name.
-
Oranges and Lemons
Gay go up & gay go down to ring the bells of London Town
Bull’s eyes & targets say the bells of St Marg’rets
Brickbats & tiles say the bells of St Giles
Halfpence & farthings say the bells of St Martins
Oranges & lemons say the bells of St Clements
Pancakes & fritters say the bells of St Peters
Two sticks and an apple say the bells of Whitechapel
Old father bald pate say the slow bells of Aldgate
You owe me ten shillings say the bells of St Helens
Pokers & tongs say the bells of St Johns
Kettles & pans say the bells of St Annes
When will you pay me? say the bells of Old Bailey
When I grow rich say the bells of Shoreditch
Pray when will that be? say the bells of Stepney
I am sure I don’t know says the great bell of Bow
Here comes a candle to light you to bed
Here comes a chopper to chop off your head”
-
I like "Quilts" very much. We old-timers can relate, can't we? And it's been
ages since I last read the poem about the bells of London. That gave me a smile,
though I always found the last line a bit startling.
Do you know this one?
When You are Old
by W. B. Yeats
When you are old and grey and full of sleep,
And nodding by the fire, take down this book,
And slowly read, and dream of the soft look
Your eyes had once, and of their shadows deep;
How many loved your moments of glad grace,
And loved your beauty with love false or true,
But one man loved the pilgrim soul in you,
And loved the sorrows of your changing face;
And bending down beside the glowing bars,
Murmur, a little sadly, how Love fled
And paced upon the mountains overhead
And hid his face amid a crowd of stars.
-
ah so lovely - yes, a lovely thought that our loved ones who passed are among the stars...
When you read of the horrors and deaths in the Tower of London, which is nearby it is easy to get the last lines - what a time in history - sheesh - they were racking them and chopping heads and setting them on fire in Ireland, in London, and in Spain and Rome earlier - all to purge their disbelievers - seems like with national borders was a line drawn on your soul as to which church you supported.
For Valentine's day I am in a grumpy mood - before 5: this morning someone was knocking loudly - very loudly - on my front door - woke me out of a deep sleep and by the time I came too and got out there of course no one was there, no vehicle in front of the house, no note, no dead animal that could have been the panic -
I was so put out and since I went to bed later for me than usual so back in I went and thank goodness was able to fall back to sleep. Of course with the result I over slept and my day is asunder - plus I am so angry because this same thing happened last August which makes me suspect all sorts of possibilities - Who ever has to know my front porch because it is pitch black - the only light I leave on at night is a nightlight lamp in my bedroom which is in the back of the house.
Well another cup of coffee and see if that helps my disposition. Oh I know I need to pull down my copy of Where the Sidewalk Ends - that always brings a smile to my face.
-
Maybe it was some drunk that had the wrong house. It is disorienting to be pulled out of a
sound sleep. I hope the book and the coffee helped.
Here's a couple of opposite views on anger. Take your choice. :)
“When I am angry I can pray well and preach well.
Martin Luther --------------------------------------------------------------------------------
"Anger is a wind which blows out the lamp of the mind.
Robert Green Ingersoll --------------------------------------------------------------------------------
-
I love those anger quotes - especially the second one...
I never thought of a drunk - huh - here I am thinking along the lines of all these insidious neighborhood quarrels over the deer. We have some deer haters who for a couple of years now have become neighbor haters if you allow them in your yard - I have had awful pulled apart carcasses of fawns left on my front lawn and the young men are the worst since they think it is open season for bow and arrow and we had to get the police to patrol to stop it - there is no hunting in town - plus my neighbor on the one side is very very strange - he decided my rosemary growing near the curb was in his way so he came one night and cut it all down - my response is to ignore him even when he walks his dog without a leach and the dog runs all over my front herb garden. I just thought door knocking in wee early hours of the morning was the next harassment from one of these conflicts.
But stranger knocking - now that is possible although, we are so far from any bar or nightlife - I must say taking my coffee out and sitting on the porch then clipping more dead branches was just the medicine plus the sun came out and it was a glorious day - so where my schedule went awry it became a good day after all.
found this - I had not read it before this - another Robert Frost goodie...
Good-bye, and Keep Cold
~ Robert Frost
This saying good-bye on the edge of the dark
And cold to an orchard so young in the bark
Reminds me of all that can happen to harm
An orchard away at the end of the farm
All winter, cut off by a hill from the house.
I don't want it girdled by rabbit and mouse,
I don't want it dreamily nibbled for browse
By deer, and I don't want it budded by grouse.
(If certain it wouldn't be idle to call
I'd summon grouse, rabbit, and deer to the wall
And warn them away with a stick for a gun.)
I don't want it stirred by the heat of the sun.
(We made it secure against being, I hope,
By setting it out on a northerly slope.)
No orchard's the worse for the wintriest storm;
But one thing about it, it mustn't get warm.
"How often already you've had to be told,
Keep cold, young orchard. Good-bye and keep cold.
Dread fifty above more than fifty below."
I have to be gone for a season or so.
My business awhile is with different trees,
Less carefully nourished, less fruitful than these,
And such as is done to their wood with an axe—
Maples and birches and tamaracks.
I wish I could promise to lie in the night
And think of an orchard's arboreal plight
When slowly (and nobody comes with a light)
Its heart sinks lower under the sod.
But something has to be left to God.
-
Oh, thank you, BARB. I've never seen it before, and I love it. I had no idea orchards were so
vulnerable, much less that winter temperature needed to be 50 or above. Of course, it doesn't
say what kind of orchard it is. I do believe apples need cold, but that vague notion is the limit
of my (questionable) knowledge.
"But something has to be left to God." ::)
-
Dread fifty above more than fifty below. Bibi it is 50 below - that is why we have such a difficult time growing apples, pears and cherries in Texas -
They have perfected several apple strains for hot growing climates - not any cherries that I know of and only one pear - I understand they are having some success with these new apple strains over in the Medina area - keep thinking I would drive over when the trees should be in bloom and see if the scenery is doted with white blossomed orchards. With the area being steep hills that are almost mountainous it is colder in winter and of course away from the cities again, helping to preserve the cold that comes sweeping down from the north.
Back to Frost - evidently in 1920 Frost moved from a town located high in the White Mountains in northern New Hampshire, to Shaftsbury in southern Vermont that was better suited to growing apples. The farm had 80 acres of land and near some good schools for his three children. His son wanted to farm when he graduated and so together they planted 1,000 Apple Trees.
-
One of Frost's better known poems about apples
AFTER APPLE-PICKING
MY long two-pointed ladder's sticking through a tree
Toward heaven still,
And there's a barrel that I didn't fill
Beside it, and there may be two or three
Apples I didn't pick upon some bough.
But I am done with apple-picking now.
Essence of winter sleep is on the night,
The scent of apples: I am drowsing off.
I cannot rub the strangeness from my sight
I got from looking through a pane of glass
I skimmed this morning from the drinking trough
And held against the world of hoary grass.
It melted, and I let it fall and break.
But I was well
Upon my way to sleep before it fell,
And I could tell
What form my dreaming was about to take.
Magnified apples appear and disappear,
Stem end and blossom end,
And every fleck of russet showing clear.
My instep arch not only keeps the ache,
It keeps the pressure of a ladder-round.
I feel the ladder sway as the boughs bend.
And I keep hearing from the cellar bin
The rumbling sound
Of load on load of apples coming in.
For I have had too much
Of apple-picking: I am overtired
Of the great harvest I myself desired.
There were ten thousand thousand fruit to touch,
Cherish in hand, lift down, and not let fall.
For all
That struck the earth,
No matter if not bruised or spiked with stubble,
Went surely to the cider-apple heap
As of no worth.
One can see what will trouble
This sleep of mine, whatever sleep it is.
Were he not gone,
The woodchuck could say whether it's like his
Long sleep, as I describe its coming on,
Or just some human sleep.
-
Polish and Balm
~ Kay Ryan
Dust develops
from inside
as well as
on top when
objects stop
being used.
No unguent
can soothe
the chap of
abandonment.
Who knew the polish
and balm in
a person’s
simple passage
among her things.
We knew she
loved them
but not what
love means.
-
For some reason, I am quite pleased to learn that Frost was a farmer, an apple grower.
It seems so appropriate. Of course, his poems all reflect a love of the countryside.
I wonder what kind of apples he grew. To me, the newer strains don't taste like apples.
I love the old McIntosh, Jonathans, etc. Gala has no flavor to me. The best apple I've
ever tasted is the Courtland, but we don't see too many of those. Have you eaten one?
The Ryan poem is a thoughtful one. I read it three times. Is it only a poet who thinks of
such things?
-
I think the reason apples no longer have the taste we like is because of how they are prepared for market - plus so much of our fresh fruits and veggies are now grown in huge expanses of land in Mexico - it is almost 20 years since I came up north of Chihuahua, Mexico where you come down from the mountains and there before you as far as the eye can see are flats covered in orchards and orchards and orchards along with sections of berries and other vegetables.
Some fruits and veggies grow well, in fact better, in the heat and certainly this area provides year round growing - but some, like apples do not do well - not sure what they do to pollinate but all over northern Mexico are located monster size farms of produce shipped to the US. The planted landscape is so immense that the workers I could make out looked like tiny ants.
As to the apples that grow in the US they are sprayed with a chemical that affects taste and they must be picked before the flavor has been fully developed - part of flavor is in the sugar that develops when the fruit is still on the tree. I am fortunate - my daughter lives in the middle of Apple country in the western mountains of North Carolina - we have gone and picked them and I came home with suitcases of apples but I have not visited in the Fall like I did when the boys were young so now what is available in the sheds that were picked and not sold is what I bring home when I visit at Christmas - all to say the flavor is so different that you would never think you were eating the same fruit. Fresh from the tree without chemicals and allowed to develop till it reaches its proper color the Fuji's and Gala's are lovely - the Cortland are crisp and some of the green apples are like going back in time using a good baking apple for Pies and Kuchens.
Here is a poem that seems fitting talking about Apples in early Spring and written by of all people Horatio Alger, known for his boys stories and so many novels - isn't he the one who said 'Go West Young Man, Go West'
Apple-blossoms
~ Horatio Alger
I sit in the shadow of apple-boughs,
In the fragrant orchard close,
And around me floats the scented air,
With its wave-like tidal flows.
I close my eyes in a dreamy bliss,
And call no king my peer;
For is not this the rare, sweet time,
The blossoming time of the year?
I lie on a couch of downy grass,
With delicate blossoms strewn,
And I feel the throb of Nature's heart
Responsive to my own.
Oh, the world is fair, and God is good,
That maketh life so dear;
For is not this the rare, sweet time,
The blossoming time of the year?
I can see, through the rifts of the apple-boughs,
The delicate blue of the sky,
And the changing clouds with their marvellous tints
That drift so lazily by.
And strange, sweet thoughts sing through my brain,
And Heaven, it seemeth near;
Oh, is it not a rare, sweet time,
The blossoming time of the year?
-
I would suppose the country of origin would make a major diference as well.
Gala--New Zealand native Pink Lady..Australian Fuji---Japanese
The poem roused nostalgia in me. Not that I've spent any time in apple orchards, but how
happily I remember lying in the grass under a tree in warm weather. Even today, blossoming
flowers, shrubs, trees, will always catch my attention.
Here's another nature lover:
Sonnet 2
by Gwendolyn Bennett
Some things are very dear to me—
Such things as flowers bathed by rain
Or patterns traced upon the sea
Or crocuses where snow has lain ...
the iridescence of a gem,
The moon’s cool opalescent light,
Azaleas and the scent of them,
And honeysuckles in the night.
And many sounds are also dear—
Like winds that sing among the trees
Or crickets calling from the weir
Or Negroes humming melodies.
But dearer far than all surmise
Are sudden tear-drops in your eyes.
-
Just lovely Babi - I will read it several times today - not familiar with the poet either - I need to look and find her work.
All this rain is so welcome but it is making the house so dreary so I've the lamps on all day and now I need to nudge the heat on to take the damp chill out of the air. I can see finally some of the bushes looking like there is life - the grass started to perk up close the Christmas and I have been cutting out the dead branches in the Laural, Magnolia and Nandina - I was shocked that we had any berries at all on the Nandina but a few sprigs that are gone as the flocks of migrating, mostly Robins, have been landing for brief minutes in the yard.
I still have a box of those fertilizer spikes that I need to pound in around some of these bushes and get them healthy again to be able to withstand the coming summer assuming we are in for another over the top with extended days of temps over 100.
Winter Walk
~ John Clare
The holly bush, a sober lump of green,
Shines through the leafless shrubs all brown and grey,
And smiles at winter be it e’er so keen
With all the leafy luxury of May.
And oh, it is delicious, when the day
In winter’s loaded garment keenly blows
And turns her back on sudden falling snows,
To go where gravel pathways creep between
Arches of evergreen that scarce let through
A single feather of the driving storm;
And in the bitterest day that ever blew
The walk will find some places still and warm
Where dead leaves rustle sweet and give alarm
To little birds that flirt and start away.
-
Winter Trees
~ By William Carlos Williams
All the complicated details
of the attiring and
the disattiring are completed!
A liquid moon
moves gently among
the long branches.
Thus having prepared their buds
against a sure winter
the wise trees
stand sleeping in the cold.
-
Saturday Market
~ By Charlotte Mew
Bury your heart in some deep green hollow
Or hide it up in a kind old tree;
Better still, give it the swallow
When she goes over the sea.
In Saturday’s Market there’s eggs a ’plenty
And dead-alive ducks with their legs tied down,
Grey old gaffers and boys of twenty—
Girls and the women of the town—
Pitchers and sugar-sticks, ribbons and laces,
Poises and whips and dicky-birds’ seed,
Silver pieces and smiling faces,
In Saturday Market they’ve all they need.
What were you showing in Saturday Market
That set it grinning from end to end
Girls and gaffers and boys of twenty—?
Cover it close with your shawl, my friend—
Hasten you home with the laugh behind you,
Over the down—, out of sight,
Fasten your door, though no one will find you,
No one will look on a Market night.
See, you, the shawl is wet, take out from under
The red dead thing—. In the white of the moon
On the flags does it stir again? Well, and no wonder!
Best make an end of it; bury it soon.
If there is blood on the hearth who’ll know it?
Or blood on the stairs,
When a murder is over and done why show it?
In Saturday Market nobody cares.
Then lie you straight on your bed for a short, short weeping
And still, for a long, long rest,
There’s never a one in the town so sure of sleeping
As you, in the house on the down with a hole in your breast.
Think no more of the swallow,
Forget, you, the sea,
Never again remember the deep green hollow
Or the top of the kind old tree!
-
Oh I found one - my some of her poetry is anger in prose - wow - she can say it so it sounds great - but here is another lovely.
Secret
~ Gwendolyn Bennett
I shall make a song like you hair . . .
Gold-woven with shadows green-tinged,
And I shall play with my song
As my fingers might play with your hair.
Deep in my heart
I shall play with my song of you,
Gently. . . .
I shall laugh
At its sensitive lustre . . .
I shall wrap my song in a blanket,
Blue like your eyes are blue
With tiny shots of silver.
I shall wrap it caressingly,
Tenderly. . . .
I shall sing a lullaby
To the song I have made
Of your hair and eyes . . .
And you will never know
That deep in my heart
I shelter a song for you
Secretly. . . .
-
The Charlotte Mews poem is lovely; starts with that beautiful verse. Then goes on to tell a sad
story. From the reaction she notes at the Saturday Market, I would say there is some anger..
certainly some pain... in that one.
That's two Gwendolyn Bennett poems we've found and I like them both. Perhaps you could
share one of those that reveal the anger, too.
-
Lines Written In Early Spring
~ William Wordsworth
I heard a thousand blended notes,
While in a grove I sate reclined,
In that sweet mood when pleasant thoughts
Bring sad thoughts to the mind.
To her fair works did Nature link
The human soul that through me ran;
And much it grieved my heart to think
What man has made of man.
Through primrose tufts, in that green bower,
The periwinkle trailed its wreaths;
And 'tis my faith that every flower
Enjoys the air it breathes.
The birds around me hopped and played,
Their thoughts I cannot measure:--
But the least motion which they made
It seemed a thrill of pleasure.
The budding twigs spread out their fan,
To catch the breezy air;
And I must think, do all I can,
That there was pleasure there.
If this belief from heaven be sent,
If such be Nature's holy plan,
Have I not reason to lament
What man has made of man?
-
Early Spring
~ Alfred Lord Tennyson
Once more the Heavenly Power
Makes all things new,
And domes the red-plowed hills
With loving blue;
The blackbirds have their wills,
The throstles too.
Opens a door in Heaven;
From skies of glass
A Jacob's ladder falls
On greening grass,
And o'er the mountain-walls
Young angels pass.
Before them fleets the shower,
And burst the buds,
And shine the level lands,
And flash the floods;
The stars are from their hands
Flung through the woods,
The woods with living airs
How softly fanned,
Light airs from where the deep,
All down the sand,
Is breathing in his sleep,
Heard by the land.
O, follow, leaping blood,
The season's lure!
O heart, look down and up,
Serene, secure,
Warm as the crocus cup,
Like snow-drops, pure!
Past, Future glimpse and fade
Through some slight spell,
A gleam from yonder vale,
Some far blue fell;
And sympathies, how frail,
In sound and smell!
Till at thy chuckled note,
Thou twinkling bird,
The fairy fancies range,
And, lightly stirred,
Ring little bells of change
From word to word.
For now the Heavenly Power
Makes all things new,
And thaws the cold, and fills
The flower with dew;
The blackbirds have their wills,
The poets too.
-
Early Spring
` Rainer Maria Rilke
Harshness vanished. A sudden softness
has replaced the meadows' wintry grey.
Little rivulets of water changed
their singing accents. Tendernesses,
hesitantly, reach toward the earth
from space, and country lanes are showing
these unexpected subtle risings
that find expression in the empty trees.
-
(http://seniorlearn.org/bookclubs/poetry/poetrymarch.jpg) - Famous Poets and Poems - Spring (http://famouspoetsandpoems.com/thematic_poems/spring_poems.html)
- Spring Poems (http://poetry.about.com/od/ourpoemcollections/a/springpoems.htm)
Discussion Leaders: Barb (augere@ix.netcom.com)
| Beginnings...Buds...Blossoms...Blessings
Spring Poetry
Fairy Flowers in the Spring
~ Cicely Mary Barker
The World is very old;
But every Spring
It groweth young again,
And fairies sing.
Try, always try
to be...
Cheerful
Neat
Polite
Friendly
Work Hard
Generous
Honest
Keep Secrets
Kind
Humorous
|
-
Flower Fairies are tiny creatures (the biggest is only 8 inches tall) that live in the tree tops, marshes, forest floor, wayside and gardens. Wherever and whenever a seed sprouts, a Flower Fairy baby is born. Each Flower Fairy lives and sleeps in their chosen flower, plant or tree, and as this grows the fairy grows too. Each and every Flower Fairy is in charge of looking after their flower or plant; keeping it strong and healthy by making sure it has plenty of sunshine and water to drink, sweeping away dead leaves, and polishing flowers and stems.
-
Port Fairy in Spring
~ Francis Duggan
In Port Fairy by the ocean nesting birds chirp and sing
On a sunny day in early September in the early Spring
In a lovely old place on a beautiful day
The Spring is in town for her annual three months stay
In the home gardens and parklands shrubs and trees and flower beds in their flowers
And the coastal lands green after recent Spring showers
In Victoria Spring is such a lovely time of the year
And with each passing day warmer weather is near
The mud nesting magpie larks call out pee wee all day
From Utopia Port Fairy does not seem far away
Near Griffith Island one can hear the ocean's loud din
As the big waves at high tide to the beach rumbles in
In the old coastal town for it's beauty well known
Port Fairy it does have a charm of it's own.
-
Lovely spring poems, BARB. I could feel myself relaxing and smiling a it more.
Were you aware that Cowper suffered from regular bouts of manic depression? I came across
that just yesterday. It gives new insight into some of his poems. Like this one:
Olney Hymns, IX [The Contrite Heart]
by William Cowper
The Lord will happiness divine
On contrite hearts bestow;
Then tell me, gracious God, is mine
A contrite heart or no?
I hear, but seem to hear in vain,
Insensible as steel;
If aught is felt, 'tis only pain,
To find I cannot feel.
I sometimes think myself inclined
To love Thee if I could;
But often feel another mind,
Averse to all that's good.
My best desires are faint and few,
I fain would strive for more;
But when I cry, "My strength renew!"
Seem weaker than before.
Thy saints are comforted, I know,
And love Thy house of prayer;
I therefore go where others go,
But find no comfort there.
Oh make this heart rejoice or ache;
Decide this doubt for me;
And if it be not broken, break—
And heal it, if it be.
-
I like that one very much.
-
Me, too. :)
-
Spring, Lent, Easter on the way, new tree buds, yellow flowers start us off and it all brings us closer to our spiritual nature doesn't it...I have a book with daily lental essays and poems that even after all these years the readings are as fresh as today.
"Our birth is but a sleep and a forgetting;
The Soul that rises with us, our life's Star,
Hath had elsewhere its setting,
And cometh from afar;
Not in entire forgetfulness,
And not in entire nakedness,
But trailing clouds of glory do we come
From God, who is our home."
-- William Wordsworth
From: Ode on Intimations of Immortality
-
Here are more lines from Wordsworth's Ode
THERE was a time when meadow, grove, and stream,
The earth, and every common sight,
To me did seem
Apparell'd in celestial light,
The glory and the freshness of a dream.
It is not now as it hath been of yore;—
Turn wheresoe'er I may,
By night or day,
The things which I have seen I now can see no more.
The rainbow comes and goes,
And lovely is the rose;
The moon doth with delight
Look round her when the heavens are bare;
Waters on a starry night
Are beautiful and fair;
The sunshine is a glorious birth;
But yet I know, where'er I go,
That there hath pass'd away a glory from the earth.
Now, while the birds thus sing a joyous song,
And while the young lambs bound
As to the tabor's sound,
To me alone there came a thought of grief:
A timely utterance gave that thought relief,
And I again am strong:
The cataracts blow their trumpets from the steep;
No more shall grief of mine the season wrong;
I hear the echoes through the mountains throng,
The winds come to me from the fields of sleep,
And all the earth is gay;
-
Thank God, I can still see the glories of the earth. I can still pause and praise the Creator for
the grace of a tree outlined against the sky or the wonder of a jewel-like bird.
Remember that old hymn...
For the beauty of the earth
For the glory of the skies,
For the love which from our birth
Over and around us lies.
Lord of all, to Thee we raise,
This our hymn of grateful praise.
-
OH my poetry on You Tube - here is an W H Auden poem - This Is The Night Mail
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=zmciuKsBOi0
-
Some Irish poets to help celebrate St. Patrick's Day
The Planters Daughter
~ Austin Clarke
When night stirred at sea,
An the fire brought a crowd in
They say that her beauty
Was music in mouth
And few in the candlelight
Thought her too proud,
For the house of the planter
Is known by the trees.
Men that had seen her
Drank deep and were silent,
The women were speaking
Wherever she went --
As a bell that is rung
Or a wonder told shyly
And O she was the Sunday
In every week.
-
Stoney Grey Soil
~ Patrick Kavanagh
O stony grew soil of Monaghan
The laugh from my love you thieved
You took the gay child of my passion
And gave me your clod-conceived.
You clogged the feet of my boyhood
and I believed that my stumble
Had the poise and stride of Apollo
And his voice my thick-tongued mumble.
You told me the plough was immortal
O green-life-conquering plough!
Your mandril strained, your coulter blunted
In the smooth lea-field of my brow.
You sang on steaming dunghills
A song of cowards' brood,
You perfumed my clothes with weasel itch,
You fed me on swinish food.
You flung a ditch on my vision
Of beauty love and truth.
O stony grey soil of Monaghan
You burgled my bank of youth!
Lost the long hours of pleasure
All the women that love young men
O can I still stroke the monster's back
Or write with unpoisioned pen
His name in these lonely verses
Or mention the dark fields where
The first gay flight of my lyric
Got caught in a peasant's prayer.
Mullahinsha, Drummeril, Black Shanco--
Wherever I turn I see
In the stony grey soil of Monaghan
Dead loves that were born for me.
-
When You are Old
~ W. B. Yeats
When you are old and grey and full of sleep,
And nodding by the fire, take down this book,
And slowly read, and dream of the soft look
Your eyes had once, and of their shadows deep;
How many loved your moments of glad grace,
And loved your beauty with love false or true,
But one man loved the pilgrim soul in you,
And loved the sorrows of your changing face;
And bending down beside the glowing bars,
Murmur, a little sadly, how Love fled
And paced upon the mountains overhead
And hid his face amid a crowd of stars.
-
Ah, Yeats is still the more graceful poet, though I must admit Mr. Kavanaugh's is
quite powerful. Are you familiar with this old Irish saying?
The race of men named the Gael,
Is a race God surely made mad.
For all of their wars are merry
And all of their loves are sad.
-
Hadn't heard that one Babi - thanks for sharing - we have had hardly any winter this year so that celebrating Spring does not feel as exciting - blooms have come and gone more with astonishment than with the joy of seeing a new season open before us.
Everything is blooming most recklessly; if it were voices instead of colors, there would be an unbelievable shrieking into the heart of the night. ~ Rainer Maria Rilke, Letters of Rainer Maria Rilke
If we had no winter, the spring would not be so pleasant; if we did not sometimes taste of adversity, prosperity would not be so welcome. ~ Anne Bradstreet
Indoors or out, no one relaxes in March, that month of wind and taxes, the wind will presently disappear, the taxes last us all the year. ~ Ogden Nash
Spring shows what God can do with a drab and dirty world. ~ Virgil A. Kraft
In the spring I have counted one hundred and thirty-six different kinds of weather inside of four and twenty hours. ~ Mark Twain
-
By Night when Others Soundly Slept
~ Anne Bradstreet 1612-1672
By night when others soundly slept
And hath at once both ease and Rest,
My waking eyes were open kept
And so to lie I found it best.
I sought him whom my Soul did Love,
With tears I sought him earnestly.
He bow'd his ear down from Above.
In vain I did not seek or cry.
My hungry Soul he fill'd with Good;
He in his Bottle put my tears,
My smarting wounds washt in his blood,
And banisht thence my Doubts and fears.
What to my Saviour shall I give
Who freely hath done this for me?
I'll serve him here whilst I shall live
And Loue him to Eternity
-
I do think Mark Twain is exaggerating a wee bit. ;D
Thank you for the Anne Bradstreet poem. I have read a bit about her, but I don't recall seeing
one of her poems before.
-
BARB, I saw your post in the DL Bookstack, and you plainly have a very busy summer ahead of
you. Would you have time before you go to pursue a poet for me? I heard the name Seamus
Heaney, id'ed as the Poet Laureat of Ireland. I'd never heard of him before, and went looking
through the net for some of his poems. I found plenty of articles about him and listing his books
of both poetry and prose, but not a single poem printed out.
One article quoted three lines of one of his poems, and that's it! They did help me see why
Ireland named him their poet laureate.
“Be advised my passport’s green.
No glass of ours was ever raised
to toast the Queen.”
So now I am both curious and frustrated. Do you think you might have anything of his
around? Or know where you could find some
-
Oh yes, we did a month of his poetry with AnnaFair back a few years ago when we were doing a poet a month - my day is full but this evening I will look and see if I can find that month archived - but if not I do have at least one if not more of his books of poetry - I am particularly remembering one about his grandmother and another about peeling potatoes.
when I am at my daughters I will be able to continue here - the times I will not is the 5 days I am in Savannah and when we are on the road to and while we are in Taos until we get back home to my house which is 8 or 9 days according to if we stay over in Lubbock. And so out of pocket will be a total of about 2 weeks however too busy for a book discussion to either lead or participate - poetry is simply how we interpret the world and our life so it goes on with little forethought or study making it as simple as posting a poem that is often in the recesses of our memory.
Ah found it - here is the Seamus Heaney Poem about the potatoes...
Digging
Between my finger and my thumb
The squat pin rest; snug as a gun.
Under my window, a clean rasping sound
When the spade sinks into gravelly ground:
My father, digging. I look down
Till his straining rump among the flowerbeds
Bends low, comes up twenty years away
Stooping in rhythm through potato drills
Where he was digging.
The coarse boot nestled on the lug, the shaft
Against the inside knee was levered firmly.
He rooted out tall tops, buried the bright edge deep
To scatter new potatoes that we picked,
Loving their cool hardness in our hands.
By God, the old man could handle a spade.
Just like his old man.
My grandfather cut more turf in a day
Than any other man on Toner's bog.
Once I carried him milk in a bottle
Corked sloppily with paper. He straightened up
To drink it, then fell to right away
Nicking and slicing neatly, heaving sods
Over his shoulder, going down and down
For the good turf. Digging.
The cold smell of potato mould, the squelch and slap
Of soggy peat, the curt cuts of an edge
Through living roots awaken in my head.
But I've no spade to follow men like them.
Between my finger and my thumb
The squat pen rests.
I'll dig with it.
-
Rite of Spring
~ by Seamus Heaney
So winter closed its fist
And got it stuck in the pump.
The plunger froze up a lump
In its throat, ice founding itself
Upon iron. The handle
Paralysed at an angle.
Then the twisting of wheat straw
into ropes, lapping them tight
Round stem and snout, then a light
That sent the pump up in a flame
It cooled, we lifted her latch,
Her entrance was wet, and she came.
-
This is a long one but too good to not include...
Keeping Going
~ by Seamus Heaney
The piper coming from far away is you
With a whitewash brush for a sporran
Wobbling round you, a kitchen chair
Upside down on your shoulder, your right arm
Pretending to tuck the bag beneath your elbow,
Your pop-eyes and big cheeks nearly bursting
With laughter, but keeping the drone going on
Interminably, between catches of breath.
*
The whitewash brush. An old blanched skirted thing
On the back of the byre door, biding its time
Until spring airs spelled lime in a work-bucket
And a potstick to mix it in with water.
Those smells brought tears to the eyes, we inhaled
A kind of greeny burning and thought of brimstone.
But the slop of the actual job
Of brushing walls, the watery grey
Being lashed on in broad swatches, then drying out
Whiter and whiter, all that worked like magic.
Where had we come from, what was this kingdom
We knew we'd been restored to? Our shadows
Moved on the wall and a tar border glittered
The full length of the house, a black divide
Like a freshly opened, pungent, reeking trench.
*
Piss at the gable, the dead will congregate.
But separately. The women after dark,
Hunkering there a moment before bedtime,
The only time the soul was let alone,
The only time that face and body calmed
In the eye of heaven.
Buttermilk and urine,
The pantry, the housed beasts, the listening bedroom.
We were all together there in a foretime,
In a knowledge that might not translate beyond
Those wind-heaved midnights we still cannot be sure
Happened or not. It smelled of hill-fort clay
And cattle dung. When the thorn tree was cut down
You broke your arm. I shared the dread
When a strange bird perched for days on the byre roof.
*
That scene, with Macbeth helpless and desperate
In his nightmare--when he meets the hags agains
And sees the apparitions in the pot--
I felt at home with that one all right. Hearth,
Steam and ululation, the smoky hair
Curtaining a cheek. 'Don't go near bad boys
In that college that you're bound for. Do you hear me?
Do you hear me speaking to you? Don't forget!'
And then the postick quickening the gruel,
The steam crown swirled, everything intimate
And fear-swathed brightening for a moment,
Then going dull and fatal and away.
*
Grey matter like gruel flecked with blood
In spatters on the whitewash. A clean spot
Where his head had been, other stains subsumed
In the parched wall he leant his back against
That morning like any other morning,
Part-time reservist, toting his lunch-box.
A car came slow down Castle Street, made the halt,
Crossed the Diamond, slowed again and stopped
Level with him, although it was not his lift.
And then he saw an ordinary face
For what it was and a gun in his own face.
His right leg was hooked back, his sole and heel
Against the wall, his right knee propped up steady,
So he never moved, just pushed with all his might
Against himself, then fell past the tarred strip,
Feeding the gutter with his copious blood.
*
My dear brother, you have good stamina.
You stay on where it happens. Your big tractor
Pulls up at the Diamond, you wave at people,
You shout and laugh about the revs, you keep
old roads open by driving on the new ones.
You called the piper's sporrans whitewash brushes
And then dressed up and marched us through the kitchen,
But you cannot make the dead walk or right wrong.
I see you at the end of your tether sometimes,
In the milking parlour, holding yourself up
Between two cows until your turn goes past,
Then coming to in the smell of dung again
And wondering, is this all? As it was
In the beginning, is now and shall be?
Then rubbing your eyes and seeing our old brush
Up on the byre door, and keeping going.
-
Oh I did find it - the one about his Grandmother - only it is actually his Great Grandmother - the poem reads like the Holy Grail of Ireland during the nineteenth and twentieth century and this one is really long...
Clearances
In Memoriam M.K.H., 1911-1984
She taught me what her uncle once taught her:
How easily the biggest coal block split
If you got the grain and the hammer angled right.
The sound of that relaxed alluring blow
Its co-opted and obliterated echo,
Taught me to hit, taught me to loosen,
Taught me between the hammer and the block
To face the music. Teach me now to listen,
To strike it rich behind the linear black.
A cobble thrown a hundred years ago
Keeps coming at me, the first stone
Aimed at a great-grandmother's turncoat brow.
The pony jerks and the riot's on.
She's couched low in the trap
Running the gauntlet that first Sunday
Down the brae to Mass at a panicked gallop.
He whips on through the town to cries of 'Lundy!'
Call her 'The Convert.' 'The Exogamous Bride.'
Anyhow, it is a genre piece
Inherited on my mother's side
And mine to dispose with now she's gone.
Instead of silver and Victorian lace
the exonerating, exonerated stone.
Polished linoleum shone there. Brass taps shone.
The china cups were very white and big --
An unchipped set with sugar bowl and jug.
The kettle whistled. Sandwich and tea scone
Were present and correct. In case it run,
The butter must be kept out of the sun.
And don't be dropping crumbs. Don't tilt your chair.
Don't reach. Don't point. Don't make noise when you stir.
It is Number 5, New Row, Land of the Dead,
Where grandfather is rising from his place
With spectacles pushed back on a clean bald head
To welcome a bewildered homing daughter
Before she even knocks. 'What's this? What's this?'
And they sit down in the shining room together.
When all the others were away at Mass
I was all hers as we peeled potatoes.
They broke the silence, let fall one by one
Like solder weeping off the soldering iron:
Cold comforts set between us, things to share
Gleaming in a bucket of clean water.
And again let fall. Little pleasant splashes
From each other's work would bring us to our senses.
So while the parish priest at her bedside
Went hammer and tongs at prayers for the dying
And some were responding and some crying
I remembered her head bent towards my head,
Her breath in mine, our fluent dipping knives --
Never closer the whole rest of our lives.
Fear of affectation made her affect
Inadequacy whenever it came to
Pronouncing words 'beyond her'. Bertold Brek.
She'd manage something hampered and askew
Every time, as if she might betray
The hampered and inadequate by too
Well-adjusted a vocabulary.
With more challenge than pride, she'd tell me, 'You
Know all them things.' So I governed my tongue
In front of her, a genuinely well-
Adjusted adequate betrayal
Of what I knew better. I'd naw and aye
And decently relapse into the wrong
Grammar which kept us allied and at bay.
The cool that came off sheets just off the line
Made me think the damp must still be in them
But when I took my corners of the linen
And pulled against her, first straight down the hem
And then diagonally, then flapped and shook
The fabric like a sail in a cross-wind,
They'd make a dried-out undulating thwack.
So we'd stretch and fold and end up hand to hand
For a split second as if nothing had happened
For nothing had that had not always happened
Beforehand, day by day, just touch and go,
Coming close again by holding back
In moves where I was x and she was o
Inscribed in sheets she'd sewn from ripped-out flour sacks.
In the first flush of the Easter holidays
The ceremonies during Holy Week
Were highpoints of our Sons and Lovers phase.
The midnight fire. The paschal candlestick.
Elbow to elbow, glad to be kneeling next
To each other up there near the front
Of the packed church, we would follow the text
And rubrics for the blessing of the font.
As the hind longs for the streams, so my soul . . .
Dippings. Towellings. The water breathed on.
The water mixed with chrism and oil.
Cruet tinkle. Formal incensation
And the psalmist's outcry taken up with pride:
Day and night my tears have been my bread.
In the last minutes he said more to her
Almost than in their whole life together.
'You'll be in New Row on Monday night
And I'll come up for you and you'll be glad
When I walk in the door . . . Isn't that right?'
His head was bent down to her propped-up head.
She could not hear but we were overjoyed.
He called her good and girl. Then she was dead,
The searching for a pulsebeat was abandoned
And we all knew one thing by being there.
The space we stood around had been emptied
Into us to keep, it penetrated
Clearances that suddenly stood open.
High cries were felled and a pure change happened.
I thought of walking round and round a space
Utterly empty, utterly a source
Where the decked chestnut tree had lost its place
In our front hedge above the wallflowers.
The white chips jumped and jumped and skited high.
I heard the hatchet's differentiated
Accurate cut, the crack, the sigh
And collapse of what luxuriated
Through the shocked tips and wreckage of it all.
Deep-planted and long gone, my coeval
Chestnut from a jam jar in a hole,
Its heft and hush became a bright nowhere,
A soul ramifying and forever
Silent, beyond silence listened for.
-
With the onset of spring, I get the urge to visit some of my favorite places again, but road trips are out for me, between poor eyesight and the pirce of gas! One of them is Walden Pond, where I swam as a kid, and mused as a college student. It is still beautiful and mostly undeveloped, except for the state beach on one side. the replica of Thoreau's cabin is there, too. Few people know that Henry David made a weekly hike into Concord to bring his laundry to the womenfolk!
Since I can't hop in the car, I will have to emulate Mary Oliver.
Going to Walden
It isn't very far as highways lie.
I might be back by nightfall, having seen
The rough pines, the stones, and the clear water.
Friends argue that I might be wiser for it.
They do not hear the far-off Yankee whisper;
How dull we grow from hurrying here and there.
Many have gone, and think me half a fool
To miss a day away in the cool country.
Maybe. But in a book I read and cherish
Going to Walden's not so easy a thing
As a green visit. It is the slow and difficult
Trick of living, and finding it where you are.
-
iI like "Going to Walden" since I like Thoreau. And I didn't know about his laundry, but somehow, I'm not surprised! I did know that he went into concord a lot.
-
What clear images Heaney makes. I would know better now how to use a spade. And how to
de-ice a pump. That closing, obviously sexual reference in the closing lines was surprising
and odd, tho'.
Then the next one,..the whitewashing...the idea that the only time a woman could get a
quiet, peaceful moment was while visiting the ..the what? And a strange bird hanging
around for days after a serious injury was cause for dread. The 'bird of ill omen"?
This is a powerful poet. Ireland keeps being revealed to me with each one.
-
Good grief....I was lost in a research project...searching for a photo in old PC files, and came across something titled "Poetry Page".....clicked on it, and was shocked to find that Seniornet (now seniorlearn) was still rolling on. I have no idea how I will get back to this page, but will post a note here and take a chance. I was thinking it was a place to post poetry that you had written yourself, but I guess not, so I'm disappointed. Still, I'm glad to find you are still here.
Sun (sunknow)
-
So glad you 'stumbled' across us, SUNKNOW. We're not hard to find. Just type in SeniorLearn.
org. and you will find a place to register and an index to all the discussions. Once you post in
any discussion, you can get back into it by simply clicking on "new answers to my posts."
Poetry's DL is Barbara Aubrey. I don't know whether you know her or not, but she really knows her poetry.
-
Glad you found us Sun - hope you do find us again, we mostly look at the work of other poets - some we know and love and others who are new to us - there is nothing against posting your own work but we have not focused on posting our individual efforts since there is so much we can benefit by reading the millions of published poets -
Seems to me I remember meeting you years ago at a luncheon in I think Round Rock and you were from Taylor or Rockdale or if not either in that general direction. Babi is over in Houston and I am down in Austin - there are a few others who join us however, Babi is there everytime we add a poem - so please join us - we would love your company.
Been tied up for a few days with clients and then went to a Lentil retreat - came back today in the pouring rain - whew what a gully washer - the streets were flash flooding raging rivers and for a while the fastest my windshield wipers flapped I wished they could have been even faster. Scary but we made it - the tension wore me out so I napped from 5: to 11: and now do not know if I should eat or what... maybe some fruit and a shower.
-
Whoa! With a six-hour 'nap', you must have really been worn out. You want to try and avoid
that much strain, friend. We're not getting any younger and that sort of thing ages one fast.
I hope the retreat was restful. I used to enjoy going to them.
-
Well, that's interesting...ran into two Texans already....LOL
Yes, Barb, that's me, only I was living in Tyler back then, and yes, I went to Round Rock for Lunch, and two or three of the Bashes also. I live in a small town just outside of Tyler now, so not far from my 'ole stomping ground, and Tyler is still our main shopping and "doing" area. Back then I was DL of the Texas Discussion.
Babi - I remember how to get around, so it's not so new afterall. Yes, indeed, that Barbara knows her poetry. Maybe she can come up with a rainy, stormy one as a tribute to her recent weather. We had that for a while, but it's settled down, and just a few gentle rains the past couple of days.
I'll be back....poetry, anyone?
Sun
-
I took a quick look at stormy weather poems, SUN, but they tend to be about emotional
storms. I don't doubt BARB will be able to find the perfect one for us. :)
-
aha the challenge is on - need to check some of my books but off the top of my head is always - Robert Frost.
A Line-Storm Song
~ Robert Frost
The line-storm clouds fly tattered and swift,
The road is forlorn all day,
Where a myriad snowy quartz stones lift,
And the hoof-prints vanish away.
The roadside flowers, too wet for the bee,
Expend their bloom in vain.
Come over the hills and far with me,
And be my love in the rain.
The birds have less to say for themselves
In the wood-world’s torn despair
Than now these numberless years the elves,
Although they are no less there:
All song of the woods is crushed like some
Wild, easily shattered rose.
Come, be my love in the wet woods; come,
Where the boughs rain when it blows.
There is the gale to urge behind
And bruit our singing down,
And the shallow waters aflutter with wind
From which to gather your gown.
What matter if we go clear to the west,
And come not through dry-shod?
For wilding brooch shall wet your breast
The rain-fresh goldenrod.
Oh, never this whelming east wind swells
But it seems like the sea’s return
To the ancient lands where it left the shells
Before the age of the fern;
And it seems like the time when after doubt
Our love came back amain.
Oh, come forth into the storm and rout
And be my love in the rain.
-
I like the imagery of this poem by Seamus Heaney
STORM ON THE ISLAND
We are prepared: we build our houses squat,
Sink walls in rock and roof them with good slate.
This wizened earth has never troubled us
With hay, so, as you see, there are no stacks
Or stooks that can be lost. Nor are there trees
Which might prove company when it blows full
Blast: you know what I mean - leaves and branches
Can raise a tragic chorus in a gale
So that you listen to the thing you fear
Forgetting that it pummels your house too.
But there are no trees, no natural shelter.
You might think that the sea is company,
Exploding comfortably down on the cliffs
But no: when it begins, the flung spray hits
The very windows, spits like a tame cat
Turned savage. We just sit tight while wind dives
And strafes invisibly. Space is a salvo,
We are bombarded with the empty air.
Strange, it is a huge nothing that we fear.
-
Of course our old Friend Emily always does us proud... Hehe instead of the wind rocking the grass we could substitute the car.
A Thunderstorm
~ by Emily Dickinson
The wind begun to rock the grass
With threatening tunes and low, -
He flung a menace at the earth,
A menace at the sky.
The leaves unhooked themselves from trees
And started all abroad;
The dust did scoop itself like hands
And throw away the road.
The wagons quickened on the streets,
The thunder hurried slow;
The lightning showed a yellow beak,
And then a livid claw.
The birds put up the bars to nests,
The cattle fled to barns;
There came one drop of giant rain,
And then, as if the hands
That held the dams had parted hold,
The waters wrecked the sky,
But overlooked my father's house,
Just quartering a tree.
-
(http://g-cdn.apartmenttherapy.com/3314819/10emily_dickinson_2_rect540.jpg)
The Bedroom with the writing desk of Emily Dickinson
-
(http://29.media.tumblr.com/tumblr_lyzazvMepA1rnc3y3o1_500.jpg)
Seamus Heaney's writing space
-
Barbara - Splendid selection re: my request for Stormy Poetry.
I'd have a hard time choosing the best one. It would depend on the mood of the moment. They are all very, very good.
Thank. Sun
-
Of course! Robert Frost! How silly of me. I hadn't read this one before. Thank you so much.
Seamus Heaney's island sounds so bleak. If this is where he grew up, I can see where the
strength, and even harshness, of his poetry comes from.
The lightning showed a yellow beak,
And then a livid claw. Lightning does do that! I never noticed. That, I imagine, is why Emily is a poet and I'm not. And she wrote on that tiny desk?!! Without that lamp, surely. There is not enough room left for a sheet of paper and an elbow. :)
-
Thought y'all may be interested in this bit that came today in my daily Poetry email
Reading poetry well is part attitude and part technique. Curiosity is a useful attitude, especially when it’s free of preconceived ideas about what poetry is or should be. Effective technique directs your curiosity into asking questions, drawing you into a conversation with the poem.
In Great Books programs, the goal of careful reading is often to take up a question of meaning, an interpretive question that has more than one answer. Since the form of a poem is part of its meaning (for example, features such as repetition and rhyme may amplify or extend the meaning of a word or idea, adding emphasis, texture, or dimension), we believe that questions about form and technique, about the observable features of a poem, provide an effective point of entry for interpretation. To ask some of these questions, you’ll need to develop a good ear for the musical qualities of language, particularly how sound and rhythm relate to meaning. This approach is one of many ways into a poem.
Getting Started: Prior Assumptions
Most readers make three false assumptions when addressing an unfamiliar poem. The first is assuming that they should understand what they encounter on the first reading, and if they don’t, that something is wrong with them or with the poem. The second is assuming that the poem is a kind of code, that each detail corresponds to one, and only one, thing, and unless they can crack this code, they’ve missed the point. The third is assuming that the poem can mean anything readers want it to mean.
William Carlos Williams wrote a verse addressed to his wife in the poem "January Morning,":
All this—
was for you, old woman.
I wanted to write a poem
that you would understand.
For what good is it to me
if you can’t understand it?
But you got to try hard—
Williams admits in these lines that poetry is often difficult. He also suggests that a poet depends on the effort of a reader; somehow, a reader must "complete" what the poet has begun.
This act of completion begins when you enter the imaginative play of a poem, bringing to it your experience and point of view. If a poem is "play" in the sense of a game or a sport, then you enjoy that it makes you work a little, that it makes you sweat a bit. Reading poetry is a challenge, but like so many other things, it takes practice, and your skills and insight improve as you progress.
Literature is, and has always been, the sharing of experience, the pooling of human understanding about living, loving, and dying. Successful poems welcome you in, revealing ideas that may not have been foremost in the writer’s mind in the moment of composition. The best poetry has a magical quality—a sense of being more than the sum of its parts—and even when it’s impossible to articulate this sense, this something more, the power of the poem is left undiminished.
Poems speak to us in many ways. Though their forms may not always be direct or narrative, keep in mind that a real person formed the moment of the poem, and it’s wise to seek an understanding of that moment. Sometimes the job of the poem is to come closer to saying what cannot be said in other forms of writing, to suggest an experience, idea, or feeling that you can know but not entirely express in any direct or literal way. The techniques of word and line arrangement, sound and rhythm, add to—and in some cases, multiply—the meaning of words to go beyond the literal, giving you an impression of an idea or feeling, an experience that you can’t quite put into words but that you know is real.
-
January Morning
Suite:
I
I HAVE discovered that most of
the beauties of travel are due to
the strange hours we keep to see them:
the domes of the Church of
the Paulist Fathers in Weehawken
against a smoky dawn -- the heart stirred --
are beautiful as Saint Peters
approached after years of anticipation.
II
Though the operation was postponed
I saw the tall probationers
in their tan uniforms
hurrying to breakfast!
III
-- and from basement entries
neatly coiffed, middle aged gentlemen
with orderly moustaches and
well-brushed coats
IV
-- and the sun, dipping into the avenues
streaking the tops of
the irregular red houselets,
and
the gay shadows drooping and drooping.
V
-- and a young horse with a green bed-quilt
on his withers shaking his head:
bared teeth and nozzle high in the air!
VI
--and a semicircle of dirt-colored men
about a fire bursting from an old
ash can,
VII
-- and the worn,
blue car rails (like the sky!)
gleaming among the cobbles!
VIII
-- and the rickety ferry-boat "Arden"!
What an object to be called "Arden"
among the great piers, -- on the
ever new river!
"Put me a Touchstone
at the wheel, white gulls, and we'll
follow the ghost of the Half Moon
to the North West Passage -- and through!
(at Albany!) for all that!"
IX
Exquisite brown waves -- long
circlets of silver moving over you!
enough with crumbling ice crusts among you!
The sky has come down to you,
lighter than tiny bubbles, face to
face with you!
His spirit is
a white gull with delicate pink feet
and a snowy breast for you to
hold to your lips delicately!
X
The young doctor is dancing with happiness
in the sparkling wind, alone
at the prow of the ferry! He notices
the curdy barnacles and broken ice crusts
left at the slip's base by the low tide
and thinks of summer and green
shell-crusted ledges among
the emerald eel-grass!
XI
Who knows the Palisades as I do
knows the river breaks east from them
above the city -- but they continue south
-- under the sky -- to bear a crest of
little peering houses that brighten
with dawn behind the moody
water-loving giants of Manhattan.
XII
Long yellow rushes bending
above the white snow patches;
purple and gold ribbon
of the distant wood:
what an angle
you make with each other as
you lie there in contemplation.
XIII
Work hard all your young days
and they'll find you too, some morning
staring up under
your chiffonier at its warped
bass-wood bottom and your soul --
out!
-- among the little sparrows
behind the shutter.
XIV
-- and the flapping flags are at
half-mast for the dead admiral.
XV
All this --
was for you, old woman.
I wanted to write a poem
that you would understand.
For what good is it to me
if you can't understand it?
But you got to try hard --
But --
Well, you know how
the young girls run giggling
on Park Avenue after dark
when they ought to be home in bed?
Well,
that's the way it is with me somehow.
-
(http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_LqwQxG1c0BM/S352OnAobpI/AAAAAAAAKz0/wTZ4mnqnaTQ/s400/Spring+Chimera.jpg) - Famous Poets and Poems - Spring (http://famouspoetsandpoems.com/thematic_poems/spring_poems.html)
- Spring Poems (http://poetry.about.com/od/ourpoemcollections/a/springpoems.htm)
Discussion Leaders: Barb (augere@ix.netcom.com)
| Buds...Blossoms...Blessings
Spring Poetry
Eutopia
~ Francis Turner Palgrave
THERE is a garden where lilies
And roses are side by side;
And all day between them in silence
The silken butterflies glide.
I may not enter the garden,
Though I know the road thereto;
And morn by morn to the gateway
I see the children go.
They bring back light on their faces;
But they cannot bring back to me
What the lilies say to the roses,
Or the songs of the butterflies be.
|
-
The Rose of the World
~ William Butler Yeats
WHO dreamed that beauty passes like a dream?
For those red lips, with all their mournful pride,
Mournful that no new wonder may betide,
Troy passed away in one high funeral gleam,
And Usna's children died.
We and the labouring world are passing by:
Amid men's souls, that waver and give place
Like the pale waters in their wintry race,
Under the passing stars, foam of the sky,
Lives on this lonely face.
Bow down, archangels, in your dim abode:
Before you were, or any hearts to beat,
Weary and kind one lingered by His seat;
He made the world to be a grassy road
Before her wandering feet.
-
A Cradle Song
~ William Butler Yeats
THE angels are stooping
Above your bed;
They weary of trooping
With the whimpering dead.
God's laughing in Heaven
To see you so good;
The Sailing Seven
Are gay with his mood.
I sigh that kiss you,
For I must own
That I shall miss you
When you have grown.
-
Enjoying and reading slowly the poetry, Barbara. Thank you. Happy Poetry Month.
-
That January Suite made interesting reading. Some I seemed to grasp, others I did
not. IX I found especially diffictult, tho' I read it three times.
Can you give me a clue, BARB, about Yeats reference to the "Sailing Seven". I
probably should recognize it but I don't.
-
Glad you peeked in Hats - hope you enjoy the pages...
Babi the seven sisters are the Pleiades, who were nymphs, the seven daughters of the Titan Atlas and the sea nymph Pleione and seen in the sky I think in summer but I know in October.
http://www.naic.edu/~gibson/pleiades/pleiades_myth.html
This is copied from another site
The Pleiades is an open star cluster which is visible to the naked eye in the constellation Taurus. The Ancient Greeks saw seven stars in the cluster, and named them after the Pleiades, the seven daughters of Atlas and Pleione. According to myth, the hunter Orion was in love with them and pursued them until the gods took them to safety, transforming them first into doves, and then into stars. Telescopes have shown that there are up to 500 stars in the cluster.
Pleiades (mythology), in Greek mythology, the seven daughters of Atlas and of Pleione, the daughter of Oceanus. Their names were Electra, Maia, Taygete, Alcyone, Celaeno, Sterope, and Merope. According to some versions of the myth, they committed suicide from grief at the fate of their father, Atlas, or at the death of their sisters, the Hyades.
Other versions made them the attendants of Artemis, goddess of wildlife and of hunting, who were pursued by the giant hunter Orion, but were rescued by the gods and changed into doves. After their death, or metamorphosis, they were transformed into stars, but are still pursued across the sky by the constellation Orion.
Maia, in Greek mythology, the eldest of the seven Pleiades, the children of Atlas and Pleione. A lover of Zeus, the ruler of the Olympian gods, Maia gave birth to Hermes.
In ancient Rome she was often confused with the obscure cult deity Maia, from whom the month named Maius (May) is derived
The badge of Subaru cars features the Pleiades.
Both the Great Pyramid of Giza and the Mayan Temple of the Sun in Cuzco are ialigned with the Pleiades.
-
One step further - the Pleiades is a seven line poem form with few restrictions as to content, but with strong imagery.
Wicking
~ Tumbleweed
wicks of low white candles
whisper into the dark
waltz minute by minute
with washboard harmonics
whistled up by the wind,
wise beyond spoken words
willowy shadows bend
Shanties
~ Sandra Martyres
Sneezing and wheezing
Showering in rain
Shrill voices cry out
Stocks of food are low
Starving shanty kids
State governments
Soulless spectators
-
:D ::) ;) Wow all that from a short poem to a baby in its cradle. 8)
-
Oh, that seven sisters. ;) I can assume then that Yeats will be raising his child to
be familiar with the classics.
-
The Country
~ Billy Collins
I wondered about you
when you told me never to leave
a box of wooden, strike-anywhere matches
lying around the house because the mice
might get into them and start a fire.
But your face was absolutely straight
when you twisted the lid down on the round tin
where the matches, you said, are always stowed.
Who could sleep that night?
Who could whisk away the thought
of the one unlikely mouse
padding along a cold water pipe
behind the floral wallpaper
gripping a single wooden match
between the needles of his teeth?
Who could not see him rounding a corner,
the blue tip scratching against a rough-hewn beam,
the sudden flare, and the creature
for one bright, shining moment
suddenly thrust ahead of his time-
now a fire-starter, now a torch-bearer
in a forgotten ritual, little brown druid
illuminating some ancient night.
Who could fail to notice,
lit up in the blazing insulation,
the tiny looks of wonderment on the faces
of his fellow mice, one-time inhabitants
of what once was your house in the country?
-
Which only illustrates that a poet can find a subject in anything! And a good one, too. ;D
Here's one from Walt Whitman, who I must admit is not a favorite of mine. But I like this one.
A Noiseless Patient Spider
a poem by Walt Whitman
A noiseless patient spider,
I marked where on a promontory it stood isolated,
Marked how to explore the vacant vast surrounding,
It launched forth filament, filament, filament, out of itself,
Ever unreeling them, ever tirelessly speeding them.
And you O my soul where you stand,
Surrounded, detached, in measureless oceans of space,
Ceaselessly musing, venturing, throwing, seeking the spheres to connect them,
Till the bridge you will need be formed, till the ductile anchor hold,
Till the gossamer thread you fling catch somewhere, O my soul.
-
I'm here, Barbara. Catching up on the posted poems. Happy National Poetry Month to all of you.
-
Here is an excerpt of Rumi founder of the Whirling Dervishes and the highest read poet in America today - http://www.rumipoet.com/
-
From: Essential Rumi
The breeze at dawn has secrets to tell you.
Don't go back to sleep.
You must ask for what you really want.
Don't go back to sleep.
People are going back and forth across the doorsill
where the two worlds touch.
The door is round and open.
Don't go back to sleep.
-
From: Essential Rumi
~ by Coleman Barks
If you want what visible reality
can give, you're an employee.
If you want the unseen world,
you're not living your truth.
Both wishes are foolish,
but you'll be forgiven for forgetting
that what you really want is
love's confusing joy.
-
The 'highest read poet in America today' and I've never heard of him! Obviously, I am
not keeping up-to-date in poetry. I love the two examples you gave us, BARB, and I'm
going to look for more of Rumi.
-
Good morning,
Like the poem "Digging." Says a lot about writing, I think.
I would love to read more Rumi. Hope you posted it here.
-
~ Jalaluddin Rumi, (1207-1273 ce) saint and mystic, from Essential Rumi
You've no idea how hard I've looked for a gift to bring You.
Nothing seemed right.
What's the point of bringing gold to the gold mine, or water to the Ocean.
Everything I came up with was like taking spices to the Orient.
It's no good giving my heart and my soul because you already have these.
So- I've brought you a mirror.
Look at yourself and remember me.
-
Barbara, isn't that just beautiful?? Soooo romantic.
-
I am all too familiar with that problem; what to give the person who needs nothing and has
more than they need of everything?
-
Fascinating how we can all read into poetry our own understanding that hits a button within us - I was looking at the poem as God talking putting that together in my head because of Rumi being a mystic - so many of the mystics from any religious practice write the most romantic - provocatively romantic poetry - I am thinking of John of the Cross and Teresa of Ávila. - both mystics - both writers and especially John whose Dark Night of the Soul is a poem written in 1587 was only roughly translated into English in the late 1880s. The most lyrical translation was done by E. Allison Peers in the 1940s and 50s. The Bride is the symbol of the soul meeting God symbolized by the Groom.
Here is one of many translations...
Once in a dark of night,
Inflamed with love and wanting, I arose
(O coming of delight!)
And went, as no one knows,
When all my house lay long in deep repose
All in the dark went right,
Down secret steps, disguised in other clothes,
(O coming of delight!)
In dark when no one knows,
When all my house lay long in deep repose.
And in the luck of night
In secret places where no other spied
I went without my sight
Without a light to guide
Except the heart that lit me from inside.
It guided me and shone
Surer than noonday sunlight over me,
And lead me to the one
Whom only I could see
Deep in a place where only we could be.
O guiding dark of night!
O dark of night more darling than the dawn!
O night that can unite
A lover and loved one,
A lover and loved one moved in unison.
And on my flowering breast
Which I had kept for him and him alone
He slept as I caressed
And loved him for my own,
Breathing an air from redolent cedars blown.
And from the castle wall
The wind came down to winnow through his hair
Bidding his fingers fall,
Searing my throat with air
And all my senses were suspended there.
I stayed there to forget.
There on my lover, face to face, I lay.
All ended, and I let
My cares all fall away
Forgotten in the lilies on that day.
-
Well this one isn't a love story or a spiritual cry of the heart. However, it could be called Romantic since it does tap into an aesthetic experience that includes awe, confronting the wilds of nature.
Page from a Tale
~ by Wallace Stevens [1879-1955]
In the hard brightness of that winter day
The sea was frozen solid and Hans heard,
By his drift-fire, on the shore, the difference
Between loud water and loud wind, between that
Which has no accurate syllables and that
Which cries so blau and cries again, so lind
Und so lau, between sound without meaning and
speech,
Of clay and wattles made as it ascends
And hear it as it falls in the deep heart's core.
A steamer lay near him, foundered in the ice.
So blau, so blau...Hans listened by the fire.
New stars that were a foot across came out
And shone. And a small cabin build there.
So lind. The wind blazed as they sang. So lau.
The great ship, Balayne, lay frozen in the sea.
The one-foot stars were couriers of its death.
To the wild limits of its habitation.
These were not tepid stars of torpid places.
But bravest at midnight and in lonely spaces,
They looked back at Hans' look with a savage faces.
The wet weed sputtered, the fire died down, the cold
Was like a sleep. The sea was a sea he dreamed.
Yet Hans lay wide awake. And live alone.
In the bee-loud glade. Lights on the steamer moved.
Men would be starting at dawn to walk ashore.
They would be afraid of the sun: what it might be,
Afraid of the country angels of those skies,
The finned flutterings and gaspings of the ice,
As if whatever in water strove to speak
Broken dialect in a break of memory.
The sun might rise and it might not and if
It rose, ashen and red and yellow, each.
Opaque, in orange circlet, nearer than it
Had ever been before, no longer known,
No more that which most of all brings back the known,
But that which destroys it completely by this light.
For that, or a motion not in the astronomies,
Beyond to the habit of sense, anarchic shape
Afire-- it might and it might not in that.
Gothic blue, speed home its portents to their ends.
It might become a wheel spoked red and white.
In alternate stripes converging at a point
Of flame on the line, with a second wheel below,
Just rising, accompanying, arranged to cross,
Through weltering illuminations, humps
Of billows, downward, toward the drift-fire shore.
It might come bearing, out of chaos, kin
Smeared, smoked, and drunken of thin potencies,
Lashing at images in the atmosphere,
Ringed round and barred, with eyes held in their.
hands,
And capable of incapably evil thought:
Slight gestures that could rend, the palpable ice,
Or melt Arcturus to ingots dropping drops,
Or spill night out in brilliant vanishings,
Whirlpools of darkness in whirlwinds of light...
The miff-maff-muff of water, the vocables
Of the wind, the glassily-sparkling particles
Of the mind -- They would soon climb down the side of.
the ship.
They would march single file, with electric lamps, alert
For a tidal undulation underneath.
-
I'm afraid I found both Teresa of Avila and St. John of the Cross a bit too
much. I can't help thinking they were very passionate people who should have
married and raised kids. However, they sublimated that passion..at considerable
cost, I would say...and accomplished a great deal.
"Of clay and wattles made". "And a small cabin build there"? Yeats and
Stevens were both writing poetry at this time. Who borrowed these words from
whom. They don't seem to fit in Stevens poem about wind and sea sounds. Is
he deriding Yeats with his 'blau, so blau'?
-
Interesting on many counts isn't it Babi that St. John of the Cross and Teresa of Ávila use the metaphor of Bride and Groom and yet, during that time in history in spite of the romantic novels in reality love seldom entered the picture when folks married - the nobility married to increase their power and land holdings - some married for the use of the Dowery and among the peasants it was simply necessary to take care of each other - also the church having a strong opinion already about sex before marriage it was often a case of either rape or sexual need satisfied with a good woman who knew her way around the land and kitchen.
I guess magically even when marriage was not based on the kind of love we know there was this romantic notion that once a Bride and Groom the couple would experience love. Based on that premice the passionate love relationship to each other was used in reference to man and God.
I wonder on the concept of Stevens writing using Yeats as a mentor - their lives did overlap some - that would be interesting to read the poems of each and see if there was a similarity - I would not be surprised since I have heard and read that poets do use pieces of each others work. I thought the strange words were supposed to be imitating the wind and water - the words do not make the sounds that I associate however, I am sure the wind and water sounds differently in the north where water freezes.
-
Here is a Yeats poem that includes wind and water - lighter than the Steven's
To a Child dancing in the Wind
~ W B Yeats
I
DANCE there upon the shore;
What need have you to care
For wind or water’s roar?
And tumble out your hair
That the salt drops have wet;
Being young you have not known
The fool’s triumph, nor yet
Love lost as soon as won,
Nor the best labourer dead
And all the sheaves to bind.
What need have you to dread
The monstrous crying of wind?
II
Has no one said those daring
Kind eyes should be more learn’d?
Or warned you how despairing
The moths are when they are burned,
I could have warned you, but you are young,
So we speak a different tongue.
O you will take whatever’s offered
And dream that all the world’s a friend,
Suffer as your mother suffered,
Be as broken in the end.
But I am old and you are young,
And I speak a barbarous tongue.
-
Interesting theory, BARB. The idea still makes me uncomfortable,
but those were different times.
On the Stephens/Yeats comparison, I did not think of Yeats as the
mentor. It seemed to me that Stephens was mocking him, but I may
be doing the man an injustice.
I really liked Yeats idea of the words of elder wisdom being 'barbarous'
for an innocent child. Time enough for warnings later; late the child enjoy
innocence while they can.
What do you think of this one:
Wind and Water and Stone
The water hollowed the stone,
the wind dispersed the water,
the stone stopped the wind.
Water and wind and stone.
The wind sculpted the stone,
the stone is a cup of water,
The water runs off and is wind.
Stone and wind and water.
The wind sings in its turnings,
the water murmurs as it goes,
the motionless stone is quiet.
Wind and water and stone.
One is the other and is neither:
among their empty names
they pass and disappear,
water and stone and wind.
~ Octavio Paz ~
-
ah Octavia Paz - I love his work and so little of it has been translated into English - he has been a pull on me to learn Spanish - so many things to do in one life - I need a double - rushing around today - back tonight.
-
I
In a solitude of the sea
Deep from human vanity,
And the Pride of Life that planned her, stilly couches she.
II
Steel chambers, late the pyres
Of her salamandrine fires,
Cold currents thrid, and turn to rhythmic tidal lyres.
III
Over the mirrors meant
To glass the opulent
The sea-worm crawls -- grotesque, slimed, dumb, indifferent.
IV
Jewels in joy designed
To ravish the sensuous mind
Lie lightless, all their sparkles bleared and black and blind.
V
Dim moon-eyed fishes near
Gaze at the gilded gear
And query: 'What does this vaingloriousness down here?'...
VI
Well: while was fashioning
This creature of cleaving wing,
The Immanent Will that stirs and urges everything
VII
Prepared a sinister mate
For her -- so gaily great --
A Shape of Ice, for the time far and dissociate.
VIII
And as the smart ship grew
In stature, grace, and hue,
In shadowy silent distance grew the Iceberg too.
IX
Alien they seemed to be:
No mortal eye could see
The intimate welding of their later history,
X
Or sign that they were bent
By paths coincident
On being anon twin halves of one august event,
XI
Till the Spinner of the Years
Said 'Now!' And each one hears,
And consummation comes, and jars two hemispheres.
Convergence of the Twain, Thomas Hardy
Read a lot about titanic on its 100 anniversary of the sinking, but nobody brought this our .
Great, great poem.
-
Not as wonderful as a poem by Hardy but another poem about the ship.
THE PRIDE OF BELFAST
She was the pride of Belfast and she was declared to be
The ocean's greatest greyhound, the mistress of the sea;
And as she left her moorings with thousands on the shore,
That cried "God speed" not thinking that they'd never see her more.
'Twas on a Sunday evening, with the ocean calm and clear,
And hope and joy in every breast, no thought of danger near.
For like a stately queen she glides, then comes a crash, and lo,
Their hope is turned to anguish, and their joy to bitter woe.
"Women and children first," they cry, as they swing the lifeboats clear,
Wherever danger's lurking, brave men are always near.
God bless the gallant heroes, their agonies are o'er,
But their deed in sago and in song, shall live for evermore.
Titantic. O Titantic! her fate makes strong men weep;
She carried fifteen hundred souls to a briny grave and deep.
A sacrifice to the lust for gold, a sacrifice to fame,
The White Star line now a record holds to her everlasting shame.
CHORUS: "Nearer My God" they sang, "Nearer to Thee,"
Of earthly hope bereft, facing eternity.
O how the music swelled from brave men's hearts it welled:
"Nearer My God to Thee." and they sank in that icebound sea.
-
Fog was part of the story and this poem is about fog from the sea to the city...
The White Fog Creeps From The Cold Sea Over The City
~ Conrad Aiken
The white fog creeps from the cold sea over the city,
Over the pale grey tumbled towers,--
And settles among the roofs, the pale grey walls.
Along damp sinuous streets it crawls,
Curls like a dream among the motionless trees
And seems to freeze.
The fog slips ghostlike into a thousand rooms,
Whirls over sleeping faces,
Spins in an atomy dance round misty street lamps;
And blows in cloudy waves over open spaces . . .
And one from his high window, looking down,
Peers at the cloud-white town,
And thinks its island towers are like a dream . . .
It seems an enormous sleeper, within whose brain
Laborious shadows revolve and break and gleam.
-
from the 2012 Pulitzer Prize winner of poetry, Tracy K. Smith.
Duende
~ by Tracy K. Smith
1.
The earth is dry and they live wanting.
Each with a small reservoir
Of furious music heavy in the throat.
They drag it out and with nails in their feet
Coax the night into being. Brief believing.
A skirt shimmering with sequins and lies.
And in this night that is not night,
Each word is a wish, each phrase
A shape their bodies ache to fill—
I’m going to braid my hair
Braid many colors into my hair
I’ll put a long braid in my hair
And write your name there
They defy gravity to feel tugged back.
The clatter, the mad slap of landing.
2.
And not just them. Not just
The ramshackle family, the tios,
Primitos, not just the bailaor
Whose heels have notched
And hammered time
So the hours flow in place
Like a tin river, marking
Only what once was.
Not just the voices scraping
Against the river, nor the hands
nudging them farther, fingers
like blind birds, palms empty,
echoing. Not just the women
with sober faces and flowers
in their hair, the ones who dance
as though they're burying
memory—one last time—
beneath them.
And I hate to do it here.
To set myself heavily beside them.
Not now that they’ve proven
The body a myth, parable
For what not even language
Moves quickly enough to name.
If I call it pain, and try to touch it
With my hands, my own life,
It lies still and the music thins,
A pulse felt for through garments.
If I lean into the desire it starts from—
If I lean unbuttoned into the blow
Of loss after loss, love tossed
Into the ecstatic void—
It carries me with it farther,
To chords that stretch and bend
Like light through colored glass.
But it races on, toward shadows
Where the world I know
And the world I fear
Threaten to meet.
3.
There is always a road,
The sea, dark hair, dolor.
Always a question
Bigger than itself—
They say you’re leaving Monday
Why can’t you leave on Tuesday?
-
this is a non poem, a quote from "To End All Wars" by Adam Hochschild, comparing war to a mistress.
"You can have no other mistress. No wine gives fiercer intoxication, no drug mor vivid exaltation.
You may loathe , you may execrate, but you cannot deny her. Even those who hate her most are prisoners of her spell. They rise from her embrace pillaged, soiled, maybe even ashamed, but they are still hers."
Striking in the light of our troops" recent behaviour in Afghanistan.
The quote is attributed to someone named Gilbert Chapman. Does anyone know him? Widipedia's references are far from literary. I thought he might be a poet.
-
there is an author Colin Gilbert Chapman that could fit since his books are religious as well as about conflict.
-
BARB: love your Winnie-the-Pooh picture and quote. Yes, we are humming "hums" aren't we!
-
:D ;) :-*
-
thank you Barb StAubrey, I think you found the Gilbert Chapman I was seeking. I see he has written a lot of nonfiction books, but I think he should have een a poet for that analogy about war.
-
I love this - no author listed - found it on a page about celebrating...
My grandfather's name was moon
Because his eyes were bright and round
And no amount of time or liquor could dull them
My grandmother's name was joy
Because it spilled out of her heart
And bathed her precious children in its warmth
And there was happiness in life beyond the sorrow
And the pain
But how they ever found it I cannot explain
I guess time has a way of making everything alright
It's just there is not enough of it
And so we drink and we sing and we celebrate
This lie and hope that it will last
Morning is here night has passed
My grandfather was a doctor
He cured the sick with his kind hands
And he taught me how to sail and how to find dry land
My grandmother was all sweetness
And when she spoke we all heard bells and
They rang in such a way that we were comforted
And they held on to each other with all the strength they had
And they loved with devotion beyond what I understand
But I guess fear has a way of making sleep unbearable
And the days seem dark and long
But we cry and we dance
And we stumble into love with perfect, awkward grace
The moon is gone and the sun has took its place
-
I love it, too, BARB. It's a pity we don't know who wrote it.
I think it is now the perfect time to post an old, short classic.
"The year's at the spring,
And day's at the morn;
Morning's at seven;
The hill-side's dew-pearled;
The lark's on the wing;
The snail's on the thorn;
God's in his Heaven—
All's right with the world!"- Robert Browning, The Year's at the Spring
-
Perfect Babi - yes, just perfect - the kind of words and thoughts that make us think all is right with our world or if it isn't it could be.
-
We have to seize those moments and savor them. It does so much for one's peace of mind.
-
(http://seniorlearn.org/bookclubs/poetry/summermonet.jpg) - Famous Poets and Poems - Summer (http://famouspoetsandpoems.com/thematic_poems/summer_poems.html)
- Summer Poems (http://poetry.about.com/od/ourpoemcollections/a/summerpoems.htm)
Discussion Leaders: Barb (augere@ix.netcom.com)
| Sun...Sand...Surf...Wild Meadows
Summer Poetry
Emily Dickinson
#122
A wild Blue sky abreast of Winds
That threatened it — did run
And crouched behind his Yellow Door
Was the defiant sun —
Some conflict with those upper friends
So genial in the main
That we deplore peculiarly
Their arrogant campaign —
|
-
You Are Part Of Me
Lloyd Carl Owle (Cherokee)
You are part of me now
You touched me,
With your kindness and love
So enchanted.
Your soft lips are kind.
Your eyes glow with life.
I'm glad you touched me,
You're part of me now.
-
Eagle Poem
~ By Joy Harjo
To pray you open your whole self
To sky, to earth, to sun, to moon
To one whole voice that is you.
And know there is more
That you can’t see, can’t hear;
Can’t know except in moments
Steadly growing, and in languages
That aren’t always sound but other
Circles of motion.
Like eagle that Sunday morning
Over Salt River. Circled in blue sky
In wind, swept our hearts clean
With sacred wings.
We see you, see ourselves and know
That we must take the utmost care
And kindness in all things.
Breathe in, knowing we are made of
All this, and breathe, knowing
We are truly blessed because we
Were born, and die soon within a
True circle of motion,
Like eagle rounding out the morning
Inside us.
We pray that it will be done
In beauty.
In beauty.
-
Ah, that was just what I needed. I could feel my body relaxing.
-
great Babi - sometimes that is what poetry seems to do and other times it can churn up something that leaves us on edge for awhile but yes, these are quieter - I particularly like Joy Harjo's poems - we did a month of her work back a few years ago.
-
Someone posted pictures of Indigo buntings in the library: the little black bird that turns blue wqhen the sun strikes it:
http://www.google.com/search?client=safari&rls=en&q=Indigo+bunting+pictures&ie=UTF-8&oe=UTF-8
it reminds me of a poem
I am like the Blue Bunting
that lives in my yard.
When the sun shines I am blue-
That blue!
The blue that you always wanted to be-
the blue of the jewel
that lives in your heart.
But when the sun is gone,
I turn
black.
-
I never knew that about the Indigo Bunting. So many fascinating things I'm still learning about.
I remember my grandmother singing a song about a chickadee. I finally found the lyrics, and
it is apparently the "Snow Bird Song", and she only sang the first verse, with slight alterations.
The 'two little sisters' became 'two little children'.
THE SNOW-BIRD’S SONG
The ground was all covered with snow one day,
And two little sisters were busy at play,
When a snow-bird was sitting close by on a tree,
And merrily singing his chick-a-dee-dee,
Chick-a-dee-dee, chick-a-dee-dee,
And merrily singing his chick-a-dee-dee.
-
Good morning,
I've been reading a few of the Native American poems. They are very beautiful.
-
The Blue Buntings are very pretty.
-
HI, HATS!
-
What we need here is a timely poem. How about that all-time favorite, Emily Dickinson?
Emily Dickinson, A Something in a Summer's Day
"A something in a summer's Day
As slow her flambeaux burn away
Which solemnizes me.
A something in a summer's noon --
A depth -- an Azure -- a perfume --
Transcending ecstasy.
And still within a summer's night
A something so transporting bright
I clap my hands to see --
Then veil my too inspecting face
Lets such a subtle -- shimmering grace
Flutter too far for me --
The wizard fingers never rest --
The purple brook within the breast
Still chafes it narrow bed --
Still rears the East her amber Flag --
Guides still the sun along the Crag
His Caravan of Red --
So looking on -- the night -- the morn
Conclude the wonder gay --
And I meet, coming thro' the dews
Another summer's Day!"
-
-
Wonderful poem.
I read the "Lets" that starts line 11 as "Lest". Was I wrong?
-
A brief poke my head in - I'm here in Saluda where it is cool, too for me, almost cold with thick thick fog. The trees are full of leaves and they are all around - I do go to the living room windows to feel less constricted where I can look out over an open field although smack up against the side of the mountain, I can at least see some sky - oh dear - but I imagine this is probably closer to the scenery for our dear Emily rather than the wide open huge sky I am used to.
Here is a prose poem by Richard Mack
Red-tailed hawks and a great blue heron sail against a summer sky. Gray clouds of storm backdrop the slick, garnet-hughed twigs of the Arroyo willow. Campfire sparks rise and mingle with the stars against an obsidian night sky. Horses and riders silhouette along a ridgeline.
and another by Richard Mack
Fruit Cellar
it's cool here in the fruit cellar
cool and dark and quiet
slivers of outside peek through cracks in the door
aging rows of fruit and vegetable
float in silent syrups with fetal serenity
mice feet whisper like rain on roses
my skin tingles with anticipated cobwebs
and shrinks from the uncertainty of subterranean dampness
silence rushes in my ears
and my heart echoes in the empty chamber
it's cool here in the fruit cellar
cool and dark and quiet
why doesn't someone look for me
-
Makes more sense that way, JOAN. I just copied the poem 'in situ' and transferred
it.
Ooh, I love Richard Mack! I want to read more of his work. Thanks for the introduction,
BARB.
-
Remember Anna Alexander? You 'old-timers' do ,of course. Our resident poet.
I thought of her this morning, and brought you one of her best.
Spring?by Anna Alexander
Spring that capricious lass
With tentative toe touched the dry brown grass.
Finding no one to stop her path
Trailing gossamer garments filled with southern breezes
She skipped North with winter still upon us.
Seducing trees in winter garb.
Confused they brought forth buds
Swollen by her siren’s touch.
Proudly displayed before their time,
In January when the earth was cold and still,
The beauty meant for May.
Alas she led them all astray!
Danced among them, teased their branches bare.
Whispered promises she could not keep.
When Winter shook his frigid fist
She shook her golden head of hair
Scampered South to hide her face.
Now when she should be here
She loiters on southern beaches.
The early buds wither and die,
Shiver in the frosted air.
Wonder what happened to that sassy lass
Whose guile their best efforts failed
To captivate, Whose smile they welcomed.
Where is she now ? That False Spring?
When March has almost gone away ?
Will April bring her back to stay
Or will Winter linger still awhile?
-
Perfect - so glad to read Annafair's poems again and this one was the best choice.
Here is another I actually found on-line by Googling Annafair
Lilac Time
When lilacs bloom`ed and diffused the air,
Softly,faintly with fragrant perfume rare.
When early spring warmed by solar heat
Sooth`ed cold winter's leisurely retreat.
Then I would meet you beside new green hills,
Where robins nested, their song notes trilled.
We would bask upon the sun warmed fields,
I to your loving arms myself would yield.
There I would clove to you in nature's bower,
Our senses drugg`ed by the blissful flower.
My reverie, startled by a mourning dove,
My open eyes discloses a ghostly love,
Fading softly into a gentle sky.
My soul, alone and lost, without you cries...
anna alexander revised 9/7/2000 all rights reserved
-
And this one is just right for my week here in Saluda...
THE STICK-TOGETHER FAMILIES
~ by Edgar Guest (c) 1917
The stick-together families are happier by far
Than the brothers and the sisters who take separate highways are.
The gladdest people living are the wholesome folks who make
A circle at the fireside that no power but death can break.
And the finest of conventions ever held beneath the sun
Are the little family gatherings when the busy day is done.
There are rich folk, there are poor folk, who imagine they are wise,
And they're very quick to shatter all the little family ties.
Each goes searching after pleasure in his own selected way,
Each with strangers likes to wander, and with strangers likes to play.
But it's bitterness they harvest, and it's empty joy they find,
For the children that are wisest are the stick-together kind.
There are some who seem to fancy that for gladness they must roam,
That for smiles that are the brightest they must wander far from home.
That the strange friend is the true friend, and they travel far astray
And they waste their lives in striving for a joy that's far away,
But the gladdest sort of people, when the busy day is done,
Are the brothers and the sisters who together share their fun.
It's the stick-together family that wins the joys of earth,
That hears the sweetest music and that finds the finest mirth;
It's the old home roof that shelters all the charm that life can give;
There you find the gladdest play-ground, there the happiest spot to live.
And, O weary, wandering brother, if contentment you would win,
Come you back unto the fireside and be comrade with your kin.
-
http://www.vgreene.com/Anna/annas_archives.htm Is this the site where you found
Anna's poem, BARB? It appears to be part of the site of a Virginia Greene, whom I
assume is a relative or close friend.
My family was very close when I was growing up. All my various aunts, uncles and cousins
visited one another for holidays and vacations. It is said, now that we are old, that we can no
longer keep up those ties. We are scattered, with some of us in poor health, the aunts and uncles
gone and even some of the cousins.
-
No, but a lovely site - thanks for the link - I just Googled Annafair and found it - Everything is so damp here so that there is a musty smell in the air. Probably from the dampness in the fallen leaves from last year. I can also smell it in the basement which is something we do not have - I understand the water is already being rationed in Austin and we can only water on Saturdays. Here is a 'Damp' poem
Damp Rot
~ By John Engels
Water sheets on the old stone of the cellar walls,
trickles out over the floor into little deltas of mud,
worse every year, so that now I can see daylight
at the footings, and upstairs the floors sometimes
tremble and the clothes go damp in the closets. And sometimes
I think the whole place is about to come down, and have begun
to dream at night of moving, unaccountably sad
to think of leaving this house which has possessed me now
for eighteen years, in which one of us has died
and two been born, for all its elegance of detail most everything
not right in it, or long gone bad, nothing
ever done which should have been, one hundred years
and more of water rancid in the cellars, moldings
never finished or else mitred crookedly, all
the small and growing energies of dirt and rot
wherever we care to look, whenever we do. And we do.
But I dream also of the pine grove of my planting,
which I know I love and which is the green truth
of this place: in one day ten years ago
I dug fourteen small trees, wrapped the roots
in burlap, dragged them down from the top ridge
of the hill, spaced them carefully, watered
them each day for one whole season. Now
they are twenty feet high, thick roots
already at the cellar wall, vigorous and loud
even in little winds, only the hemlock
mournful and reluctant to do much in the way
of increasing itself. But it is clear
that if I do not freely leave this place,
it will leave me—though, as Ray Reynolds says,
digging at a powdery floor joist with his knife,
there may be more here than I think, better
than a two-by-six at least; and his blade slides
two inches in and stops at what he calls
the heartwood, meaning, as I take it, at the wood
which has not yet given way.
-
You made me cry with Anna's poems. I miss her so much -- she would call me at night and read her poems to me.
When she died, I sent an e-mail to her family saying that if they wanted to publish her poems, I would help with the expense. But I never heard back. I'm glad they're still out there somewhere.
-
We've gotten a number of thunder storms down here, BARB. Too bad we haven't yet
discovered how to re-route some of this weather. On the other hand, if we started meddling
yet more we would likely make some disastrous mistake. ::)
-
This isn't spring-themed, but last week I saw an exhibit of Hokusai's 36 Views of Mount Fuji, and it reminded me of one of JoanK's favorite haiku:
Climb Mount Fuji,
O snail,
but slowly, slowly.
Issa
-
Thanks Pat a good reminder of the simple beauty in a few words - here is another contemporary Mount Fuji Haiku
mount fuji photo session
she makes up her face as
the mountain hides its face
Jon Chunghoo
-
Far Over the Misty Mountains Cold
~ JRR Tolkien
Far over the Misty Mountains cold,
To dungeons deep and caverns old,
We must away, ere break of day,
To seek our pale enchanted gold.
The dwarves of yore made mighty spells,
While hammers fell like ringing bells,
In places deep, where dark things sleep,
In hollow halls beneath the fells.
For ancient king and elvish lord
There many a gleaming golden hoard
They shaped and wrought, and light they caught,
To hide in gems on hilt of sword.
On silver necklaces they strung
The flowering stars, on crowns they hung
The dragon-fire, on twisted wire
They meshed the light of moon and sun.
Far over the Misty Mountains cold,
To dungeons deep and caverns old,
We must away, ere break of day,
To claim our long-forgotten gold.
Goblets they carved there for themselves,
And harps of gold, where no man delves
There lay they long, and many a song
Was sung unheard by men or elves.
The pines were roaring on the heights,
The wind was moaning in the night,
The fire was red, it flaming spread,
The trees like torches blazed with light.
The bells were ringing in the dale,
And men looked up with faces pale.
The dragon's ire, more fierce than fire,
Laid low their towers and houses frail.
The mountain smoked beneath the moon.
The dwarves, they heard the tramp of doom.
They fled the hall to dying fall
Beneath his feet, beneath the moon.
Far over the Misty Mountains grim,
To dungeons deep and caverns dim,
We must away, ere break of day,
To win our harps and gold from him!
The wind was on the withered heath,
But in the forest stirred no leaf:
There shadows lay be night or day,
And dark things silent crept beneath.
The wind came down from mountains cold,
And like a tide it roared and rolled.
The branches groaned, the forest moaned,
And leaves were laid upon the mould.
The wind went on from West to East;
All movement in the forest ceased.
But shrill and harsh across the marsh,
Its whistling voices were released.
The grasses hissed, their tassels bent,
The reeds were rattling—on it went.
O'er shaken pool under heavens cool,
Where racing clouds were torn and rent.
It passed the Lonely Mountain bare,
And swept above the dragon's lair:
There black and dark lay boulders stark,
And flying smoke was in the air.
It left the world and took its flight
Over the wide seas of the night.
The moon set sale upon the gale,
And stars were fanned to leaping light.
Under the Mountain dark and tall,
The King has come unto his hall!
His foe is dead, the Worm of Dread,
And ever so his foes shall fall!
The sword is sharp, the spear is long,
The arrow swift, the Gate is strong.
The heart is bold that looks on gold;
The dwarves no more shall suffer wrong.
The dwarves of yore made mighty spells,
While hammers fell like ringing bells
In places deep, where dark things sleep,
In hollow halls beneath the fells.
On silver necklaces they strung
The light of stars, on crowns they hung
The dragon-fire, from twisted wire
The melody of harps they wrung.
The mountain throne once more is freed!
O! Wandering folk, the summons heed!
Come haste! Come haste! Across the waste!
The king of friend and kin has need.
Now call we over the mountains cold,
'Come back unto the caverns old!'
Here at the gates the king awaits,
His hands are rich with gems and gold.
The king has come unto his hall
Under the Mountain dark and tall.
The Worm of Dread is slain and dead,
And ever so our foes shall fall!
Farewell we call to hearth and hall!
Though wind may blow and rain may fall,
We must away, ere break of day
Far over the wood and mountain tall.
To Rivendell, where Elves yet dwell
In glades beneath the misty fell.
Through moor and waste we ride in haste,
And whither then we cannot tell.
With foes ahead, behind us dread,
Beneath the sky shall be our bed,
Until at last our toil be passed,
Our journey done, our errand sped.
We must away! We must away!
We ride before the break of day!
-
Well, Barb, you hit the right audience with that one. I've forgotten where it appears, if I've seen it, and my Tolkien books are all in tatters, but the references are all clear. It's The Hobbit, and nicely expressed.
-
I've seen the poem before...and love it...but I don't remember where, either. I've got a boxed
set of "The Lord of the Rings". Some day I may read it all again. It was a memorable adventure.
-
Seasons
~ by J. R. R. Tolkien
In the willow-meads of Tasarinan I walked in the Spring.
Ah! The sight and smell of the Spring in Nantasarion!
And I said that was good.
I wandered in Summer in the elm-woods of Ossiriand.
Ah! The light and the music in the Summer by the Seven Rivers of Ossir!
And I thought that was best.
To the beeches of Neldoreth I came in the Autumn.
Ah! The gold and red and the sighing of leaves in the Autumn in Taur-na-neldor!
It was more than my desire.
To the pine-trees upon the highland of Dorthonion I climbed in Winter.
Ah! The wind and the whiteness and the black branches of Winter upon Orod-na-Thon!
My voice went up and sang in the sky.
And now all those lands lie under the wave,
And I walk in Ambarona, in Tauremorna, in Aldalome,
In my own land, in the country of Fangorn,
Where the roots are long,
And the years lie thicker than leaves
In Tauremornalome.
-
Tom Bombadil's Song
~ by J R R Tolkien
Hey dol! merry dol! ring a dong dillo!
Ring a dong! hop along! fal lal the willow!
Tom Bom, jolly Tom, Tom Bombadillo!
Hey! Come merry dol! derry dol! My darling!
Light goes the weather-wind and the feathered starling.
Down along under Hill, shining in the sunlight,
Waiting on the doorstep for the cold starlight,
There my pretty lady is, River-woman's daughter,
Slender as the willow-wand, clearer than the water.
Old Tom Bombadil water-lilies bringing
Comes hopping home again. Can you hear him singing?
Hey! Come merry dol! derry dol! and merry-o,
Goldberry, Goldberry, merry yellow berry-o!
Poor old Willow-man, you tuck your roots away!
Tom's in a hurry now. Evening will follow day.
Tom's going home again water-lilies bringing.
Hey! Come derry dol! Can you hear me singing?
Hop along, my little friends, up the Withywindle!
Tom's going on ahead candles for to kindle.
Down west sinks the Sun: soon you will be groping.
When the night-shadows fall, then the door will open,
Out of the window-panes light will twinkle yellow.
Fear no alder black! Heed no hoary willow!
Fear neither root nor bough! Tom goes on before you.
Hey now! merry dol! We'll be waiting for you!
Hey! Come derry dol! Hop along, my hearties!
Hobbits! Ponies all! We are fond of parties.
Now let the fun begin! Let us sing together!
Now let the song begin! Let us sing together
Of sun, stars, moon and mist, rain and cloudy weather,
Light on the budding leaf, dew on the feather,
Wind on the open hill, bells on the heather,
Reeds by the shady pool, lilies on the water:
Old Tom Bombadil and the River-daughter!
O slender as a willow-wand! O clearer than clear water!
O reed by the living pool! Fair River-daughter!
O spring-time and summer-time, and spring again after!
O wind on the waterfall, and the leaves' laughter!
Old Tom Bombadil is a merry fellow;
Bright blue his jacket is, and his boots are yellow.
I had an errand there: gathering water lilies,
green leaves and lilies white to please my pretty lady,
the last ere the year's end to keep them from the winter,
to flower by her pretty feet till the snows are melted.
Each year at summer's end I go to find them for her,
in a wide pool, deep and clear, far down Withywindle;
there they open first in spring and there they linger latest.
By that pool long ago I found the River-daughter,
fair young Goldberry sitting in the rushes.
Sweet was her singing then, and her heart was beating!
And that proved well for you - for now I shall no longer
go down deep again along the forest-water,
not while the year is old. Nor shall I be passing
Old Man Willow's house this side of spring-time,
not till the merry spring, when the River-daughter
dances down the withy-path to bathe in the water.
Ho! Tom Bombadil, Tom Bombadillo!
By water, wood and hill, by the reed and willow,
By fire, sun and moon, harken now and hear us!
Come, Tom Bombadil, for our need is near us!
Old Tom Bombadil is a merry fellow,
Bright blue his jacket is, and his boots are yellow.
None has ever caught him yet, for Tom, he is the master:
His songs are stronger songs, and his feet are faster.
Get out, you old Wight! Vanish in the sunlight!
Shrivel like the cold mist, like the winds go wailing,
Out into the barren lands far beyond the mountains!
Come never here again! Leave your barrow empty!
Lost and forgotten be, darker than the darkness,
Where gates stand for ever shut, till the world is mended.
Wake now my merry lads! Wake and hear me calling!
Warm now be heart and limb! The cold stone is fallen;
Dark door is standing wide; dead hand is broken.
Night under Night is flown, and the Gate is open!
Hey! now! Come hoy now! Whither do you wander?
Up, down, near or far, here, there or yonder?
Sharp-ears, Wise-nose, Swish-tail and Bumpkin,
White-socks my little lad, and old Fatty Lumpkin!
Tom's country ends here: he will not pass the borders.
Tom has his house to mind, and Goldberry is waiting!
-
Bregalad's Lament
~ by J R R Tolkien
O Orofarne, Lassemista, Carnimirie!
O rowan fair, upon your hair how white the blossom lay!
O rowan mine, I saw you shine upon a summer's day,
Your rind so bright, your leaves so light, your voice so cool and soft!
Upon your head how golden-red the crown you bare aloft!
O rowan dead, upon your head your haif is dry and grey;
Your crown is spilled, your voice is stilled for ever and a day.
O Orofarne, Lassemista, Carnimirie!
-
Sometimes it seems as though Tolkien lived in another world, and stayed there. I loved the
description of his travels throughout the seasons, and felt sad that they were now 'under the
wave'. I'm trying to think who else writes poems of a 'fantasy' type. Might fit Blake; I can't
think of any others just now.
-
How About...
Kubla Khan
~ by Samuel Taylor Coleridge,
In Xanadu did Kubla Khan
A stately pleasure-dome decree:
Where Alph, the sacred river, ran
Through caverns measureless to man
Down to a sunless sea.
So twice five miles of fertile ground
With walls and towers were girdled round:
And there were gardens bright with sinuous rills,
Where blossomed many an incense-bearing tree;
And here were forests ancient as the hills,
Enfolding sunny spots of greenery.
But oh! that deep romantic chasm which slanted
Down the green hill athwart a cedarn cover!
A savage place! as holy and enchanted
As e'er beneath a waning moon was haunted
By woman wailing for her demon-lover!
And from this chasm, with ceaseless turmoil seething,
As if this earth in fast thick pants were breathing,
A mighty fountain momently was forced:
Amid whose swift half-intermitted burst
Huge fragments vaulted like rebounding hail,
Or chaffy grain beneath the thresher's flail:
And 'mid these dancing rocks at once and ever
It flung up momently the sacred river.
Five miles meandering with a mazy motion
Through wood and dale the sacred river ran,
Then reached the caverns measureless to man,
And sank in tumult to a lifeless ocean:
And 'mid this tumult Kubla heard from far
Ancestral voices prophesying war!
The shadow of the dome of pleasure
Floated midway on the waves;
Where was heard the mingled measure
From the fountain and the caves.
It was a miracle of rare device,
A sunny pleasure-dome with caves of ice!
A damsel with a dulcimer
In a vision once I saw:
It was an Abyssinian maid,
And on her dulcimer she played,
Singing of Mount Abora.
Could I revive within me
Her symphony and song,
To such a deep delight 'twould win me,
That with music loud and long,
I would build that dome in air,
That sunny dome! those caves of ice!
And all who heard should see them there,
And all should cry, Beware! Beware!
His flashing eyes, his floating hair!
Weave a circle round him thrice,
And close your eyes with holy dread,
For he on honey-dew hath fed,
And drunk the milk of Paradise.
-
Fairyland
~ by Rabindranath Tagore
If people came to know where my king's palace is, it would vanish
into the air.
The walls are of white silver and the roof of shining gold.
The queen lives in a palace with seven courtyards, and she
wears a jewel that cost all the wealth of seven kingdoms.
But let me tell you, mother, in a whisper, where my king's
palace is.
It is at the corner of our terrace where the pot of the tulsi
plant stands.
The princess lies sleeping on the far-away shore of the seven
impassable seas.
There is none in the world who can find her but myself.
She has bracelets on her arms and pearl drops in her ears; her
hair sweeps down upon the floor.
She will wake when I touch her with my magic wand and jewels
will fall from her lips when she smiles.
But let me whisper in your ear, mother; she is there in the
corner of our terrace where the pot of the tulsi plant stands.
When it is time for you to go to the river for your bath, step
up to that terrace on the roof.
I sit in the corner where the shadow of the walls meet
together.
Only puss is allowed to come with me, for she know where the
barber in the story lives.
But let me whisper, mother, in your ear where the barber in
the story lives.
It is at the corner of the terrace where the pot of the tulsi
plant stands.
-
Of course, "Kublai Kahn". I once had the section beginning 'A damsel with a dulcimer' memorized. I'm not sure I could still recite it exactly.
The Tagore was a delight as well. I loved that child's imagination. You might find this bit
about the 'tulsi' plant interesting.
http://www.organicindia.com/tulsi-facts.php
-
Thanks, Babi. It adds to the poem to know that the tulsi plant has spiritual significance.
-
Greetings! I almost feel like a stranger here, it's been so long. Myself, my shoulder, and my eye troubles have come to an uneasy truce. I hope it lasts, I was going stir crazy without books and poetry and discussions :( .
I thought I'd add a poem, a kiwi one, no less :) I've been thinking a lot about memory and how it works, and just listened to Penelope Lively(sorry, Dame Penelope Lively) discussing it online, as all her books are about memory and the past in some way.
Gigabyte by Mary Cresswell
The fact is that computers, like people,
have no problem remembering the messy stuff:
it's forgetting they can't do.
How much memory can you sell me? I want it all, asleep and awake, at the light
touch of a finger. I want the blood to stay liquid, the bones never to rise again, the
stink to stay undissipated in either still or moving air.
Forget bloody algorithms, archives, downloads, codices, indices, books, paper-brittle
files to fragment into contemplation, make me rest on my heels, make me wonder at
all this dust and cold coffee, ask what I am really after and is it worth it.
I have seen you watching action glowing in the dark bodies twisting, coupling, dying
out as the power dies leaving images burnt on memory ready to retrieve. We know
our passion is present; our passion is action.
You know, too, such frenzies are best gulped down fresh before some ungodly
troika variously rendered as reason, recall, reflection clatters up the driveway like
unwelcome parents coming home early because they forgot the key, when you
thought they would be out all night and leave you to it with all your mindless
friends.
Not a conventional rhyming poem, but the more I read and thought about it, the more it appealed to me.
-
Glad you are having a rest period after dealing with so many health issues Octavia - Have one more week with my daughter who drove back with me and we are tackling closets and rooms that ended up being filled with 45 years of what at one time was so important and now is just clutter - all the decisions - should it go - could it be a gift or given to someone we know or is it for the Good Will or the dump and what is to be saved and how to store that neatly so I can easily reach it - whew - but we are getting there - one more week and then I am back.
-
Oh boy, I don't envy you that job, Barbara! I had to do it after my husband died and the boys and I moved to Rocky. It's cleansing in some ways, but painful too.
I just had a phone call from Qantas in Sydney saying one of the boys is there, as they have his mobile phone, and would I please ask him to call in and pick it up. The owner of the phone is a FI/FO worker and would have got off in W.Australia, naive of her to think everyone goes all the way.
Never a dull moment with kids is there? Now I have to wait for the 2hr time difference and let him sort it out.
Getting very tired of rain.
-
The Bullocky
Beside his heavy-shouldered team
thirsty with drought and chilled with rain,
he weathered all the striding years
till they ran widdershins in his brain:
Till the long solitary tracks
etched deeper with each lurching load
were populous before his eyes,
and fiends and angels used his road.
All the long straining journey grew
a mad apocalyptic dream,
and he old Moses, and the slaves
his suffering and stubborn team.
Then in his evening camp beneath
the half-light pillars of the trees
he filled the steepled cone of night
with shouted prayers and prophecies.
While past the campfire's crimson ring
the star struck darkness cupped him round.
and centuries of cattle-bells
rang with their sweet uneasy sound.
Grass is across the wagon-tracks,
and plough strikes bone beneath the grass,
and vineyards cover all the slopes
where the dead teams were used to pass.
O vine, grow close upon that bone
and hold it with your rooted hand.
The prophet Moses feeds the grape,
and fruitful is the Promised Land.
Judith Wright
-
What a powerful first stanza - forgot the word widdershins - we do not see it used much anymore - only a few more days and then Katha leaves - I have grown so used to her being here it is going to be hard when she leaves.
-
I hate that period between someone leaving and gettling back into your old groove. It make's me restless and unsettled...dissatisfied.
I was bumped from the internet before I could add a few words, and I couldn't get back in. It's been like that an awful lot lately.
Widdershins means 'the wrong way, anticlockwise,, it's unlucky to walk widdershins around a church' it comes from wicca.
I was going to say before I was dropped, that the bullocky was a real person called Jack Purkiss and she's showing his descent into insanity.
It's a tribute to the courage and endurance of the early european settlers.
I can't imagine what it was like for women. All Australians would be aware of 'The Drover's Wife, and The Women Of The West.
my Mum lived in a tent for years, I learned to walk on the red dirt floor. My sister remembers spending hours up on a bed because there was a snake in the tent.
Sorry, I'm rambling.
-
(http://seniorlearn.org/bookclubs/poetry/summermonet.jpg) - Famous Poets and Poems - Summer (http://famouspoetsandpoems.com/thematic_poems/summer_poems.html)
- Summer Poems (http://poetry.about.com/od/ourpoemcollections/a/summerpoems.htm)
Discussion Leaders: Barb (augere@ix.netcom.com)
| Sun...Sand...Surf...Wild Meadows
Summer Poetry
Emily Dickinson
#122
A wild Blue sky abreast of Winds
That threatened it — did run
And crouched behind his Yellow Door
Was the defiant sun —
Some conflict with those upper friends
So genial in the main
That we deplore peculiarly
Their arrogant campaign —
|
Very interesting and very different poems, OCTAVIA. It's nice of you to put them out for us
while Barbara is tied up. I've 'moved out' a number of things lately, but hardly made a dent it
the clutter. Well, most of the knickknacks are Val's, and she is attached to every one of them! ::)
-
Ah thanks, a great reminder - I must plan a few things so that I do not rattle around in this house the couple of days after Katha leaves. I think I will look and see what is playing in the movies and see if one of my friends would like to attend a matinée and then I should plan on meeting a few friends for lunch. And I need to fill my CD player with some music that I have not heard in awhile so the house is not so quiet. At least I pay a monthly fee to talk as long as I want on the phone and so for a few days we may just have a daily chat although I must be thoughtful since Katha will be tired after her drive back home.
Babi sorting out the kitchen cabinets I found food in the back of the bottom cabinets that went back to the early 1980s - and then lots of patterns from when I sewed and dishes that I will never use like clear glass cake plates that I had for the many larger gatherings and then, some casual party dishes and cocktail knives and forks that Katha could use since she is at the time in life when she has parties along with dozens of napkins. I hated paper napkins and ran up on the sewing machine dozens of colorful napkins to match the colors in the china - decided to give to my one Grandboy who loves being in the out of doors all my camping stuff since I will no longer be backpacking. Even found crystal gifts that I purchased on sale that I forgot was in the closets - best of all, I found stored in a storage bin my favorite shawl that I thought I left somewhere - I was in tears finding it.
Yes, our history comes and goes in our thoughts - and our life today makes us appreciate the difficult life in past years doesn't it - reminds me of a Wordsworth poem.
THE WORLD IS TOO MUCH WITH US
~ William Wordsworth, 1807
The world is too much with us; late and soon,
Getting and spending, we lay waste our powers:
Little we see in Nature that is ours;
We have given our hearts away, a sordid boon!
This Sea that bares her bosom to the moon;
The winds that will be howling at all hours,
And are up-gathered now like sleeping flowers;
For this, for everything, we are out of tune;
It moves us not. – Great God! I'd rather be
A Pagan suckled in a creed outworn;
So might I, standing on this pleasant lea,
Have glimpses that would make me less forlorn;
Have sight of Proteus rising from the sea;
Or hear old Triton blow his wreathed horn.
-
It's good to find something that you can pass on and people can actually use and enjoy. I
didn't have the strength for a 'yard sale', but I did find a few things that friends could use.
I haven't seen that Wordsworth poem in years, but I do remember it well. It does have a
sad and tired feel to it, doesn't it?
Time to rest, ..and to dig out some poems that make you smile.
-
Trying to get online sometimes is like entering N.Korea. Not sure what's causing the bottleneck, perhaps the Olympics?
I have given out subtle hints that I don't actually need any more nicknacks, but it's falling on deaf ears, I'm afraid.
I remember that poem so well. English poets(well most things English) were no. one at school, we still felt very British. When I told my boys that we stood for God Save The Queen at the pictures, they said, you must be joking!
I feel Wordsworth was having a little melt down when he wrote that poem.
-
—Emily Dickinson
Exultation is the going
Of an inland soul to sea,
Past the houses—past the headlands—
Into deep Eternity—
Bred as we, among the mountains,
Can the sailor understand
The divine intoxication
Of the first league out from land?
-
Kindness
—Naomi Shihab Nye
Before you know what kindness really is
you must lose things,
feel the future dissolve in a moment
like salt in a weakened broth.
What you held in your hand,
what you counted and carefully saved,
all this must go so you know
how desolate the landscape can be
between the regions of kindness.
How you ride and ride
thinking the bus will never stop,
the passengers eating maize and chicken
will stare out the window forever.
Before you learn the tender gravity of kindness,
you must travel where the Indian in a white poncho
lies dead by the side of the road.
You must see how this could be you,
how he too was someone
who journeyed through the night with plans
and the simple breath that kept him alive.
Before you know kindness as the deepest thing inside,
you must know sorrow as the other deepest thing.
You must wake up with sorrow.
You must speak to it till your voice
catches the thread of all sorrows
and you see the size of the cloth.
Then it is only kindness that makes sense anymore,
only kindness that ties your shoes
and sends you out into the day to mail letters and purchase bread,
only kindness that raises its head
from the crowd of the world to say
It is I you have been looking for,
and then goes with you everywhere
like a shadow or a friend.
-
NIGHT IN A SMALL TOWN
~ Cornelio Faigao
Here only the thin wind
The deep silence mars;
Here night seems always
Spread thick with stars.
I must by y window (y translates loosely to and)
and a child am I
Beneath roof of nipa, (Nipa is a tied Bamboo hut with Nipa palm leaves used for the roof)
Beneath palm of sky.
The dark roofs are coffins
'Neath heaven's blue bowl;
The winds fling black dirges
And the late dogs howl.
The treetops a quiver
Spell mystery, fear;
Above them is splendor
And beauty austere.
O night for the going
Of me on the tide
With Beauty above me
And Death by my side!
-
One Year Less
~ Cheryl Mcdonald
There is no word, no label, no identifying moniker,
I am not a widow, not an orphan, not childless,
But one child less.
One less open laugh and little boy giggle,
One less challenging tete-a-tete;
One less artful, winking manipulation,
One less word of comfort, one less grateful hug.
One less chance to embrace a daughter;
One less new life to carry your eyes, your chin, your grin, your name,
No one word for the pain, the longing, the brevity
Of a life meant for living; an old soul meant to grow older than mine;
Would there be any one price too high, any sacrifice too great,
For one more moment, one more breath, one more warm touch;
I grasp desperately and sense the closeness –
the ONE just at the fingertips of my heart and mind,
Only to realize again and again and again,
There is no "One" – you are gone and I am – less.
-
Knickknacks make such quick and easy gifts, Octavia. You will have to forget subtlety if
you want to get your point across. "My dears, I have all the trinkets I can find room for.
Please DO NOT bring me anymore!"
Dear Emily, how I love her poems. Come to think of it, I suspect we flatlanders
romanticize her mountains as much as the mountain dwellers are awed by the sea.
till your voice
catches the thread of all sorrows
and you see the size of the cloth
What a poignant image. I really like this poem. And the Cheryl McConald poem is
heartbreaking.
Where did you find Nye and McDonald, BARB?
-
Nye has been around for a long time Babi - this was a poem I was attempting to memorize a few years ago - clearing out I found the notebook where each day I was writing it out as my way of committing it to memory but it did not take - other things crowded my life and I abandoned the effort - where the poem fleets into my thoughts every so often I have not even memorized a stanza - now the McDonald I found on-line and it seems fitting given the news from Aurora.
-
I love all the poems I see today.
"Exultation is the going
Of an inland soul to sea,"
YES! Having moved from inland to the sea, every time I catch a breath of that sea air, or see it, even in the distance, I feel it, even after several years!
-
I loved them too, I am trying to decide which one I loved the best, and have to go with Kindness, that really struck a chord. Sometimes I feel we've forgotten things like kindness and consideration. Too much pushing and shoving, and I'm all right Jack. Even on Poetry Forums(present company excepted, of course) there's snide and cutting remarks.
I love wandering round the Net, going with the current, so to speak. Started with the UK Guardian newspaper, listening to Fiona Shaw and Edna O'Brian reading Yeat's When You Are Old together. Then read that she was doing The Ancient Mariner In Greece, by heart. Wow, apparently she memorised most of it jogging in America, while she was making True Blood!
Then in the comments someone said that The Young Voices Theatre Company in Sydney had a short film about the poem, called of all things Bat Eyes. I clicked on that and thought it was really touching, a credit to the young people.
I was sad to hear the man who wrote Love In The Time Of Cholera and A Hundred Years Of Solitude has dementia and won't be writing anymore.
Babi, I'm sort of a squib when it comes to telling people not to do anything, but I'll work on it.
-
I wasn't much of a hand at it in my younger days, either, OCTAVIA. It tended to develop with
my responsibilities as a parent, tho'. Looking back now, I can see where I might have been
better off if I had been a bit more self-confidant and assertive. At the same time, if it's not one's
typical pattern, it really makes an impression when it emerges. :)
-
The Horses
Barely a twelvemonth after
The seven days war that put the world to sleep,
Late in the evening the strange horses came.
By then we had made our covenant with silence,
But in the first few days it was so still
We listened to our breathing and were afraid.
On the second day
The radios failed; we turned the knobs; no answer.
On the third day a warship passed us, heading north,
Dead bodies piled on the deck. On the sixth day
A plane plunged over us into the sea. Thereafter
Nothing. The radios dumb;
And still they stand in corners of our kitchens,
And stand, perhaps, turned on, in a million rooms
All over the world. But now if they should speak,
If on a sudden they should speak again,
If on the stroke of noon a voice should speak,
We would not listen, we would not let it bring
That old bad world that swallowed its children quick
At one great gulp. We would not have it again.
Sometimes we think of the nations lying asleep,
Curled blindly in impenetrable sorrow,
And then the thought confounds us with its strangeness.
The tractors lie about our fields; at evening
They look like dank sea-monsters couched and waiting.
We leave them where they are and let them rust:
'They'll molder away and be like other loam.'
We make our oxen drag our rusty plows,
Long laid aside. We have gone back
Far past our fathers' land.
And then, that evening
Late in the summer the strange horses came.
We heard a distant tapping on the road,
A deepening drumming; it stopped, went on again
And at the corner changed to hollow thunder.
We saw the heads
Like a wild wave charging and were afraid.
We had sold our horses in our fathers' time
To buy new tractors. Now they were strange to us
As fabulous steeds set on an ancient shield.
Or illustrations in a book of knights.
We did not dare go near them. Yet they waited,
Stubborn and shy, as if they had been sent
By an old command to find our whereabouts
And that long-lost archaic companionship.
In the first moment we had never a thought
That they were creatures to be owned and used.
Among them were some half a dozen colts
Dropped in some wilderness of the broken world,
Yet new as if they had come from their own Eden.
Since then they have pulled our plows and borne our loads
But that free servitude still can pierce our hearts.
Our life is changed; their coming our beginning.
Edwin Muir
-
Horses On The Camargue
In the grey wastes of dread,
The haunt of shattered gulls where nothing moves
But in a shroud of silence like the dead,
I heard a sudden harmony of hooves,
And, turning, saw afar
A hundred snowy horses unconfined,
The silver runaways of Neptune's car
Racing, spray-curled, like waves before the wind.
Sons of the Mistral, fleet
As him with whose strong gusts they love to flee,
Who shod the flying thunders on their feet
And plumed them with the snortings of the sea;
Theirs is no earthly breed
Who only haunts the verges of the earth
And only on the sea's salt herbage feed-
Surely the great white breakers gave them birth.
For when for years a slave,
A horse of the Camargue, in alien lands,
Should catch some far-off fragrance of the wave
Carried far inland from this native sands,
Many have told the tale
Of how in fury, foaming at the rein,
He hurls his rider; and with lifted tail,
With coal-red eyes and cataracting mane,
Heading his course for home,
Though sixty foreign leagues before him sweep,
Will never rest until he breathes the foam
And hears the native thunder of the deep.
And when the great gusts rise
And lash their anger on these arid coasts,
When the scared gulls career with mournful cries
And whirl across the waste like driven ghosts;
When hail and fire converge,
The only souls to which they strike no pain
Are the white crested fillies of the surge
And the white horses of the windy plain.
Then in their strength and pride
The stallions of the wilderness rejoice;
They feel their Master's trident in their side,
And high and shrill they answer to his voice.
With white tails smoking free,
Long streaming manes, and arching necks, they show
Their kinship to their sisters of the sea-
And forward hurl their thunderbolts of snow.
Still out of hardship bred,
Spirits of power and beauty and delight
Have ever on such frugal pasture fed
And loved to course with tempests through the night.
Roy Campbell
The Horse Poems are inspired by my midnight and 4am viewing of the Olympic equestrian events.
-
Octavia I had to look up Edwin Muir - fascinating life story - both poems are powerful and enchanting- in keeping with the Horse theme this poem is long, very long with an emphasis on the strength of a woman written by just about my most favorite poet, a Muscogee Creek.
She Had Some Horses
~ By Joy Harjo
I She Had Some Horses
She had some horses.
She had horses who were bodies of sand.
She had horses who were maps drawn of blood.
She had horses who were skins of ocean water.
She had horses who were the blue air of sky.
She had horses who were fur and teeth.
She had horses who were clay and would break.
She had horses who were splintered red cliff.
She had some horses.
She had horses with eyes of trains.
She had horses with full, brown thighs.
She had horses who laughed too much.
She had horses who threw rocks at glass houses.
She had horses who licked razor blades.
She had some horses.
She had horses who danced in their mothers' arms.
She had horses who thought they were the sun and their
bodies shone and burned like stars.
She had horses who waltzed nightly on the moon.
She had horses who were much too shy, and kept quiet
in stalls of their own making.
She had some horses.
She had horses who liked Creek Stomp Dance songs.
She had horses who cried in their beer.
She had horses who spit at male queens who made
them afraid of themselves.
She had horses who said they weren't afraid.
She had horses who lied.
She had horses who told the truth, who were stripped
bare of their tongues.
She had some horses.
She had horses who called themselves, "horse".
She had horses who called themselves, "spirit", and kept
their voices secret and to themselves.
She had horses who had no names.
She had horses who had books of names.
She had some horses.
She had horses who whispered in the dark, who were afraid to speak.
She had horses who screamed out of fear of the silence, who
carried knives to protect themselves from ghosts.
She had horses who waited for destruction.
She had horses who waited for resurrection.
She had some horses.
She had horses who got down on their knees for any saviour.
She had horses who thought their high price had saved them.
She had horses who tried to save her, who climbed in her
bed at night and prayed as they raped her.
She had some horses.
She had some horses she loved.
She had some horses she hated.
These were the same horses.
II Two Horses
I thought the sun breaking through Sangre de Cristo
Mountains was enough, and that
wild musky scents on my body after
long nights of dreaming could
unfold me to myself.
I thought my dance alone through worlds of
odd and eccentric planets that no one else knew
would sustain me. I mean
I did learn to move
after all
and how to recognize voices other than the most familiar.
But you must have grown out of
a thousand years dreaming
just like I could never imagine you.
You must have
broke open from another sky
to here, because
now I see you as part of the millions of
other universes that I thought could never occur
in this breathing.
And I know you as myself, traveling.
In your eyes alone are many colonies of stars
and other circling planet motion.
And then your fingers, the sweet smell
of hair, and
your soft, tight belly.
My heart is taken by you
and these mornings since I am a horse running towards
a cracked sky where there are countless dawns
breaking simultaneously.
There are two moons on the horizon
and for you
I have broken loose.
III Drowning Horses
She says she is going to kill
herself. I am a thousand miles away.
Listening.
To her voice in an ocean
of telephone sound. Grey sky
and nearly sundown; I don't ask her how.
I am already familiar with the weapons:
a restaurant that wouldn't serve her,
the thinnest laughter, another drink.
And even if I weren't closer
to the cliff edge of the talking
wire, I would still be another mirror,
another running horse.
Her escape is my own.
I tell her, yes. Yes. We ride
out for breath over the distance.
Night air approaches, the galloping
other-life.
No sound.
No sound.
IV Ice Horses
These are the ones who escape
after the last hurt is turned inward;
they are the most dangerous ones.
These are the hottest ones,
but so cold that your tongue sticks
to them and is torn apart because it is
frozen to the motion of hooves.
These are the ones who cut your thighs,
whose blood you must have seen on the gloves
of the doctor's rubber hands. They are
the horses who moaned like oceans, and
one of them a young woman screamed aloud;
she was the only one.
These are the ones who have found you.
These are the ones who pranced on your belly.
They chased deer out of your womb.
These are the ice horses, horses
who entered through your head,
and then your heart,
your beaten heart.
These are the ones who loved you.
They are the horses who have held you
so close that you have become
a part of them,
an ice horse
galloping
into fire.
V Explosion
The highway near Okemah, Oklahoma exploded.
There are reasons for everything.
Maybe there is a new people, coming forth
being born from the center of the earth,
like us, but another tribe.
Maybe they will be another color that no one
has ever seen before. Then they might be hated,
and live in Muskogee on the side of the tracks
that Indians live on. (And they will be the
ones to save us.)
Maybe there are lizards coming out of rivers of lava
from the core of this planet,
coming to bring rain
to dance for the corn,
to set fields of tongues slapping at the dark
earth, a kind of a dance.
But maybe the explosion was horses,
bursting out of the crazy earth
near Okemah. They were a violent birth,
flew from the ground into trees
to wait for evening night
mares to come after them:
then into the dank wet fields of Oklahoma
then their birth cords tied into the molten heart
then they travel north and south, east and west
then into wet white sheets at midnight when everyone
sleeps and the baby dreams of swimming in the
bottom of the muggy river.
then into frogs who have come out of the earth to
see for rain
then a Creek woman who dances shaking the seeds in
her bones
then South Dakota, Mexico, Japan, and Manila
then into Miami to sweep away the knived faces of hatred
Some will not see them.
But some will see the horses with their hearts of sleeping volcanoes
and will be rocked awake
past their bodies
to see who they have become.
-
A hundred snowy horses unconfined,
The silver runaways of Neptune's car
A vivid image that caught my imagination, OCTAVIA.
Among a people who count their wealth in horses, Ms. Harjo has beautifully described where
her wealth lies.
-
I loved The Horses because I thought of those beautiful gentle giants, the Clydesdales.
The Horses on The Camargue was a high school poem. We all cheered when they struck out for home.
Barb or Babi, could someone expand a little on the first poem. I'm not sure I'm totally on the right track.
I loved the second one.
-
Coward that I am, I think I'll leave Barb to do the 'expanding'. She's much better at it. :)
I picked up my copy of Blake last night; haven't really looked at him in years. I bought the
book because I loved 'Xanadu'. Looking over his poems now, I was surprised to find myself
disappointed. I don't believe, on the whole, he is as good a poet as I thought. A few poems
that seem to me perfect, and most somewhat rough in meter and extreme in viewpoint. Either
overly 'sweet' or overly gloomy or bitter. Still, when at his visionary best he does shine.
-
OK first it is all one poem in sections - As any poem you can enjoy the power of most poet's work using your own life views or like walking in someone's garden there is another enjoyment and appreciation when you know the name of the plants, when they bloom etc. and so it is with poetry.
Jo Harjo's poems reflect her heritage - like many American Native people the Muscogee Creeks have a different view of time that is difficult but, eye opening to wrap your head around - we westerners think in liner time - the Muscogee think is circular time so that in the same thought what we consider the past and the future is all in the present - what we separate in our heads as nature and science is all one. A grandmother could be the recent mother of your mother or, an ancient grandmother 'of you' - and that you are a grandmother although, you may not biologically have had a child much less that child have a child. We would think this expressing a metaphor where as, the Muscogee see this as real and talk to the ancient grandmother. Nothing is written and yet, there are ways that this ancient grandmother speaks as does the grandmother who is sitting in the next room. The world is timeless.
As you can see from this link Jo Harjo is a very educated accomplished women so trying to explain this view of time can sound like I am speaking about some aberration or voodoo but it is real. Scott Momaday, a Pulitzer Prize author, a Kiowa, writes from the circular time perspective as does Leslie Marmon Silko, from the Laguna Pueblo - there are many others but these authors are more well known.
http://digital.library.okstate.edu/encyclopedia/entries/H/HA021.html
Circular time is still difficult for me and after these many years - at least 20 of struggling to understand I recently had the awesome experience of sending a question to Jo Harjo and SHE ANSWERED ME - you do not understand - a response from the Pope or the President himself or the Queen of England could not have struck me to my toe nails like hearing directly from this writer. Later I will find the exchange and copy it here.
Now to this poem - Many Indian doctors (we call them medicine people) are women, strong women. They carry in their strength, darkening their light the horrendous history of oppression and loss. Standing at a medicine pole with the symbols of their visions they tell the crowd of their Dreams, in language alive and rich. The Songs speak of disease that is living although in liner time we do not see evidence so we assume the disease bares no importance to us today.
Jo Harjo is a strong woman - a gifted women - she has Songs - She sings to us of women healing, women unafraid to stand before the ills of the world around us, poverty, the disenfranchised, the dispossessed, internalized oppression - her songs tell us that many of these ills, to thrive and repeat in countless ways over time, is fear. Her Songs/Poems names what she sees - she sees the present predicaments not extricated from the past that is born and informs under us.
The theme of horses not only identifies all aspects of women but works to claim them, accept them as living parts of ourselves. Horses in all colors and shapes - horses of love, hate, those we escape on, those that race through our head, our heart, those we own, those that own us...all of us...she sees clear and sings out identifying the disease called...'Fear'.
Some of us need the power of a horse - horses know some people and relish their smell so they follow that person - the love of a horse will attract a horse to you as will the fear of them. In other words the heart generates all manner of ideas, including horses. In this poem horses ride out from history, travel without fear, by a fury of houses burning behind as the villages were burned when the Muscogee were forcibly moved from the area of the Tallapoosa River, Georgia by Jackson's Cherokee allies.
The force of memory for Jo Harjo includes her six generations back, to Monahwee, leader, included in the great alliance for justice as tribal nations joined together to stand against the destruction and removal of the people from their homelands. Monahwee suffered seven shot wounds but survived by sheer force of will and love for his people. He is known for his magic with horses as her Aunt, was known to travel so quickly on a horse she would arrive at a destination before anyone. There are other connections to horses that include her father keeping a horse, against city ordinance, in Tulsa and how a family outing was to the lake or Okmulgee Oklahoma to watch the horses. Even her son is named Phil derived from the English word meaning lover of horses.
The poem is listing aspects of the earth that is within us and metaphors of feelings and ways we hold on to behaviors like at times we throw rocks at glass houses and speak as if our tongue is a razor blade hurting others or, we are at times as gentle and joyful as dancing in our mother's arms. Regardless if we act out screaming out of fear of silence it is within us or, we would not have a clue what that means when we hear or read about it. Some of us carry knives or guns while others of us react to fear by not traveling in certain areas of town or speaking to certain people as we wait for destruction. Jo speaks to the uncomfortable topic of many women turning to a saviour, a father, a husband, a brother, uncle, grandfather, good friend, even a priest who ends up raping them.
She continues to express that yes, we have horses within us - experiences, thoughts, emotions, beliefs that we love and some we hate - and under it all we have the experiences, thoughts, emotions and beliefs lurking from out of the ancient past that often only surfaces where we can see and identify them in a Dream that is similar to deep meditation.
Even if you have practiced meditation you learn things that are not laid out like a plan of action or a sequential time line - often there are symbolic persons speaking truths that must be interpreted to your current situation and so with the Dream Songs or a medicine woman.
And so from this rampage of horses within us we break loose and become...
-
Superb, Barb!!!
I will read it very carefully.
Light bulb moment-I'm currently rereading Lively's City Of The Mind(gorgeous book) and it's mostly set in London through the eyes of an architect. This struck me >
"driving through the city, he is both here and now, there and then. He carries yesterday with him but pushes forward into today, and tomorrow."
Later, "He sees that time is what we live in, but that it is also what we carry within us. Time is then, but it is also our own perpetual now."
"We both take it with us and leave ourselves behind within it--flies in amber, fossilized admonitions and exemplars."
Here is another coincidence(I think). There's a news item today about an aboriginal telling a man that his grandfather,(I think, can't check just now) who has been missing for a month is dead, because his soul is not communicating. The man has accepted this.
I must go back and read more carefully.Right now, I'm freezing and I need some sun :)
-
Ah mid winter in Australia - stay warm...
City of the Mind sounds like a worthwhile read - the write up on Amazon and the comments left by others makes it sound like a book worthy of a read.
http://www.amazon.com/City-Mind-Penelope-Lively/dp/0802140203/ref=sr_1_1?s=books&ie=UTF8&qid=1344057020&sr=1-1&keywords=City+Of+The+Mind
I think there are other writers aware of and attempting to use circular time in their stories - recently finished (finally, a 3 year on the book pile, recommendation by my sister) Out Stealing Horses by Per Petterson, taking place in the most eastern part of Norway. Paragraphs are filled with events during WWII, when the boy rode his bike and his father was in the underground to when the story is being told by a neighbor when the boy is an old man retired to the cabin - mixed in with a time when the war was over and he was a young man helping his father send lumber down the river with this same story telling neighbor - at first you cannot tell when and who is telling the story till after a bit it does not seem to matter - it all blends together making a stained glass window that if the piece of glass is blue or red it does not matter it is the whole that lights us to beauty.
Even the book The Snow Child that I have recommended to be voted on as an October discussion attempts limited circular time so that during the story there are passages that make 40 years as if one year.
I have your recommendation on my list of books now - I love reading stories in which this concept of circular time is used - the novel is no longer a 'she did this and he did that, they handled this problem and learned this or that' - rather, the story becomes a bit of magic or maybe that is it - the story becomes an art form where the whole is greater than the parts or descriptions.
-
Wow!! That is a masterly summation, BARB. I naturally have a hard time wapping my head around the concept of time, too. On the other
hand, I have had what one might call a 'glimpse' of the past that gave
me a clue to the present, so that part is not entirely out of reach.
If you ever want to consider an alternate career, BARB, I have often
thought you had the instinct and skills of a professor. You love to learn
and share what you learn. I think you missed your calling.
-
Totally agree Babi, re Professor. I was a bit embarassed to admit I didn't quite get it, but it was definitely. worth it
-
Oh dear, but yes, you have nailed it - I do like to continue learning - I always have a new curiosity to satisfy - like now I am fascinated learning about the various groups that for years were lumped together and called barbarians that were busy chipping away at so called Gates of Rome - where these groups came from where they migrated and how they were called names like Goths and Vandals etc. I had no idea but I was facinated to learn that most early groups were categorized by language and that was how they were named -
When you think of how crudely they lived all of a sudden my school girl romanticized image of Charlemagne is in question - I am reading The Song of Roland - talk about being 12 years old again - I remember being thrilled with the story then where as now I'm thrilled with the rich language and innocent loyalty, bravery and duty the characters pour into life. Today we are so busy trying to figure out who and what to trust that loyalty, bravery and duty is seldom an instantaneous reaction to leaders.
Here are a few lines that bring the kind of scene to mind that can only fill the head of a pre-teen - knights on white horses - where as the reality - dust flying, stinky for want of a bath, straggly beards with no pocket combs and since the water was seldom drinkable they were probably all slightly soused.
Translated from the French in the 1880s by John O'Hagan from Ireland.
King Marsil's council is over that day,
And he called to him Clarin of Balaguet,
Estramarin, and Eudropin his peer,
Bade Garlon and Priamon both draw near,
Machiner and his uncle Maheu - with these
Joimer and Malbien from overseas,
Blancandrin for spokesman, - of all his men
He hath summoned there the most felon ten.
"Go ye to Carlemaine," spake their liege,
"At Cordres city he sits in siege,
While olive branches in hand ye press,
Token of peace and of lowliness.
Win him to make fair treaty with me,
Silver and gold shall your guerdon be,
Land and lordship in ample fee."
"Nay," said the heathens, "enough have we."
Then King Marsil bade be dight
Ten fair mules of snowy white,
Erst from the King of Sicily brought
Their trappings with silver and gold inwrought
Gold the bridle, and silver the selle.
On these are the messengers mounted well;
And they ride with olive boughs in hand,
To seek the Lord of the Frankish land.
Well let him watch; he shall be trepanned.
Professor - ah well I did want to be a school teacher but as the oldest I had to work and help raise my brother and sisters - my sister, just younger figured it out and was a Nun for some 30 years where she earned two doctorates and was the Dean of the Philosophy department even after she got out of the convent - and my kid sister, who is 15 years younger put herself through collage and just retired this summer as the Dean of the English department - when my oldest started high school and my youngest was either 2nd or maybe he was in 3rd grade I started Collage - I lack about 46 hours but after so many years all my hours may not carry forward. I decided as important as my home is to me I wanted to help anyone who wanted a home to find the best they could in their price range so I took the classes needed to get my Real Estate license. That was in 1980.
I have had folks tell me with the years of work, reading and studying I did during my involvement with various associations I would easily have a degree - ah so - having a degree is nice but when it comes down to it there would not be a change in my curiosity and knee jerk reaction to find out and then, find out further and deeper and, and - I was always accused by folks being annoyed of having too many questions and never being satisfied. It used to make me silently angry and embarrassed but gradually I decided too bad - that is what I do...and I do like to share -
I figure I was not made this curious to keep it all to myself - others cannot do what they do plus do what I enjoy - it is exciting to learn and share about things that we were not even aware of - Interesting, my daughter was only commenting on this but then, if I had gone to college as a young women I would not have married so young and had her - then neither of us would be in awe of the accomplishments of her two boys - I have no complaints - it is what it is and as long as I can research my latest questions what matters if there are initials after my name.
-
Today we are so busy trying to figure out who and what to trust that loyalty, bravery and
duty is seldom an instantaneous reaction to leaders.
Oh, my, BARB, you certainly said a mouthful there. So seldom do we find true statesmen
among all the politicians; they shine like stars. Unfortunately, it's hard to tell who
fits that acclaim until after the dust has settled.
I do understand your desire to share what you know. There are things I would like to
share, but some of it is controversial and no one would care about my opinions without the
credentials to back it up. So I just put in a quiet word here and there as opportunity
arises and hope it has some effect.
-
Since we are finding so many posts throughout seniorlearn on aging, and how to approach these last years, I found this. I thought it was good. It's by Alfred Huffstickler.
Don't Ask The Angels How They Fly
Knowing there's only so much time,
I don't rejoice less but more.
Knowing how many things will now
not happen, I wish them Godspeed
and pass them on to someone
down the line. I honor my
regrets, the part of me that
never happened or happened wrong
and proceed on course though
the course is not known. Only
the end is known and some days
it's a comfort. We live on
love, whether it's there or
not and rejoice in it even in
its absence. If I had known,
I'd have come here better equipped -
but that's another one of those
things you can't change - as we
can't alter that part of us
that lives on memory, knowing
all the while that time is not
real and that what we are we
never were in the light of that
timeless place where we really
belong, have belonged always.
And what's left then is only
to bless it all in the light of
what we don't and will never
know or at least not here where
the light is only a shadow of
that light we almost see sometimes -
that light that's really home.
-
OH Babi what a perfect find - thank you, thank you for finding this a sharing it with us.
Knowing how many things will now
not happen, I wish them Godspeed
and pass them on to someone
down the line. I honor my
regrets, the part of me that
never happened or happened wrong
and proceed on course though
the course is not known.
These are the lines I will savor - and for me it is just that - while I still have energy and health I do not want to waste the days with letting the day take care of itself - I want some of my dreams if not to happen at least for me to be working on them - many of my regrets are tied to doing what others expected or wanted or to others not fulfilling their promises and commitments - old age has its benefits - younger folks, even family members like to think we have little impact - fine - then I can use my time and energy to do what is important to me... chip on shoulder - probably - but you get to the point Babi when enough is enough!
I keep remembering when I was a kid there was this women, who must have had all the money in the world anyhow, she would hire Carnegie Hall in NY and give piano Concerts that gradually no one came to but each year she kept on giving them - seems she was a terrible piano player but she plugged on playing the classics and even at time had other musicians accompany her - I need to find her name because that is what the Jewish people call Chutzpah... she did it -
-
So glad you liked it. :)
-
Dry Summers
~ Kathleen Tenpas
Thunder and wind
blow in from the northwest
fog clears suddenly
and rain
scatters across the yard,
a near miss
with a storm centered north of us.
Our clouds break and run
in a breeze suddenly cool
and dry.
Twenty years ago,
in another dry summer,
Wilhelmina said,
“In the Bible it says
it rains on the just and the unjust.
What do you suppose that makes us?”
I can still hear her laugh
if I listen closely.
I think even God smiled.
-
Mermaid
~ Kathleen Tenpas
If I were to walk out now,
open the door and step into rain
falling straight and solid,
it would be like walking underwater,
my bowing poppies and baby’s breath
become sea flowers, the daisies
starfish moving in the current.
I would learn to use gills
long abandoned, and make my hands
act as fins, pulling me across
this new sea’s floor,
swimming through rain falling
from clouds piled 40,000 feet high.
To walk out now would require
this sea change,
and courage.
-
Wouldn't you be happy to brave the deluge, BARB, just to have it rain? I like Ms Tenpas poems.
-
:D ;) :D although compared to last year we cannot really complain - but then it seems a large portion of the nation is experiencing this year what we endured last summer. I still have swaths of my backyard that have not recovered - we had a front come in here over the weekend - some but not a lot of rain but there was something about how it brought cooler temps and we are now only in the high nineties for the rest of the week.
I have this feeling that yes, we could have another bout of 100+ all the way through early October but my feeling is this reminds me of times in the past when the 100+ days are over and we will slide into Autumn in the 90s.
I am thinking of getting a few of those horse troughs that are all the rage now and setting them up in the yard where the grass is having the most difficulty recovering. Because of the Deer I cannot grow Veggies in them but even to fill them with more herbs just to have something different to look at rather than the large patches of calichie and bare earth. I did learn that rather than filling them completely with soil to fill them half way with the popcorn that is used in packing and then the soil on top of that - seems the popcorn, (plastic bits) is not crushed and water will run through it. The troughs all have an escape valve at the bottom to release water so they are very affective planting containers.
-
First two stanza's of Alfred, Lord Tennyson : Mariana
Mariana In The Moated Grange (after Mariana in Shakespeare's Measure for Measure)
With blackest moss the flower-pots
Were thickly crusted, one and all:
The rusted nails fell from the knots
That held the pear to the gable-wall.
The broken sheds looked sad and strange:
Unlifted was the clinking latch;
Weeded and worn the ancient thatch
Upon the lonely moated grange.
She only said, 'My life is dreary,
He cometh not,' she said;
She said, 'I am aweary, aweary,
I would that I were dead!'
Her tears fell with the dews at even;
Her tears fell ere the dews were dried;
She could not look on the sweet heaven,
Either at morn or eventide.
After the flitting of the bats,
When thickest dark did trance the sky,
She drew her casement-curtain by,
And glanced athwart the glooming flats.
She only said, 'The night is dreary,
He cometh not,' she said;
She said, 'I am aweary, aweary,
I would that I were dead!'
-
Oh, dear, I wonder how old this Mariana is? "I would that I were dead." Doesn't that just
echo again in the ageless teen-age lament, " I wish I were dead!"
I can sympathize with the bare patches. I have one where the grass is gradually recovering,
but it wasn't caused by drought. There was a large patch of weeds there where I finally found a
spray that would kill them. The troughs and packing material sound very effective. Do the
deer eat flowers as well? From your posts I gather most of your garden now is herbs. How
do you use so many?
Oh, a quote you might appreciate. "Gardening with herbs, which is becoming increasingly popular, is indulged in by those who like subtlety in their plants in preference to brilliance."
- Helen Morgenthau Fox
-
:D ;) forced subtlety - you just cannot use up all the herbs they are like a shrub or other plant that is just there as part of the landscape - along the front I have a swath of thick Rosemary and Marjoram with a few large Cacti. I did find that if I can protect the buds and early shoots they will not touch the Daffodils when they bloom where as they gobble up the Tulips -
They leave a Salvia that blooms the most wonderful red and there is one that blooms blue that I do not have. Others that work are St. John Wart, which grows like a small shrub and blooms wonderful yellow flowers in Spring. There is Copper Canyon Daisy and Lavendar, Coreopsis, Canna, Chives, Thyme, Milkweed, Sweet Potato Vine, Japanese Iris, and the Lantana in various colors is a show that most use prolifically as up north you see Mums and Aster in late summer and through the Fall -
The list of Deer Resistant plants is pretty good but even some on the list the deer in my area will eat - like Lambs Ears are supposed to be Deer Resistant but they eat them like candy. Each herd has its own diet and what I can plant often others in this area only a couple of blocks away with a different herd cannot plant. For that matter, even among the herbs there are some that they will eat like the Basil and Pepper plants, even the hot peppers if you can get a plant to last that long to grow out a pepper.
It is fun figuring out what will work and there is not lack of plants just not the one you see in magazines or have dreamed was going to be in your garden.
-
From one of our favorite poets - Emily Dickinson
A Wounded Deer—leaps highest—
I've heard the Hunter tell—
'Tis but the Ecstasy of death—
And then the Brake is still!
The Smitten Rock that gushes!
The trampled Steel that springs!
A Cheek is always redder
Just where the Hectic stings!
Mirth is the Mail of Anguish
In which it Cautious Arm,
Lest anybody spy the blood
And "you're hurt" exclaim!
-
How to See Deer
by Philip Booth
Forget roadside crossings.
Go nowhere with guns.
Go elsewhere your own way,
lonely and wanting. Or
stay and be early:
next to deep woods
inhabit old orchards.
All clearings promise.
Sunrise is good,
and fog before sun.
Expect nothing always;
find your luck slowly.
Wait out the windfall.
Take your good time
to learn to read ferns;
make like a turtle:
downhill toward slow water.
Instructed by heron,
drink the pure silence.
Be compassed by wind.
If you quiver like aspen
trust your quick nature:
let your ear teach you
which way to listen.
You've come to assume
protective color; now
colors reform to
new shapes in your eye.
You've learned by now
to wait without waiting;
as if it were dusk
look into light falling:
in deep relief
things even out. Be
careless of nothing. See
what you see.
-
Deer, 6:00 AM
by Sarah Getty
The deer—neck not birch trunk, eyes
not leaf or shadow, comes clear
from nowhere at the eye's edge.
The woman's legs stop. Her mind
lags, then flashes, "Deer at edge
of the woods." The deer's eyes, black
and fragile, stare back and stop
her breathing. The breeze drops. Light
shines every leaf. She enters
that other world, her feet stone
still on the path. The deer stands
pat and takes her in. Antlered,
static as an animal—
not a statue, photograph,
any substitute—can be
because it wants to, it includes
her in the world it watches.
She notes its coat, thick, stiff
like straw, with a straw-like shine.
There, where the ribs are, she sees
no rise or fall of breathing.
She breathes, shyly, attempting
the etiquette of quiet.
She goes over what she knows
of antlers, those little trees
of bone, grown for a season
and shed like leaves. The deer's head,
she thinks, is hieroglyphic,
eyes of wet ink, unblinking.
No golden links clasp the neck—
no deer of Arthur's this, sent
as a sign. The woman finds
and fingers these few deer-thoughts
in her mind. But she's no match
for its stasis, she hasn't
the tact. Tableau, entrancement—
but what's the second panel
of the tapestry? She moves,
not back, discreetly, as one
would leave a king, but forward,
to have it done. To free (or,
less likely, fall on one knee,
petitioning). The deer moves,
smooth as a fish, is gone. Green
edges waver and reknit.
The light shifts. The woman, two-
legged still, walks on. "I saw
a deer," she will say, pouring
coffee. Not "I was." "I saw."
-
Earthy Anecdote
by Wallace Stevens
Every time the bucks went clattering
Over Oklahoma
A firecat bristled in the way.
Wherever they went,
They went clattering,
Until they swerved
In a swift, circular line
To the right,
Because of the firecat.
Or until they swerved
In a swift, circular line
To the left,
Because of the firecat.
The bucks clattered.
The firecat went leaping,
To the right, to the left,
And
Bristled in the way.
Later, the firecat closed his bright eyes
And slept.
-
(http://seniorlearn.org/bookclubs/poetry/summermonet.jpg) - Famous Poets and Poems - Summer (http://famouspoetsandpoems.com/thematic_poems/summer_poems.html)
- Summer Poems (http://poetry.about.com/od/ourpoemcollections/a/summerpoems.htm)
Discussion Leaders: Barb (augere@ix.netcom.com)
| Sun...Sand...Surf...Wild Meadows
Summer Poetry
Emily Dickinson
#122
A wild Blue sky abreast of Winds
That threatened it — did run
And crouched behind his Yellow Door
Was the defiant sun —
Some conflict with those upper friends
So genial in the main
That we deplore peculiarly
Their arrogant campaign —
|
-
I had no idea the deer were so discerning, much less varying by herd. Fascinating. If I
ever hear of someone complaining about deer destroying their garden, I will be sure to refer
them to you.
I am reminded of a story my ex-husband told me about the deer. His father was a trucker,
hauling logs down from the mountains. The mountain road passed several deer fields, where
in the early morning he could see them feeding. But the deer had learned. On the day deer
hunting season began, there wasn't a deer to be seen in those roadside fields.
I like Sarah Getty's poem. The description of the coat surprised me; I guess I always assumed
it must be soft. I knew, tho', the deer would be off at the first movement she made.
-
The End of Summer
~ By Rachel Hadas
Sweet smell of phlox drifting across the lawn—
an early warning of the end of summer.
August is fading fast, and by September
the little purple flowers will all be gone.
Season, project, and vacation done.
One more year in everybody’s life.
Add a notch to the old hunting knife
Time keeps testing with a horny thumb.
Over the summer months hung an unspoken
aura of urgency. In late July
galactic pulsings filled the midnight sky
like silent screaming, so that, strangely woken,
we looked at one another in the dark,
then at the milky magical debris
arcing across, dwarfing our meek mortality.
There were two ways to live: get on with work,
redeem the time, ignore the imminence
of cataclysm; or else take it slow,
be as tranquil as the neighbors’ cow
we love to tickle through the barbed wire fence
(she paces through her days in massive innocence,
or, seeing green pastures, we imagine so).
In fact, not being cows, we have no choice.
Summer or winter, country, city, we
are prisoners from the start and automatically,
hemmed in, harangued by the one clamorous voice.
Not light but language shocks us out of sleep
ideas of doom transformed to meteors
we translate back to portents of the wars
looming above the nervous watch we keep.
-
—John Milton (1608–1674)
And pomp, and feast, and revelry,
With mask, and antique pageantry,
Such sights as youthful poets dream
On summer eves by haunted stream.
-
"Summer Vacation," The Prelude (1805)
—William Wordsworth (1770–1850)
Bright was the summer's noon when quickening steps
Followed each other till a dreary moor
Was crossed, a bare ridge clomb, upon whose top
Standing alone, as from a rampart's edge,
I overlooked the bed of Windermere,
Like a vast river, stretching in the sun.
-
What a remarkable image of passing time. Can't imagine a 'Rachel' with a horny thumb,
I surely can imagine Time with horny hands.
Add a notch to the old hunting knife
Time keeps testing with a horny thumb.
And is Wordsworth making up words to fit his meter? Is there such a word as "clomb"?
-
looks like another word to use when playing scrabble - clomb - verb - simple past tense and past participle of climb.
It was Windermere that caught my attention since we have a nearby subdivision named Windermere - found out it is a lake of northwest England in the Cumbrian Mountains. It is the largest lake in England and a popular tourist area in the Lake District.
-
So clomb really is a word. I suppose there are many even more odd. After all, we've read
Robby Burns in what is supposedly English. Think of all the words there we've had to translate.
“Oh wad some power the giftie gie us To see oursel's as others see us! It wad frae monie a blunder free us, And foolish notion” Actually, I understood that
one. ;D
-
A bit more from the Wordsworth poem
Summer Vacation
With exultation, at my feet I saw
Lake, islands, promontories, gleaming bays,
A universe of Nature's fairest forms
Proudly revealed with instantaneous burst,
Magnificent, and beautiful, and gay.
I bounded down the hill shouting amain
For the old Ferryman; to the shout the rocks
Replied, and when the Charon of the flood
Had staid his oars, and touched the jutting pier,
I did not step into the well-known boat
Without a cordial greeting. Thence with speed
Up the familiar hill I took my way
Towards that sweet Valley where I had been reared;
'Twas but a short hour's walk, ere veering round
I saw the snow-white church upon her hill
Sit like a throned Lady, sending out
A gracious look all over her domain.
Yon azure smoke betrays the lurking town;
With eager footsteps I advance and reach
The cottage threshold where my journey closed.
From my old Dame, so kind and motherly,
While she perused me with a parent's pride.
The thoughts of gratitude shall fall like dew
Upon thy grave, good creature! While my heart
Can beat never will I forget thy name.
Heaven's blessing be upon thee where thou liest
After thy innocent and busy stir
In narrow cares, thy little daily growth
Of calm enjoyments, after eighty years,
And more than eighty, of untroubled life;
Childless, yet by the strangers to thy blood
Honoured with little less than filial love.
-
What joy was mine to see thee once again,
Thee and thy dwelling, and a crowd of things
About its narrow precincts all beloved,
And many of them seeming yet my own!
Why should I speak of what a thousand hearts
Have felt, and every man alive can guess?
The rooms, the court, the garden were not left
Long unsaluted, nor the sunny seat
Round the stone table under the dark pine,
Friendly to studious or to festive hours;
Nor that unruly child of mountain birth,
The famous brook, who, soon as he was boxed
Within our garden, found himself at once,
As if by trick insidious and unkind,
Stripped of his voice and left to dimple down
(Without an effort and without a will)
A channel paved by man's officious care.
I looked at him and smiled, and smiled again,
And in the press of twenty thousand thoughts,
"Ha," quoth I, "pretty prisoner, are you there!"
Well might sarcastic Fancy then have whispered,
"An emblem here behold of thy own life;
In its late course of even days with all
Their smooth enthralment;" but the heart was full,
Too full for that reproach. My aged Dame
Walked proudly at my side: she guided me;
I willing, nay--nay, wishing to be led.
--The face of every neighbour whom I met
Was like a volume to me; some were hailed
Upon the road, some busy at their work,
Unceremonious greetings interchanged
With half the length of a long field between.
Among my schoolfellows I scattered round
Like recognitions, but with some constraint
Attended, doubtless, with a little pride,
But with more shame, for my habiliments,
The transformation wrought by gay attire.
Not less delighted did I take my place
At our domestic table: and, dear Friend!
In this endeavour simply to relate
A Poet's history, may I leave untold
The thankfulness with which I laid me down
In my accustomed bed, more welcome now
Perhaps than if it had been more desired
Or been more often thought of with regret;
That lowly bed whence I had heard the wind
Roar, and the rain beat hard; where I so oft
Had lain awake on summer nights to watch
The moon in splendour couched among the leaves
Of a tall ash, that near our cottage stood;
Had watched her with fixed eyes while to and fro
In the dark summit of the waving tree
She rocked with every impulse of the breeze.
-
I wonder who that childless woman was who treated him 'so kind and motherly', greeting hime
with 'a parent's pride'. Not an aunt or other relative, but he obviously remembers her with
great affection. It sounds as though she may have been a house mother...and a very fine one..
at Wordsworth's school. A boarding school, I would think. He did lose his parents at an early age.
-
Looks like she was one of the Dames at the nearby school who took him in after his mother died - not sure if a Dame is a housemother or a female teacher...
The mother died ‘of a decline’ in March 1778. Brief references in 'Summer Vacation' in the ‘Prelude’ (v. 256, &c.) and the autobiographical fragment show that Wordsworth remembered her with tenderness as a serene and devoted mother. William, alone of her children, caused her anxiety on account of his ‘stiff, moody, and violent temper,’ and she prophesied that he would be remarkable for good or for evil. To prove his audacity he once struck a whip through a family picture. On another occasion he thought of committing suicide by way of resenting a punishment, but stopped in very good time. He was sent to schools at Cockermouth and Penrith, where he learnt little. His father at the same time made him get by heart passages from Shakespeare, Spenser, and Milton.
In 1778 Wordsworth and his elder brother were sent to the grammar school at Hawkshead (founded by Archbishop Edwin Sandys). The life was simple and hardy. Wordsworth lived in the cottage of Anne Tyson, a ‘kind and motherly’ old dame, whom he commemorates affectionately in 'Summer Vacation' in the ‘Prelude’
-
Ah, has there ever been a child who never thought, "I wish I was dead. Then they'd be sorry!"
:'( >:(.
Then you get older, and enjoy singing songs like "I'll be glad when you're dead, you rascal,
you!" :D A harmless way of letting off steam, I suppose. I don't know who wrote this, but
it's appropriate.
My anger was unreasonable,
My anger was invincible.
My anger was uncontrollable,
But still very reversible.
-
The World Is Too Much With Us
- William Wordsworth
The world is too much with us; late and soon,
Getting and spending, we lay waste our powers;
Little we see in Nature that is ours;
We have given our hearts away, a sordid boon!
This Sea that bares her bosom to the moon;
The winds that will be howling at all hours,
And are up-gathered now like sleeping flowers,
For this, for everything, we are out of tune;
It moves us not.–Great God! I’d rather be
A pagan suckled in a creed outworn;
So might I, standing on this pleasant lea,
Have glimpses that would make me less forlorn;
Have sight of Proteus rising from the sea;
Or hear old Triton blow his wreathèd horn.
-
A slumber did my spirit seal
~ William Wordsworth
A SLUMBER did my spirit seal;
I had no human fears:
She seem'd a thing that could not feel
The touch of earthly years.
No motion has she now, no force; 5
She neither hears nor sees;
Roll'd round in earth's diurnal course
With rocks, and stones, and trees.
-
We have given our hearts away, a sordid boon
! Oh, my. Will was in a bad mood when he wrote this one, wasn't he?
I really don't understand how some literary critics could read Shakespeare's sonnets and
still claim that he was not capable of writing those plays. I swear he has expressed every
emotion a human being ever felt, and done it with unparalleled precision and artistry.
-
Sonnet 60
~ William Shakespeare
Like as the waves make towards the pebbled shore,
So do our minutes hasten to their end;
Each changing place with that which goes before,
In sequent toil all forwards do contend.
Nativity, once in the main of light,
Crawls to maturity, wherewith being crown’d,
Crooked elipses ’gainst his glory fight,
And Time that gave doth now his gift confound.
Time doth transfix the flourish set on youth
And delves the parallels in beauty’s brow,
Feeds on the rarities of nature’s truth,
And nothing stands but for his scythe to mow:
And yet to times in hope my verse shall stand,
Praising thy worth, despite his cruel hand.
-
Ah, the perfect sonnet for us seniors. "An Time that gave doth now his gift confound."
How about the modern version? Here's Maya Angelou.....
ON AGING-Maya Angalou
When you see me sitting quietly
Like a sack left on the shelf
Don't think I need you chattering
I'm listening to myself
Hold! Stop! Don't pity me!
Hold! Stop your sympathy!
Understanding if you got it
otherwise ill do without it!
When my bones are stiff and aching
And my feet wont climb the stair
I will only ask one favor:
Don't bring me no rocking chair.
When you see me walking, stumbling,
Don't study and get it wrong.
'Cause tired don't mean lazy
And every goodbye ain't gone.
I'm the same person I was back then.
A lot less hair, a little less chin,
A lot less lungs, and much less wind
But ain't lucky I can still breathe in.
-
Perfect Babi - how well she says it - to be accepted in our age as full vital people with a few parts that are not working a well as they did which does not mean we are mentally or emotionally incapacitated. I am thinking of getting some hair color rinse the next time I shop Whole Foods - I am so tired of being treated as an incompetent old lady when I shop and Whole Foods has a none chemical product that even if it does not cover it will take away some of this gray look - White hair I think is attractive but mine is not white just obviously getting grayer each month.
Cool breeze today and tonight it is supposed to get into the 60s - what a shock to the system - looks like fall is on its way...
-
I did color my hair last week. Can't say I look any better, but I did it. I really enjoyed Maya Angelou's poem. Had never read that one. Think I'll sit a spell and enjoy the site. :D
-
I'm going to try my daughter's hair conditioner and see if it helps. My hair is so thin now the slightest breeze leaves me
looking a fright. It's enough to scare small children!
I don't find people treating me as incompetent, but they can recognize that I'm not all that strong anymore. I'm asked if
I need help loading my groceries, and sometimes it's "Yes!, thank you. I'd appreciate that." Depends on the day and
the size of the load. :-\ :)
What color did you go for, HATS? I may find myself shopping for a wig one day, but I want to stick pretty close to the color
(or lack of it) that is familiar.
-
I wanted to get my hair really, really black. My husb. didn't like that idea. So, I ended up with a funny dark reddish brown. My hair looks weird.
-
well I found at Whole Foods this none chemical coloring something or other - I think it is more than a rinse but we shall see - I got a light brown - my hair had become medium brown over the years and I thought the light brown was better to gradually affect the area close to my forehead and temples and the top layer of this grayish something or other - since my hair is not really dark it does not look like salt and pepper but like a dirty floor mop with a white fringe and so onward - wonder if I dare use it in the shower - I guess to try it I better use the sink to see what it does.
Found this...
White hair does not weigh
~ By Samuel Menashe
more than the black
which it displaces—
Upon any fine day
I jump these traces
-
I'm sure you ladies would agree with me that beauty can be found in the old. I found this, and liked it. What do you
think?
In Koine Greek, beauty was thus associated with "being of one's hour". Thus, a ripe fruit (of its time) was considered beautiful, whereas a young woman trying to appear older or an older woman trying to appear younger would not be considered beautiful.
Give it a few days to get used to the change, HATS. Then, if you still don't like it, you can always change it. Actually, dark reddish brown sounds like it could be lovely.
-
Too good to pass up since The Tempest is on our minds with the October Book Selection and also it is poem that strikes me as a good memorial 11 years after 9/11
After a Tempest
~ William Cullen Bryant
The day had been a day of wind and storm;--
The wind was laid, the storm was overpast,--
And stooping from the zenith, bright and warm
Shone the great sun on the wide earth at last.
I stood upon the upland slope and cast
My eye upon a broad and beauteous scene,
Where the vast plain lay girt by mountains vast,
And hills o'er hills lifted their heads of green,
With pleasant vales scooped out and villages between.
The rain-drops glistened on the trees around,
Whose shadows on the tall grass were not stirred,
Save when a shower of diamonds, to the ground,
Was shaken by the flight of startled bird;
For birds were warbling round, and bees were heard
About the flowers; the cheerful rivulet sung
And gossiped, as he hastened ocean-ward;
To the gray oak the squirrel, chiding clung,
And chirping from the ground the grasshopper upsprung.
And from beneath the leaves that kept them dry
Flew many a glittering insect here and there,
And darted up and down the butterfly,
That seemed a living blossom of the air.
The flocks came scattering from the thicket, where
The violent rain had pent them; in the way
Strolled groups of damsels frolicksome and fair;
The farmer swung the scythe or turned the hay,
And 'twixt the heavy swaths his children were at play.
It was a scene of peace--and, like a spell,
Did that serene and golden sunlight fall
Upon the motionless wood that clothed the fell,
And precipice upspringing like a wall,
And glassy river and white waterfall,
And happy living things that trod the bright
And beauteous scene; while far beyond them all,
On many a lovely valley, out of sight,
Was poured from the blue heavens the same soft golden light.
I looked, and thought the quiet of the scene
An emblem of the peace that yet shall be,
When, o'er earth's continents and isles between,
The noise of war shall cease from sea to sea,
And married nations dwell in harmony;
When millions, crouching in the dust to one,
No more shall beg their lives on bended knee,
Nor the black stake be dressed, nor in the sun
The o'erlabored captive toil, and wish his life were done.
Too long, at clash of arms amid her bowers
And pools of blood, the earth has stood aghast,
The fair earth, that should only blush with flowers
And ruddy fruits; but not for aye can last
The storm, and sweet the sunshine when 'tis past.
Lo, the clouds roll away--they break--they fly,
And, like the glorious light of summer, cast
O'er the wide landscape from the embracing sky,
On all the peaceful world the smile of heaven shall lie.
-
Oh, don't you wish. :(
-
Pulitzer Prize winning poet Louis Simpson died today at age 89 - here is one of his poems.
Working Late
by Louis Simpson
A light is on in my father's study.
"Still up?" he says, and we are silent,
looking at the harbor lights,
listening to the surf
and the creak of coconut boughs.
He is working late on cases.
No impassioned speech! He argues from evidence,
actually pacing out and measuring,
while the fans revolving on the ceiling
winnow the true from the false.
Once he passed a brass curtain rod
through a head made out of plaster
and showed the jury the angle of fire--
where the murderer must have stood.
For years, all through my childhood,
if I opened a closet . . . bang!
There would be the dead man's head
with a black hole in the forehead.
All the arguing in the world
will not stay the moon.
She has come all the way from Russia
to gaze for a while in a mango tree
and light the wall of a veranda,
before resuming her interrupted journey
beyond the harbor and the lighthouse
at Port Royal, turning away
from land to the open sea.
Yet, nothing in nature changes, from that day to this,
she is still the mother of us all.
I can see the drifting offshore lights,
black posts where the pelicans brood.
And the light that used to shine
at night in my father's study
now shines as late in mine.
-
I like it. The name is new to me, but then, there are a great many modern poets I know nothing about. Maybe I should
make a list. Pulitzer Price winning poets, or Poets Laureate. Bound to be good ones there.
-
Under the greenwood tree
~ Shakespeare
UNDER the greenwood tree
Who loves to lie with me,
And tune his merry note
Unto the sweet bird's throat—
Come hither, come hither, come hither!
Here shall he see
No enemy
But winter and rough weather.
Who doth ambition shun
And loves to live i' the sun,
Seeking the food he eats
And pleased with what he gets—
Come hither, come hither, come hither!
Here shall he see
No enemy
But winter and rough weather.
-
As Shakespeare ( at least in this instance) seems prepared to take lightly "winter and rough weather", here's a viewpoint
from Bobbie Burns:
Winter: A Dirge
Robert Burns (1781)
The wintry west extends his blast,
And hail and rain does blaw;
Or the stormy north sends driving forth
The blinding sleet and snaw:
While, tumbling brown, the burn comes down,
And roars frae bank to brae;
And bird and beast in covert rest,
And pass the heartless day.
“The sweeping blast, the sky o’ercast,”
The joyless winter day
Let others fear, to me more dear
Than all the pride of May:
The tempest’s howl, it soothes my soul,
My griefs it seems to join;
The leafless trees my fancy please,
Their fate resembles mine!
Thou Power Supreme, whose mighty scheme
These woes of mine fulfil,
Here firm I rest; they must be best,
Because they are Thy will!
Then all I want—O do Thou grant
This one request of mine!—
Since to enjoy Thou dost deny,
Assist me to resign.
-
ah yes, Bobbie Burns does paint for us the picture of a blasting, harsh winter which may be just in line with the winter that Shakespeare is referring to in 'Greenwood' knowing he furthers in the same play his concern for winter being more the winter of the heart and soul.
Blow, Blow, Thou Winter Wind
Blow, blow, thou winter wind
Thou art not so unkind
As man's ingratitude;
Thy tooth is not so keen,
Because thou art not seen,
Although thy breath be rude.
Heigh-ho! sing, heigh-ho! unto the green holly:
Most freindship if feigning, most loving mere folly:
Then heigh-ho, the holly!
This life is most jolly.
Freeze, freeze thou bitter sky,
That does not bite so nigh
As benefits forgot:
Though thou the waters warp,
Thy sting is not so sharp
As a friend remembered not.
Heigh-ho! sing, heigh-ho! unto the green holly:
Most friendship is feigning, most loving mere folly:
Then heigh-ho, the holly!
This life is most jolly.
I am thinking take the winter of Bobbie Burns' wintry west compared to the greenwood forest in As You Like It and use Burns' winter to explain the feelings of a 'man's ingratitude' - a feigning friendship - love treated as folly and 'As a friend remembered not.' and you have one dark despairing, grief filled, heart and soul ache that would takes the 'pride of May' to soothe rather than, the attitude during the Reformation Shakespeare brings in his play, that nature found in the countryside will be closer to God, free from the sins of the perfumed cities therefore, a place where justice is restored.
-
Yeah, but Burns found the wintry storms more in keeping with his pain than the 'pride of May'.
I once read through all of Shakespeare's sonnets, and was surprised to find that most of them
seem to be cynical, or even angry. These are usually the less popular or well-known sonnets, which
is hardly surprising. I suspect Shakespeare used them to 'let off steam' when he was frustrated or
disappointed.
-
ah so - for sure the pain that Burns describes is a dirge - found a new word and looked to find if anyone has used it for a poem - viola
Peregrination
~ Chris Braatz
The path beside the road
bends and bucks
a serpentine route:
the sea throwing surfers
into shallow air.
Shadows promise a tranquil repose
safe in thoughts all your own
Don't believe it. This nature walk
makes each step
an adventure.
THE EUPHORIC PEREGRINATION
The suave gait in the thin, long lanes
Leads to the incredible, remarkable peregrination
Runs--Soars--Scales
Heights above the mundane layer
Visualises countries of white clouds
Clouds, clouds everywhere as if tangible
Engineers, doctors, caretakers seated
In the same row
Moving towards the common destination
No differentiation remains
Of race, religion. caste. class. colour
The same flight
Carries myriad, multifarious fates
Who's the tip of the hat, who eats the crust of humility?
You Call Death a Tragedy; I Call Death a Miraculous Peregrination
~ Michael Robertson
I stared with joy as the rainbow of corpses filled the sky
When I walked into the forest I saw
Bodies hanging from every branch of every tree
Funeral rain washing away these caskets
And days like these are the happiest we will ever be
In the winds of winter under the crying moon
Vultures flew down, their sadistic laugh in a dissonant echo
In this forest land of snow, rain, and death
Where the vultures take their thrones
A world drained of color, all joy washing away
We all joined together to look into the
Horizon of the desecrated remains of the dead
Circle of spirits fill the bleeding sky
To forever watch their world that was taken from them
-
If Michael Robertson actually saw such a scene, it must have driven him insane. "Days like this are the happiest we
will ever be." A "rainbow of corpses"? ??? (I need a smiley for 'horrified'. Tho' that is a contradiction in terms.)
-
I've read the last poem three times. I've never heard of this poet. He's new to me. I hope you can give a little explanation for this poem. For some reason I like it. Although, it does seem about death. Is the whole poem about death? I feel a Native American spirit flowing through the poem.
-
Hats it appears to be about traveling the circle of life and death and rebirth - Funeral rain is an old myth that assures there will be blossoms and new green after the funeral - each line seems to paint a picture and my take it is more a poem of atmosphere than a story. His use of the bleeding sky can be the morning sky as much as the evening sky. The poet is a young man from North Carolina who has written a book about Walt Whitman. He has many poems on his website that I find challenging. He seems to use metaphors that are not classic and so, unless you are privy to his experiences that appear to be colloquial to western NC it is a challenge to get the underlying meaning - however, the lines sing and the words are new making his work an experience to read.
Here is his website link http://wretchedfuneral.webs.com/apps/blog/
-
Urdu poem by Azra Abbas. (Translation by C.M. Naim)
A dot might appear
A dot might appear from somewhere That could not be put
on any word
and the dot
alone
off by itself
would stand there
sustained by some illusion
waiting
for a word to come
on which it could be put
It could also happen
that after centuries had passed
all the words would decay
and rot away
and be absorbed
and nothing would be left
Only the dot
would be left
-
IN PRAISE OF EARTH
~ Jo Hartog
We kept on dancing last summer though the dancing had been called subversive.
We weren't alone at the end of this particular world and knew
it wouldn't be the last world, though wars
had broken out on all sides.
We kept on dancing and with us were the insects who had gathered at the grounds
in the grasses and the trees. And with us were the stars and
a few lone planets who had been friends
with the earth for generations.
And with us were the spirits who wished to honor this beloved earth in any beautiful manner. And with us at dawn was the Sun who took the lead
and then we broke for camp, for stickball
and breakfast.
We all needed praise made of the heart's tattoo as it inspired our feet or wings, someone to admire us despite our tendency to war, to terrible
stumbles. So does the red cliff who is the heart
broken to the sky.
So do the stones who were the first to speak when we arrived. So does the flaming mountain who harbors the guardian spirits who refuse to abandon
us. And this Earth keeps faithfully to her journey, carrying us
around the Sun,
All of us in our rags and riches, our rages and promises, small talk and suffering. As we go to the store to buy our food and forget to plant, sing so
that we will be nourished in turn. As we walk out
into the dawn,
With our lists of desires that her gifts will fulfill, as she turns our tears
into rivers of sweet water, we spiral between dusking and
dawn, wake up and sleep in this lush palace of creation,
rooted by blood, dreams, and history.
We are linked by leaf, fin, and root. When we climb through the sky to each
new day our thoughts are clouds shifting weather within us.
When we step out of our minds into ceremonial
language we are humbled and amazed,
at the sacrifice. Those who forget become the people of stone who guard
the entrance to remembering. And the Earth keeps up her
dancing and she is neither perfect nor exactly in time.
She is one of us.
And she loves the dance for what it is. So does the Sun who calls the Earth
beloved. And praises her with light.
-
PERHAPS THE WORLD ENDS HERE
~ Jo Hartog
The world begins at a kitchen table. No matter what,
we must eat to live.
The gifts of earth are brought and prepared, set on the
table so it has been since creation, and it will go on.
We chase chickens or dogs away from it. Babies teethe
at the corners. They scrape their knees under it.
It is here that children are given instructions on what
it means to be human. We make men at it,
we make women.
At this table we gossip, recall enemies and the ghosts
of lovers.
Our dreams drink coffee with us as they put their arms
around our children. They laugh with us at our poor
falling-down selves and as we put ourselves back
together once again at the table.
This table has been a house in the rain, an umbrella
in the sun.
Wars have begun and ended at this table. It is a place
to hide in the shadow of terror. A place to celebrate
the terrible victory.
We have given birth on this table, and have prepared
our parents for burial here.
At this table we sing with joy, with sorrow.
We pray of suffering and remorse.
We give thanks.
Perhaps the world will end at the kitchen table,
while we are laughing and crying,
eating of the last sweet bite.
—from The Woman Who Fell From the Sky
-
I think I am a dancer,
a singer of songs,
a story-teller.
I fly and swim,
walk on four legs,
slide through the grass on my belly.
I breathe through gills,
through hollow fragile bone,
shake feathers into place on my wings.
I roll in the dust,
smooth my fur with raspy tongue,
startle at unexpected sounds.
I walk upright,
two-legged, a woman,
warm and soft, strong and vulnerable.
I walk in silence,
in laughter, with spoken word,
with solitary tears, with open heart.
~ by Carol P. Snow
-
Welcome to our Autumn Poetry Page.
For those who listen to words
that open hearts.
Please Join Us.
(http://seniorlearn.org/bookclubs/poetry/poetryleaves.jpg)
|
Leaves of Grass
~ Walt Whitman
For the lands, and for these passionate days, and for myself,
Now I awhile return to thee, O soil of Autumn fields,
Reclining on thy breast, giving myself to thee,
Answering the pulses of thy sane and equable heart,
Tuning a verse for thee.
O Earth, that hast no voice, confide to me a voice!
O harvest of my lands! O boundless summer growths!
O lavish, brown, parturient earth! O infinite, teeming womb!
A verse to seek, to see, to narrate thee.
|
A few Poetry Links:
- Famous Poets and Poems about Autumn (http://famouspoetsandpoems.com/thematic_poems/autumn_poems.html)
- Fall Poetry (http://www.dltk-holidays.com/fall/fallpoetry.htm)
- Poems for Autumn (http://www.scrapbook.com/poems/cat/5.html)
-
(http://seniorlearn.org/bookclubs/poetry/wintermyths430x274.jpg) A Winter Myth Join Us! It's the Season for Winter Poetry- Famous Poets and Poems about Winter (http://famouspoetsandpoems.com/thematic_poems/winter_poems.html)
- Link to: Winter Poems (http://poetry.about.com/od/ourpoemcollections/a/winterpoems.htm)
Discussion Leaders: Barb (augere@ix.netcom.com) | High From The Earth I Heard A Bird
~ Emily Dickinson ~
High from the earth I heard a bird;
He trod upon the trees
As he esteemed them trifles,
And then he spied a breeze,
And situated softly
Upon a pile of wind
Which in a perturbation
Nature had left behind.
A joyous-going fellow
I gathered from his talk,
Which both of benediction
And badinage partook,
Without apparent burden,
I learned, in leafy wood
He was the faithful father
Of a dependent brood;
And this untoward transport
His remedy for care, --
A contrast to our respites.
How different we are!
|
I love the imagery of Jo Hartog. I can 'feel' it, even where I don't fully understand it.
-
Praise Song for the Day
by Elizabeth Alexander
A Poem for Barack Obama's Presidential Inauguration
Each day we go about our business,
walking past each other, catching each other's
eyes or not, about to speak or speaking.
All about us is noise. All about us is
noise and bramble, thorn and din, each
one of our ancestors on our tongues.
Someone is stitching up a hem, darning
a hole in a uniform, patching a tire,
repairing the things in need of repair.
Someone is trying to make music somewhere,
with a pair of wooden spoons on an oil drum,
with cello, boom box, harmonica, voice.
A woman and her son wait for the bus.
A farmer considers the changing sky.
A teacher says, Take out your pencils. Begin.
We encounter each other in words, words
spiny or smooth, whispered or declaimed,
words to consider, reconsider.
We cross dirt roads and highways that mark
the will of some one and then others, who said
I need to see what's on the other side.
I know there's something better down the road.
We need to find a place where we are safe.
We walk into that which we cannot yet see.
Say it plain: that many have died for this day.
Sing the names of the dead who brought us here,
who laid the train tracks, raised the bridges,
picked the cotton and the lettuce, built
brick by brick the glittering edifices
they would then keep clean and work inside of.
Praise song for struggle, praise song for the day.
Praise song for every hand-lettered sign,
the figuring-it-out at kitchen tables.
Some live by love thy neighbor as thyself,
others by first do no harm or take no more
than you need. What if the mightiest word is love?
Love beyond marital, filial, national,
love that casts a widening pool of light,
love with no need to pre-empt grievance.
In today's sharp sparkle, this winter air,
any thing can be made, any sentence begun.
On the brink, on the brim, on the cusp,
praise song for walking forward in that light.
-
How wonderful to have a poem like this, to say for us what so many are feeling. When I saw the outcomes this morning,
I was divided between a 'Hallelujah' and a sigh of relief. Thanks for finding this for us, BARB.
-
That's wonderful!
-
At Home from Church
~ By Sarah Orne Jewett
The lilacs lift in generous bloom
Their plumes of dear old-fashioned flowers;
Their fragrance fills the still old house
Where left alone I count the hours.
High in the apple-trees the bees
Are humming, busy in the sun,—
An idle robin cries for rain
But once or twice and then is done.
The Sunday-morning quiet holds
In heavy slumber all the street,
While from the church, just out of sight
Behind the elms, comes slow and sweet
The organ’s drone, the voices faint
That sing the quaint long-meter hymn—
I somehow feel as if shut out
From some mysterious temple, dim
And beautiful with blue and red
And golden lights from windows high,
Where angels in the shadows stand
And earth seems very near the sky.
The day-dream fades—and so I try
Again to catch the tune that brings
No thought of temple nor of priest,
But only of a voice that sings.
-
IN A HURRY.
~ Sarah Orne Jewett.
O. silly little Calla! why,
You had enough to do;
Who ever thought of blossoms yet
From such a child as you?
Grow tall and strong all winter long --
That's what you should have done;
How came you to forget your leaves,
Besides that little one?
I think so small a bud as hers
Never before was seen;
I thought it was her second leaf,
That little twist of green.
And yesterday I moved her out,
To give her sun and room,
And found she'd made the best of things,
And really meant to bloom.
The busy thing! The leaf she has
Can hardly stand alone;
But I suppose she could not rest
Until her best was shown.
I wonder if some other plants
Will tell their secrets too, --
Your grown up sister 's so discreet,
And not at all like you.
The cross old cactus gorgeous is, --
That cloud is silver lined. --
And over all his thorny stalks
The smilax threads have twined.
The slender tall abutilon
Is gay with golden bells;
The perfume from the violets
Of hidden blooming tells;
Geraniums, the friends of years,
Good-tempered, green old pair;
The lemon and the orange-tree
Have long been standing there.
Among the leaves of salvia
The blossoms flame and fall;
But little Lily is the dear
And darling of them all.
Calla: a variety of lily.
abutilon: plants that are members of the mallow family, usually with lobed leaves and showy, bell-shaped flower
-
An 'idle robin'? I wonder why she describes it that way? Not that I know much about birds.
And why is she 'shut out' from the temple? The title is "At Home From Church." The poem leaves me mostly puzzled. I do think I can safely surmise that Sarah Jewett loves her garden.
Here's a small smile for the morning...
Fireflies in the Garden
Here come real stars to fill the upper skies,
And here on earth come emulating flies,
That though they never equal stars in size,
(And they were never really stars at heart)
Achieve at times a very star-like start.
Only, of course, they can’t sustain the part.
Robert Frost
-
One day I really must get a book of Robert Frost's poems - have books of so many poets and for some reason just do not have him in my collection.
Found this that sounds like November
A crunching frost last evening in the highlands,
the lambent moon high above the trees,
a sweet embracing darkness and on high,
the aurora borealis dancing over the hill,
November stillness flowing like a shadow
down the trail below the oak trees at twilight.
Winter stirs among the short days, whispering
of darkness and cold moons still to come,
the rattling dry breath of the long nights,
like these old bones that move creaking
through the grasses, leaves and fallen twigs.
Patterns everywhere, and not of my making,
but the Old Wild Mother's weaving, marbled
stones, hoary branches and mottled leaves,
the footprints of wolf and deer along the trail,
puddles deep in the wooded hollows rimed with
ice, shreds of tattered birch bark blowing free.
There are ghost scents on the wind this
evening, of fresh turned earth and summer
fields, There are echoes of the wild geese
going south, the old rail fence creaking
as I leaned on it at dusk one night in June.
Listening, I hear the stream moving away in the gorge.
Rest now sister, it tells me in its hollow voice.
Rest you now, for all things turn in time, and we,
like the seasons, must await the time of our tuning.
~ by Cate Kerr
-
I love the phrase, Ghost scents in the wind
-
I liked the 'patterns'. I often stop just to look a a tree against the sky...such beautiful
patterns and flashes of light and shadow. (I think I would have enjoyed the poem a bit
more if this room were a bit warmer! :))
-
I know what you mean warmer - I am on a list it appears there is a gas leak when I turn on my furnace - I bet one or more of the jets are jammed with dust and dirt since my furnace is in an outdoor closet and the space is enough to let off some gas but not large enough to light up when the jets light - always something...
A friend sent this to me this morning - just lovely I think you will enjoy it.
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=DPCvnloDLO8&feature=youtu.be
-
Beautiful, BARB. I'm saving the link. I'm sure my daughter can save some of those pictures
for our screen.
-
Blessing the Bread
~ Lynn Ungar ~
Baruch atah Adonai, Eloheinu melech ha'olam,
hamotzi lechem min ha'aretz.
Surely the earth
is heavy with this rhythm,
the stretch and pull of bread,
the folding in and folding in
across the palms, as if
the lines of my hands could chart
a map across the dough,
mold flour and water into
the crosshatchings of my life.
I do not believe in palmistry,
but I study my hands for promises
when no one is around.
I do not believe in magic.
But I probe the dough
for signs of life, willing
it to rise, to take shape,
to feed me. I do not believe
in palmistry, in magic, but
something happens in kneading
dough or massaging flesh;
an imprint of the hand remains
on the bodies we have touched.
This is the lifeline --
the etched path from hand
to grain to earth, the transmutation
of the elements through touch
marking the miracles
on which we unwillingly depend.
Praised be thou, eternal God,
who brings forth bread from the earth.
-
How beautifully appropriate for Thanksgiving. Thank you, Barb.
-
Ix-chel at the End of Days
Ix-chel, patroness of Isla Mujeres, goddess of fertility and abundance
Of course a goddess never tells her age,
Nor how many centuries she has shared
These skies and seas with you,
To fill your boats with fish, your homes with children.
My foretold days are coming to a close.
Will I be granted one more term , renewal ?
Or must I gather my star-shot silver robes
And wander to another galaxy where souls
Still seek the gifts of plentitude and peace ?.
Go to the shore at Guadalupana,
Find a swirled conch
And whisper at its lip, your wish to me,
And hold it to your ear; the humming sea
Will give you back my answer..
-
Marvelous bellemere - what is it from - or who wrote it - just wonderful.
-
From you, lady, that makes my day.
-
Oh my - well here she is - I did have to look her up - I know so little of that part of Mexico - now the Northwest and the North East but not central or southern much less the peninsula. But here is her story.
Ix Chel
from Goddesses and Heroines
Exerpt from Goddess & Heroines by Patricia Monaghan
[Used by permission. This text is NOT included in the Goddess Oracle]
Among the Maya of the Yucatan peninsula, this was the name of the snake goddess of water and the moon, of childbirth and weaving. Once, it was said, she took the sun as her lover, but her grandfather hurled lightning jealously at her, killing the girl. Grieving dragonflies sang over Ix Chel for 13 days, at the end of which time she emerged, whole and alive, and followed her lover to his palace. But there the sun in turn grew jealous of the goddess, accusing her of taking a new lover: his brother, the morning star. He threw Ix Chel from heaven; she found sanctuary with the vulture divinity; the sun pursued her and lured her home; but immediately, he grew jealous again.
Ix Chel, weary of the sun's behavior, left his home and his bed to wander the night as she wished, making herself invisible whenever he came near. The night-riding goddess spent her energies in nursing the women of earth through pregnancy and labor, taking special care of those who visited her sacred island of Cozumel.
-
Lovely, BELLE. I would love to go to the shore at Guadalupana, and listen to what
this gentle goddess would say to me.
Seems to be a lot of violent jealousy among these Mayan gods. Why on earth would
her grandfather by jealous? Hmm... a people's gods do tend to reflect their own
natures, which may tell us a somethings about the Mayans.
-
the Mayan people of Mexico and Central America today are arguably the most peace-loving, gracious and friendly of all, despite the warlike reputation of their ancestors.
-
I wish we could say the same for all peoples, BELLE. Sad how many still cling to ancient
hatreds and feuds.
-
Found this image last week that I cannot get out of my mind and so I was on a hunt for a poem that would go with the image - if you have another poem in mind please share it with us...
(http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_Y_7BRmZPWd4/TAuOzc86CCI/AAAAAAAAECw/ieL_Io11Kps/S269/October_4th_2007_002.jpg)
House of Dark Forest
~ Marzia Matalone
I run, horse of dark forest.
Violet horsehair crumbles to the wind,
my eyes reflect foggy points:
they’re blinking quickly,
incessantly.
I run, horse of dark forest.
I’m the wild one, the impetuous.
My hooves trample flowers of valley,
violets too, but withered and haggard.
And you, far away, among those trees.
You, nocturnal, with ruffled hair.
Looking at me, from a tarnished square,
are you asking yourself:
Will it rest its step?
And the wind, will it stop blowing?
But spirals of air are restless,
violet horsehair crumbles to the wind,
my hooves trample flowers of valley,
violets too, but withered and haggard.
-
It is dark, okay. Can't even tell what it is. Poem is nice.
-
It appears to be a deep dark forest with a shaft of light highlighting one green branch and the side of the trunk of a large tree - but it does take a bit of study doesn't it to coax it out.
-
Found this and here we haven't really had an opportunity to consider the photo above and put a poem to it - however, this just caught my heart strings - although Thanksgiving has passed the sentiment suggests this Holiday time of year that for some the holidays are filled with more memories and are awash in melancholy - at any rate, the poem is just so beautiful spilling out so many truths.
The Transparent Man
~ by Anthony Hecht
I'm mighty glad to see you, Mrs. Curtis,
And thank you very kindly for this visit--
Especially now when all the others here
Are having holiday visitors, and I feel
A little conspicuous and in the way.
It's mainly because of Thanksgiving. All these mothers
And wives and husbands gaze at me soulfully
And feel they should break up their box of chocolates
For a donation, or hand me a chunk of fruitcake.
What they don't understand and never guess
Is that it's better for me without a family;
It's a great blessing. Though I mean no harm.
And as for visitors, why, I have you,
All cheerful, brisk and punctual every Sunday,
Like church, even if the aisles smell of phenol.
And you always bring even better gifts than any
On your book-trolley. Though they mean only good,
Families can become a sort of burden.
I've only got my father, and he won't come,
Poor man, because it would be too much for him.
And for me, too, so it's best the way it is.
He knows, you see, that I will predecease him,
Which is hard enough. It would take a callous man
To come and stand around and watch me failing.
(Now don't you fuss; we both know the plain facts.)
But for him it's even harder. He loved my mother.
They say she looked like me; I suppose she may have.
Or rather, as I grew older I came to look
More and more like she must one time have looked,
And so the prospect for my father now
Of losing me is like having to lose her twice.
I know he frets about me. Dr. Frazer
Tells me he phones in every single day,
Hoping that things will take a turn for the better.
But with leukemia things don't improve.
It's like a sort of blizzard in the bloodstream,
A deep, severe, unseasonable winter,
Burying everything. The white blood cells
Multiply crazily and storm around,
Out of control. The chemotherapy
Hasn't helped much, and it makes my hair fall out.
I know I look a sight, but I don't care.
I care about fewer things; I'm more selective.
It's got so I can't even bring myself
To read through any of your books these days.
It's partly weariness, and partly the fact
That I seem not to care much about the endings,
How things work out, or whether they even do.
What I do instead is sit here by this window
And look out at the trees across the way.
You wouldn't think that was much, but let me tell you,
It keeps me quite intent and occupied.
Now all the leaves are down, you can see the spare,
Delicate structures of the sycamores,
The fine articulation of the beeches.
I have sat here for days studying them,
And I have only just begun to see
What it is that they resemble. One by one,
They stand there like magnificent enlargements
Of the vascular system of the human brain.
I see them there like huge discarnate minds,
Lost in their meditative silences.
The trunks, branches and twigs compose the vessels
That feed and nourish vast immortal thoughts.
So I've assigned them names. There, near the path,
Is the great brain of Beethoven, and Kepler
Haunts the wide spaces of that mountain ash.
This view, you see, has become my Hall of Fame,
It came to me one day when I remembered
Mary Beth Finley who used to play with me
When we were girls. One year her parents gave her
A birthday toy called "The Transparent Man."
It was made of plastic, with different colored organs,
And the circulatory system all mapped out
In rivers of red and blue. She'd ask me over
And the two of us would sit and study him
Together, and do a powerful lot of giggling.
I figure he's most likely the only man
Either of us would ever get to know
Intimately, because Mary Beth became
A Sister of Mercy when she was old enough.
She must be thirty-one; she was a year
Older than I, and about four inches taller.
I used to envy both those advantages
Back in those days. Anyway, I was struck
Right from the start by the sea-weed intricacy,
The fine-haired, silken-threaded filiations
That wove, like Belgian lace, throughout the head.
But this last week it seems I have found myself
Looking beyond, or through, individual trees
At the dense, clustered woodland just behind them,
Where those great, nameless crowds patiently stand.
It's become a sort of complex, ultimate puzzle
And keeps me fascinated. My eyes are twenty-twenty,
Or used to be, but of course I can't unravel
The tousled snarl of intersecting limbs,
That mackled, cinder grayness. It's a riddle
Beyond the eye's solution. Impenetrable.
If there is order in all that anarchy
Of granite mezzotint, that wilderness,
It takes a better eye than mine to see it.
It set me on to wondering how to deal
With such a thickness of particulars,
Deal with it faithfully, you understand,
Without blurring the issue. Of course I know
That within a month the sleeving snows will come
With cold, selective emphases, with massings
And arbitrary contrasts, rendering things
Deceptively simple, thickening the twigs
To frosty veins, bestowing epaulets
And decorations on every birch and aspen.
And the eye, self-satisfied, will be misled,
Thinking the puzzle solved, supposing at last
It can look forth and comprehend the world.
That's when you have to really watch yourself.
So I hope that you won't think me plain ungrateful
For not selecting one of your fine books,
And I take it very kindly that you came
And sat here and let me rattle on this way.
-
I read every word of that, BARB. It is so poignant. I found myself relating to it in a number
of ways. I'm so glad you found it for us.
-
That was wonderful.
-
That's amazing. I particularly liked
It set me on to wondering how to deal
With such a thickness of particulars,
Deal with it faithfully, you understand,
Without blurring the issue.
-
This is probably stale news for most - we have only had falling leaves in the last week or so - today there is just a slight breeze in our 80 degree weather and the air is busy with floating yellow leaves raining from the China Berry trees exposing thick clusters of berries and I have a huge Arizona Ash. The leaves on this gigantic, 40 year old soft wood Ash are also yellow but large and in comparison look like small rafts floating softly where the leaves from both the China Berry and the old Hackberry are small, oblong, like diving fish on a mission past the larger yellow rafts that are just cupped enough so that elves or fairies could safely take a ride to earth. There is one Chinese Tallow back there but it is still standing tall with no loss of leaves.
The peach trees hit the dust last year during the drought so no leaves just a few trunks that appear like a dead carcass marked in white slashes scraped by the antlers of the bucks. Also, lost to the drought, is a big photinia which never lost its leaves - I miss its red tips. The rest of the trees are Live Oak and they will stay silvery green all winter loosing their leaves in March when the new leaves push the old out of the way.
And so after a coffee break enjoying the show I had to find a few poems...
Leaves Falling
~ Anonymous
The leaves had a wonderful frolic.
They danced to the wind's loud song.
They whirled, and they floated, and scampered.
They circled and flew along.
Falling Leaves
~ Anonymous
The moon saw the little leaves dancing.
Each looked like a small brown bird.
The man in the moon smiled and listened.
And this is the song he heard.
The North Wind is calling, is calling,
And we must whirl round and round,
And then, when our dancing is ended,
We'll make a warm quilt for the ground.
The Leaves Are Green
~ An Old Rhyme
The leaves are green, the nuts are brown, They hang so high they won't come down. Leave them alone till frosty weather, Then they will all come down together.
-
Such a pity to lose those trees in the drought. I miss the pecans I had in the back yard at
my former home.
The lovely poems about falling leaves....do you remember the old Nat King Cole song?
AUTUMN LEAVES
The falling leaves drift by the window
The autumn leaves of red and gold
I see your lips, the summer kisses
The sun-burned hands I used to hold
Since you went away the days grow long
And soon I’ll hear old winter’s song
But I miss you most of all my darling
When autumn leaves start to fall
-
And here he is:
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Gnp58oepHUQ
-
He always was a fine-looking man. If I close my eyes and concentrate, and I can almost
hear him singing.
-
His soft way reminds me of Obama today - they both have a similar elegance.
Today the fog is so thick I bet children will be late for school trying to drive in this - have not turned on the TV so I am not sure if there are warnings but looking out my windows you cannot see 500 feet much less 500 yards - cannot see the back fence in my yard. This is very unusual for us - in early Spring there is some fog but i just cannot remember it ever being an issue in late fall to early winter.
FOG
~ Carl Sandburg
The fog comes
on little cat feet.
It sits looking
over harbor and city
on silent haunches
and then moves on.
Excerpts from Eliot's The Love Song of J. Alfred Prufrock
The yellow fog that rubs its back upon the window-panes,
The yellow smoke that rubs its muzzle on the window-panes
Licked its tongue into the corners of the evening,
Lingered upon the pools that stand in drains,
Let fall upon its back the soot that falls from chimneys,
Slipped by the terrace, made a sudden leap,
And seeing that it was a soft October night,
Curled once about the house, and fell asleep.
And indeed there will be time
For the yellow smoke that slides along the street,
Rubbing its back upon the window panes;
There will be time, there will be time
To prepare a face to meet the faces that you meet;
There will be time to murder and create,
And time for all the works and days of hands
That lift and drop a question on your plate;
Time for you and time for me,
And time yet for a hundred indecisions,
And for a hundred visions and revisions,
Before the taking of a toast and tea.
-
The Fog
~ William H. Davies
I saw the fog grow thick,
Which soon made blind my ken;
It made tall men of boys,
And giants of tall men.
It clutched my throat, I coughed;
Nothing was in my head
Except two heavy eyes
Like balls of burning lead.
And when it grew so black
That I could know no place,
I lost all judgment then,
Of distance and of space.
The street lamps, and the lights
Upon the halted cars,
Could either be on earth
Or be the heavenly stars.
A man passed by me close,
I asked my way, he said,
"Come, follow me, my friend"—
I followed where he led.
He rapped the stones in front,
"Trust me," he said, "and come";
I followed like a child—
A blind man led me home.
-
Oh and the second paragraph in Chapter one of
Bleak House
~ Charles Dickens
Fog everywhere. Fog up the river, where it flows among green aits and meadows; fog down the river, where it rolls defiled among the tiers of shipping and the waterside pollutions of a great (and dirty) city. Fog on the Essex marshes, fog on the Kentish heights. Fog creeping into the cabooses of collier-brigs; fog lying out on the yards, and hovering in the rigging of great ships; fog drooping on the gunwales of barges and small boats. Fog in the eyes and throats of ancient Greenwich pensioners, wheezing by the firesides of their wards; fog in the stem and bowl of the afternoon pipe of the wrathful skipper, down in his close cabin; fog cruelly pinching the toes and fingers of his shivering little ’prentice boy on deck. Chance people on the bridges peeping over the parapets into a nether sky of fog, with fog all round them, as if they were up in a balloon, and hanging in the misty clouds.
-
The True Christmas
~ by Henry Vaughan (1621-1695)
So stick up ivy and the bays,
And then restore the heathen ways.
Green will remind you of the spring,
Though this great day denies the thing.
And mortifies the earth and all
But your wild revels, and loose hall.
Could you wear flowers, and roses strow
Blushing upon your breasts' warm snow,
That very dress your lightness will
Rebuke, and wither at the ill.
The brightness of this day we owe
Not unto music, masque, nor show:
Nor gallant furniture, nor plate;
But to the manger's mean estate.
His life while here, as well as birth,
Was but a check to pomp and mirth;
And all man's greatness you may see
Condemned by His humility.
Then leave your open house and noise,
To welcome Him with holy joys,
And the poor shepherd's watchfulness:
Whom light and hymns from heaven did bless.
What you abound with, cast abroad
To those that want, and ease your load.
Who empties thus, will bring more in;
But riot is both loss and sin.
Dress finely what comes not in sight,
And then you keep your Christmas right.
-
Fascinating how Eliot conveyed the image of a cat without once using the word.
I loved the image of the fog curled about the house, sleeping. And these lines I
read over and over: And time yet for a hundred indecisions,
And for a hundred visions and revisions,
Before the taking of a toast and tea. Wm. Davies speaking of a fog that "grew so black" was strange. Fogs I've seen have
all been white, but I can imagine a yellow fog in an industrial area. I very much
like his final twist, of a blind man able to lead a seeing man home when eyesight
was useless.
I am tempted now to read the 'Prufrock' poem. I've always been put off by the length of
it, but from this excerpt, I suspect I could take it leisurely and greatly enjoy it. AND, it is
definitely time to look into old Christmas favorites. I'll let you find the new ones for us,
BARB. :)
-
Babi seems to me we discussed Elliot's 'Prufrock' and Ginny was the discussion leader - I wonder, maybe it was when we were still SeniorNet - I will look in the archives that I have and see if I can find it for you.
Yes, with Advent a week old the Christmas stories and poems come to mind. Strange pre-holiday weather - lots and lots of fog here so that it must be a warm front meeting a cold or cool front right in Austin - the fog is so dense again today that you can't hear birds or traffic it is like being wrapped in cotton batting. I understand we have this as a normal till Sunday when a cold front will push through.
-
FLAME-HEART
by: Claude McKay (1890-1948)
O much have I forgotten in ten years,
So much in ten brief years! I have forgot
What time the purple apples come to juice,
And what month brings the shy forget-me-not.
I have forgot the special, startling season
Of the pimento's flowering and fruiting;
What time of year the ground doves brown the fields
And fill the noonday with their curious fluting.
I have forgotten much, but still remember
The poinsettia's red, blood-red in warm December.
I still recall the honey-fever grass,
But cannot recollect the high days when
We rooted them out of the ping-wing path
To stop the mad bees in the rabbit pen.
I often try to think in what sweet month
The languid painted ladies used to dapple
The yellow by-road mazing from the main,
Sweet with the golden threads of the rose-apple.
I have forgotten--strange--but quite remember
The poinsettia's red, blood-red in warm December.
What weeks, what months, what time of the mild year
We cheated school to have our fling at tops?
What days our wine-thrilled bodies pulsed with joy
Feasting upon blackberries in the copse?
Oh some I know! I have embalmed the days
Even the sacred moments when we played,
All innocent of passion, uncorrupt,
At noon and evening in the flame-heart's shade.
We were so happy, happy, I remember,
Beneath the poinsettia's red in warm December.
-
Celtic Mirror
When seasons change
and migrations flow through air and water
I long for my home.
When I’m alone
at high noon with full moon, I find our thoughts
entwined: two vines
incised on ancient stone
where two minds find their homeland
and a river runs underground
where birds with bright blue feathers
delight us with their songs.
-
(http://seniorlearn.org/bookclubs/poetry/wintermyths430x274.jpg) A Winter Myth Join Us! It's the Season for Winter Poetry- Famous Poets and Poems about Winter (http://famouspoetsandpoems.com/thematic_poems/winter_poems.html)
- Link to: Winter Poems (http://poetry.about.com/od/ourpoemcollections/a/winterpoems.htm)
Discussion Leaders: Barb (augere@ix.netcom.com) | High From The Earth I Heard A Bird
~ Emily Dickinson ~
High from the earth I heard a bird;
He trod upon the trees
As he esteemed them trifles,
And then he spied a breeze,
And situated softly
Upon a pile of wind
Which in a perturbation
Nature had left behind.
A joyous-going fellow
I gathered from his talk,
Which both of benediction
And badinage partook,
Without apparent burden,
I learned, in leafy wood
He was the faithful father
Of a dependent brood;
And this untoward transport
His remedy for care, --
A contrast to our respites.
How different we are!
|
Winter
and the waves
gush pearls
from their snowy throats
As they come
leaping
over the moss-green
black-green
glass=green roughage
as they crumble
on the incline
scattering whatever they carry
in their invisible
and motherly hands
stones,
seaweed,
mussels,
icy and plump
with waled shells
waiting
for the gatherers,
who come flying
on their long white wings
who come walking,
who come muttering
thank you
old dainties,
dark wreckage
coins of the sea,
in my pockets
and plenty for the gulls.,
and the wind still pounding,
and the sea still streaming in,
like a mother wild with gifts.
In this world I am as rich
As I need to be.
Mary
Can't reproduce Mary's arrangement, but here is a great winter image/
-
That's Mary Oliver, of Cape cod, Massachusetts!
-
ah and did you see her new book of poetry was voted best in Poetry for 2012
Here is another of her winter poems but since there is a great photo that highlights the poem I think I will post it as its own post.
-
(http://www.panhala.net/Archive/Foggy%20morning%20starling.jpg)
Starlings in Winter
~ Mary Oliver ~
Chunky and noisy,
but with stars in their black feathers,
they spring from the telephone wire
and instantly
they are acrobats
in the freezing wind.
And now, in the theater of air,
they swing over buildings,
dipping and rising;
they float like one stippled star
that opens,
becomes for a moment fragmented,
then closes again;
and you watch
and you try
but you simply can’t imagine
how they do it
with no articulated instruction, no pause,
only the silent confirmation
that they are this notable thing,
this wheel of many parts, that can rise and spin
over and over again,
full of gorgeous life.
Ah, world, what lessons you prepare for us,
even in the leafless winter,
even in the ashy city.
I am thinking now
of grief, and of getting past it;
I feel my boots
trying to leave the ground,
I feel my heart
pumping hard. I want
to think again of dangerous and noble things.
I want to be light and frolicsome.
I want to be improbably beautiful and afraid of nothing,
as though I had wings.
-
Love the Mary Oliver poem. Here's an oldie...
Minstrels, a Christmas Poem by William Wordsworth
The minstrels played their Christmas tune
To-night beneath my cottage-eaves;
While, smitten by a lofty moon,
The encircling laurels, thick with leaves,
Gave back a rich and dazzling sheen,
That overpowered their natural green.
Through hill and valley every breeze
Had sunk to rest with folded wings:
Keen was the air, but could not freeze,
Nor check, the music of the strings;
So stout and hardy were the band
That scraped the chords with strenuous hand.
And who but listened?--till was paid
Respect to every inmate's claim,
The greeting given, the music played
In honour of each household name,
Duly pronounced with lusty call,
And "Merry Christmas" wished to all.
-
Oh I love these lines...
While, smitten by a lofty moon,
The encircling laurels, thick with leaves,
Gave back a rich and dazzling sheen,
-
I love the poem to starlings: so noisy and pesky on the ground, so beautiful when they flock in the air.
https://mycotopia.net/forums/attachments/trash-talk/174710d1276730757-starling-flocks-flying-avalanches-starlings.jpg&imgrefurl
-
What a sight - thanks JoanK - I am going to shorten your link by using TinyURL
OH my I tired and it will not shorten so that we can view it - this day and age to not be able to short such a long URL seems unreal - there is one other site I am going to try and see if it will work.
Did it - actually it was not by using the Tiny but by printing out the long URL and breaking it up there were 3 links involved and the one now in your post is the second of the three links in the original address - rheHa - it is a reasonable size trala.
-
Trala! Thank you.
-
Those swirling dark clouds look actually menacing, JOAN. Perhaps that's why the
link calls them 'flying avalanches'. Amazing, tho', how closely packed they can
fly and swirl with no collisions.
-
Right. As Mary Oliver says:
but you simply can’t imagine
how they do it
with no articulated instruction, no pause,
only the silent confirmation
that they are this notable thing,
-
While Walking (V)
~ by David Lee
Luke 18:16
Do you think the rocks are listening to us?
I don't know. Do rocks hear?
The ones that are alive do.
-
??? Well, no, rocks aren't alive, and it's perfectly safe to talk to them. If you
really want to, that is. People may look at you a bit strangely. :-\
-
ah yes ;) but Babi how often have you tried to converse with someone who acts as if they are a rock - no brain or thinking movement forward or backward nor any attempt to understand the issue or you and often with an opinion that can only be described as having rocks in their head. ::)
How about this bit of fun...
A Rock Makes an Excellent Puppy
--Kenn Nesbitt
A rock makes an excellent puppy.
They're practically almost the same.
Except that a puppy's rambunctious;
a rock is a little more tame.
It's true that a rock's not as hyper.
It may not chase after a ball.
And, often as not, when you call it,
it won't even hear you at all.
And maybe it doesn't roll over,
and isn't excited to play,
but rocks always sit when you tell them,
and rocks really know how to stay.
It may sleep a little bit longer.
It probably eats a bit less.
But rocks never pee on the carpet.
You won't have to pick up their mess.
So go ask your folks for a puppy,
and possibly that's what you'll get.
But, still, if you can't have a puppy,
a rock is a pretty good pet.
It doesn't annoy you with barking;
it quietly sits on a shelf.
A rock makes an excellent puppy.
That's what I keep telling myself.
-
here is another excerpt - this time translated from Aditya Bhaskara "i planted into sky's soil"
The Search
once a long time back
i planted into sky's soil
a small fleck of hope,
a fading wish of luck
since then i've been
looking among the stars
for some sign of the lost
seed of my tender dream
once someone told me
that plant blossomed
while i was asleep
in some deep slumber
by the time i woke up
it had withered away
sending its bright colors
down to the earth
riding on sun rays
those colors broke
through the window
onto someone's face
and since then,
i have been searching
for that smile that has luck
preserved in its curve
i am looking for the eyes
that have my soul shining
floating in retinal divide
like diamonds cut in elegance
i am waiting for the voice
that has my keen whispers
touching the roots of spine
like enchanted chilling wind
days pass by in stupor
invisibility playing at me
time and again .
-
I like those poems a lot.
-
Oh, BARB, how timely! My son and DIL brought their new puppy with them when they came for Christmas. A mini-schnauzer, beautiful little thing and loves everybody. Well-trained, BUT, so energetic, so happy to see you, that 'rambunctious' scarcely covers it. I needed to sit down quickly when she
ran my way.
"The Search" is a lovely fantasy. Am I correct in supposing the poet is Indian,
and Hindu, do you know?
-
Do not know much about him Babi except he is from New Delhi - could be Hindu or Buddhist - does not sound like Islamic thinking - all religions in this vibrant area of the world.
-
So this poet is a man? How interesting. The whole poem was so romantic, even wistful, that I assumed it was a woman.
-
this is not a poem worthy of reproducing here, but maybe you can tell me why my three-year old grandson thinks it is hioarious,he shaked with laughter when I sing it:
My hat, it has three corners.
Three corners has my hat.
If it has not three corners
Well, then it's not my hat.
-
Who knows, BELLE. But while we're smiling over your grandson's laughter, here
is another such poem, by Alfred Noyes.
Everyone grumbled. The sky was grey.
We had nothing to do and nothing to say.
We were nearing the end of a dismal day,
And then there seemed to be nothing beyond,
Then
Daddy fell into the pond!
And everyone's face grew merry and bright,
And Timothy danced for sheer delight.
"Give me the camera, quick, oh quick!
He's crawling out of the duckweed!" Click!
Then the gardener suddenly slapped his knee,
And doubled up, shaking silently,
And the ducks all quacked as if they were daft,
And it sounded as if the old drake laughed.
Oh, there wasn't a thing that didn't respond
When Daddy Fell into the pond!
-
OH Babi what a delight - I laughed out loud - hope the Daddy was the kind who laughed with everyone else. :D
Bellemere - interesting you bring up the 3 cornered hat - the Vienna Symphony only played the tune during their New Year's concert.
-
Yes, they Did. but my father used to sing it to me, and in German it was even sillier. Wish I could remember it. but then, everything sounds funnier in Grman. Bagpipe: doodlsak.
-
Loved Daddy falling into pond. Must try that on Georgie.
The library book sale yielded up Irish Verst from the Sixth Century to the Present.
Ireland alone had women poets,, even during the Dark Ages. Here is one by Llandan, mourning the lover she dismissed on religious grounds. I guess he was a pagan.
Lladan Mourns for Cuithin
Joyless
What I have done
To torment my darling one.
But for fear
of the Lord of Heaven
He would lie with me here.
Not vain
It seemed our choice,
to seek Paradise through Pain.
I am Lladan,I loved Cuirthin
As truly as they say.
The short time
I passed with him
How swet his company.
The forest trees
Sighed music or us
And the flaring blue of the seas.
What folly!
To turn him against me
Whom I had treated most gently.
No whim
Or scruple of mine
Should have come between
Us, for above
All others, without shame
I declare him my hearts love.
A roaring flame has consumed my heart.
Iwill not live without him.
ninthe century, translated from the Irish by John Montagu.
-
Let me know how Georgie likes it, BELLE. I can well imagine a child that age giggling
over the image of Daddy falling in the water.
Poor Lladan. I hope she was very young, and will recover in time, marry and be
happy.
-
I became curious if there are other Ancient Irish Poems translated from the Celtic to English - found a couple online - this one from the 8th century
The Blackbird by Belfast Lough
What little throat
Has framed that note?
What gold beak shot
It far away?
A blackbird on
His leafy throne
Tossed it alone
Across the bay.
-
From the 10th century
The Good Man
This is the song the Devil sang to Saint Moling.
Pure gold, bright sky about the sun,
A silver goblet filled with wine,
An angel wise is everyone
That still hath done God's will divine.
A caught bird fluttering in the snare,
A leaky ship that wild winds shake,
A wineglass drained, a rotten tree --
Even such they be that God's law break.
A breathing branch that flowers in spring,
A vessel brimmed with honey sweet,
A precious ruby beyond price --
Such he that follows Christ's own feet.
A hollow nut that none desire,
A savour foul, a rotten wood,
A flowerless crabtree growing wild,
Are those defiled that Christ withstood.
The man that does Christ's heavenly will,
He is the sun that warms the year,
God's image through his heart doth pass,
He is a glass of crystal clear.
A racehorse straining for the goal,
Heaven is the mark for which he tries;
That chariot driven by a king,
A precious thing shall be his prize.
A sun that warms all Heaven round,
God loves him more than things of price:
A noble temple and divine,
A golden shrine of sacrifice.
An altar with the wine outpoured
Where sweet choirs sing in linen stoled,
A chalice with God's blood therein
Of findruine or precious gold.
-
I like this one in that I can easily substitute other occupations like - Above my shovel oiled for work...here I dig A Gardener bright in great woods now. -
The occupation or job would have to have two syllabubs and a once syllabub word describing the occupation - I just like the image of doing work with thoughts of birds singing that I seldom notice when I am focused on a job.
The Scribe
Over my head the woodland wall
Rises; the ousel sings to me.
Above my booklet lined for words
The woodland birds shake out their glee.
There's the blithe cuckoo chanting clear
In mantle gre from bouth to bough!
God keep me still! for here I write
A scripture bright in great woods now.
-
I find it hard to imagine the devil singing such a song. It is exhorting the
wisdom of those who obey God and the ruin of those who do not. That isn't exactly
his role.
::)
Wouldn't we all love such a pleasant place to work?
-
according to history Babi the Devil is saying what comes from your mouth stays on your lips and if St. Moling said aloud the things that showed the Devil for who and what he is then that behavior would be part of St. Moling and so the Devil gives him credit so to tamper the self destruction of St. Moling
here is another version of the scene
http://tinyurl.com/a5xplxm
-
Thanks, BARB. That link did clear things up a bit. And St. Moling is totally new to me;
never heard of him before. But I imagine that's true of most of the official saints.
-
these early Irish poems are called "Epigrams' but don't some of them sound a little like haiku?
1.
I know him;
He'll give no horse for a poem.
He'll give what his kind allows.
Cows.
2.
He is my love
My sweet nutgrove.
A boy he is.
For him, a kiss.
3.
CuChuememne in youth
Read his way through half the truth.
He let the other half lie
while he gave women a try.
Well for him in old age,
He became a holy sage.
He gave women the laugh:
he read the other half.
-
Those are lovely!
-
:D :D :D I laughed and laughed at the last poem about CuChuememne
You prompted me to go in search of another Irish ditty type poem - could not find an Epigram but found this.
How to Ask and Have
~ by Samuel Lover
"Oh, 'tis time I should talk to your mother,
Sweet Mary," says I;
"Oh, don't talk to my mother," says Mary,
Beginning to cry,
"For my mother says men are deceivers,
And never, I know, will consent;
She says all girls in a hurry to marry
At leisure repent."
"Then, suppose I would talk to your father,
Sweet Mary," says I;
"Oh, don't talk to my father," says Mary,
Beginning to cry,
"For my father, he loves me so dearly
He'll never consent I should go -
If you talk to my father," says Mary,
"He'll surely say 'no'."
"Then how shall I get you, my jewel?
Sweet Mary," says I;
"If your father and mother so cruel,
Most surely I'll die!"
"Oh, never say die, dear," says Mary;
"A way now to save you, I see;
Since my parents are both so contrary -
You'd better ask me."
-
These are great!
-
These small 'poems' strike me quite differently. I see the resemblance to haiku, but these
are so simple, they're almost childlike, esp. the first two. The one by Samuel Lover (how
apt a name) was fun to read.
What do you think of this medieval Irish poem..translated, of course.
I invoke the land of Eire:
much coursed by the fertile sea.
Fertile is the fruit-strewn mountain
fruit strewn by the showery wood
showery is the river of waterfalls
of waterfalls by the lake of deep pools
deep is the hill-top well
a well of tribes is the assembly
an assembly of the kings is Tara
Tara of the hill of the tribes
the tribes of the sons of Mil
of Mil of the ships -
Like a lofty ship is the land of Eire
lofty land of Eire darkly sung
dark Eber’s incantation
an incantation of great cunning
the great cunning of the wives of Bres
the wives of Bres of Buaigne
but the great Eire -
Eremon has conquered her.
I, Amairgen, have invoked for her.
I invoke the land of Eire.
-
two things strike me about the early Irish poets; the deep mystical connection to the land and the sea, and the frankness of expression about sexuality. Seems they were doing more in the Dark Ages than copying scripture in the monasteries. Here is a prime example:
Cathleen
Lovely whore though,
Lovely, lovely whore.
And choosy---
Sle pt with Conn,
Slept with Niall,
Slept with Brian,
Slept with Rory.
Slide then,
The long slide.
Of course it shows.
-
I think during this time in history we still had married priests called Friars - seems to me I vaguely remember it was during the middle ages before the church was concerned about the distribution of half the land to the eldest sons and so to stop that celibacy became the answer. Don't you find many of the poets before the 15th century were bawdy - I am thinking of Donne - they seem so frank even to our current liberal attitudes. I still wince though when I have to read this stuff. Ah so just not a 21st century woman I guess. So no I do not plan on reading the current whoha book something about Gray - on the cover is a closeup of a man in his shirt and tie in Gray.
Babi the poem you shared reminded me how I was always going to read the myths of Ireland and where I touched on a few and read children's short versions of several I never did read the stories - golly so many books I want to read but then there is life that must be lived. All to say I must look up to learn who are the wives of Bres of Buaigne
We have had so much rain - deep heavy rain - that the grass is as green as a picture from the Irish countryside.
-
Ah, the fate of most whores, poor things. They attract the top men until
they begin to age,..then the long slide downhill.
That bit about the origins of celibacy in the church was new to me. I always thought the
church attributed it to St. Paul and his example and advice. Didn't priests take vows of
poverty? If the land the church was concerned about was church land, the priests couldn't
pass on title to it in any case. A bit confusing.
In view of the fact that sex and the priesthood are still a severe problem, it would suggest
the decision may have been unwise.
-
BABI: I like that poem:
"lofty land of Eire darkly sung"
-
(http://seniorlearn.org/bookclubs/poetry/poetryspringgirl.jpg) J.W. Waterhouse - Famous Poets and Poems about Spring (http://famouspoetsandpoems.com/thematic_poems/spring_poems.html)
- Link to: Spring Poems (http://poetry.about.com/od/ourpoemcollections/a/springpoems.htm)
Discussion Leaders: Barb (augere@ix.netcom.com) | Join Us! For a Season of Spring Poetry
A Prayer in Spring
~ Robert Frost
Oh, give us pleasure in the flowers to-day;
And give us not to think so far away
As the uncertain harvest; keep us here
All simply in the springing of the year.
Oh, give us pleasure in the orchard white,
Like nothing else by day, like ghosts by night;
And make us happy in the happy bees,
The swarm dilating round the perfect trees.
And make us happy in the darting bird
That suddenly above the bees is heard,
The meteor that thrusts in with needle bill,
And off a blossom in mid air stands still.
For this is love and nothing else is love,
The which it is reserved for God above
To sanctify to what far ends He will,
But which it only needs that we fulfil.
|
-
I would look carefully at any Irish poem involving the name Cathleen. She seems to be a powerful symbol. Yeats used he as a symbol of Irish nationalism, Cathleen ni Houlihan, but she seems to go way back. This is what I could find quickly--a medieval legend that implies earlier origins:
http://www.sacred-texts.com/neu/eng/hml/hml12.htm (http://www.sacred-texts.com/neu/eng/hml/hml12.htm)
-
OH OH thanks so much Pat for having a clue to look this up - poetic rich with mythology - I live that kind of stuff and so much better than the first flush of assuming what the meaning was in the poem - many poems that are associated with religious can sound so different like The Dark Night of the Soul seems erotic
Interesting I was just debating a book - Poetic Knowledge: The Recovery of Education by James Taylor that the blurbs suggest it rediscovers a traditional mode of knowledge that remains viable today. Contrasted to the academic and cultural fads often based on the scientific methodology of the Cartesian legacy, or any number of trendy experiments in education, Poetic Knowledge returns to the freshness and importance of first knowledge, a knowledge of the senses and the passions.
Thanks again for helping to send us off on the right foot. :-*
-
BARB, I am convinced you are a teacher/lecturer at heart. Whatever the subject, you must
delve into it deeply and find out all you can, and share it. If real estate is getting too tiring,
I heartily recommend a second career in the lecture field. You were born to it.
-
the issue of property inheritance was , I think, only wone factor in the celibacy decision of the Catholic Church. peraps the authorities wre also acandalied by how far thins had otten out of hand with some of the misbhaving clerics.
-
OH bellemere that is today's thinking - in those days even the pope did not have to be a cleric till the early part of the twentieth century - and Cardinals were given Bishoprics after their selection who again did not have to be a priest - the 12 Bishoprics nearest what is now Vatican City were the ones distributed till there were more and more Cardinals and I think there was 129 Bishoprics nearest the Pope's quarters but do not quote that number - then in later years after celibacy became a priests life and more Cardinals from other lands were chosen - they were often from a Bishopry and only the ones that come from the Curia need to be assigned a Bishopry.
We forget sex had a very different view - it was more about the legalities - a woman you married was chosen to cement family relationships or for her Dowry and the church still writes that marriage is for procreation and the physical satisfaction of a man. I know - I have at least a two dozen books under my belt trying to get to the bottom of the attitude the Church hold about women. That is a whole other discussion. I will simply share only last year I asked a priest from St. Ed's our local Collage what the big issue is about women priests - I was so taken back I could not even ask another question when he sort of leans in as if a clandestine secret is being shared saying, because of her monthly and how could those hands hold the Eucharist or be on the alter. Sheesh and so with that I renewed by research to learn the basis for this attitude. Einstein sure helped them further their patriarchal prejudice.
-
Boy, thats a new one on me! One of my (very liberal ) priest friends says the ban is bound to fail; that there will be women priests, and that it will njt be a result of any feminist crusade, but simply the nees of the faithrul that will bring it about.
As to the irish verse, I am moving into the later period after the 13th centry, and what a difference in the poetry. When the early poets wanted to refer to a certain part of a wom1n's anatomy they woere's afraid to use the Celtic equivalent of the four letter word. Now we hear references to "the grove of Venus" , and similar flowery euphemisms.
But a last poem frm the old times. King Cormac was presiding at Tara, and Carbery asked him some questions.
The Instructions of King Cormac
"Oh Cormac, randson of Conn,
What were yuour habits when you were a lad?"
"Not hard to tell" said Cormac.
"I was a listener in woods,
I was a gazer at stars,
I was blind where secrets were concerned,
I was ilent in a wilderness,
I was talkative among many,
I was mild in the mead hall,
I was stern in battle,
I was gentle toward allies,
I wasphysician to the sick,
I was weak toward the feeble,
I was strong toward the powerful,
I wasnot close, lest I should be burdensome,
I was not arrogant, though I was wise,
I I was not given to promising, though I was strong,
I did not deride the old, though I was young,
I was not boastful, though I was a good fighter,
I would not speak about anyone in his absence,
I wiould not reproach, I would give praise,
I would not ask, but would ive,
For it is through these habits that the yung become old and kinly warriers."
"Oh Cormac, grandson of Conn,"said Carbery,
"What is the worst thing you have ever seen?"
'Not hard to tell", said Cormac. "Faces of
foes in the rout of battle."
Oh Cormac, son of Conn, what is the sweetest thing you have heard?"
"Not hard to tell", said Cormac.
"The shoouts of triumph after victory,
The invitation of a lady to her pillow."
-
"Countess nCathoeen' was the play Yeats wrote with the countess Cathleen personifying Ireland. In the play, she selles her soul to the devil to preserve her people. Theplay was reviled by the Church and conservative critics, people threw stuff at the actors, yheats came out and confronted them, and a enral uproard took place. Interestingly, the role of Cathleen I believe was played by the love of yeats's life, Maud Gonne. she became a fervent nationist advocate for Irish independence, but never married Yeats. "When You Are Old and Gray', his beautiful poem was dedicated to her.
-
bellemere that is such a beautiful choice to share with us - do you have that very thick 1000 Years of Irish Poetry by Kathleen Hoagland? I love picking it up from time to time - I still believe that there is no other nation that can match the voice of the Irish in both poetry and literature - The English use words well but there is not the universal heart that paints such beauty as the Irish - and looking at our own history, every President with Irish heritage had a way with words.
these words from the poem - so simple and yet you float on the thoughts
I was a listener in woods,
I was a gazer at stars,
I was blind where secrets were concerned,
I was silent in a wilderness,
-
Years ago, I bought a poster in the Trinity College bookstore in Dublin. it has pictures of some of Ireland's greatest literary lights and a quote from each: here's James Joyce:
Oh, Ireland , my first and only love,
Where God and Cesar go hand in glove.
Samuel Beckett:
My best years are behind me , but I wouldn't want them back.
Not with the fire that's in me now.
-
Ouwww I like Becket's quote - need to write that on my blackboard...
-
I am not a big poetry reader, I think because of my 8th grade teacher; he put me off of it. However, I find that I am downloading some that look interesting, lately. I found this offering by Robert Louis Stevenson (didn't know he wrote poetry) at the beginning of his book, Underwoods.
Book I
I—ENVOY
Go, little book, and wish to all
Flowers in the garden, meat in the hall,
A bin of wine, a spice of wit,
A house with lawns enclosing it,
A living river by the door,
A nightingale in the sycamore!
What a lovely sentiment with which to dedicate a book.
-
It is, isn't it, FRYBABE. In contrast to his adventuresome novels, Stevenson is also the
author of "A Child's Garden of Verses". You must have read many of those when you were
a child. 'Little Tommy Shaftoe", "I Have a Little Shadow" ? It presents a wholly different
side of Stevenson, doesn't it?
-
Oh gosh, Babi, yes. I never paid attention or knew who wrote those.
-
(http://brittarnhildshouseinthewoods.typepad.com/.a/6a00d8341bf74c53ef017d410407c7970c-350wi)
I Am Not Yours
~ BySara Teasdale
I am not yours, not lost in you,
Not lost, although I long to be
Lost as a candle lit at noon,
Lost as a snowflake in the sea.
You love me, and I find you still
A spirit beautiful and bright,
Yet I am I, who long to be
Lost as a light is lost in light.
Oh plunge me deep in love - put out
My senses, leave me deaf and blind,
Swept by the tempest of your love,
A taper in a rushing wind.
.
-
A Time to Talk
~ By Robert Frost
When a friend calls to me from the road
And slows his horse to a meaning walk,
I don't stand still and look around
On all the hills I haven't hoed,
And shout from where I am, 'What is it?'
No, not as there is a time to talk.
I thrust my hoe in the mellow ground,
Blade-end up and five feet tall,
And plod: I go up to the stone wall
For a friendly visit.
-
God the Artist
~ By Angela Morgan
God, when you thought of a pine tree,
How did you think of a star?
How did you dream of the Milky Way
To guide us from afar.
How did you think of a clean brown pool
Where flecks of shadows are?
God, when you thought of a cobweb,
How did you think of dew?
How did you know a spider's house
Had shingles bright and new?
How did you know the human folk
Would love them like they do?
God, when you patterned a bird song,
Flung on a silver string,
How did you know the ecstasy
That crystal call would bring?
How did you think of a bubbling throat
And a darling speckled wing?
God, when you chiseled a raindrop,
How did you think of a stem,
Bearing a lovely satin leaf
To hold the tiny gem?
How did you know a million drops
Would deck the morning's hem?
Why did you mate the moonlit night
With the honeysuckle vines?
How did you know Madeira bloom
Distilled ecstatic wines?
How did you weave the velvet disk
Where tangled perfumes are?
God, when you thought of a pine tree,
How did you think of a star?
-
A beautiful poem, BARB. It brought to mind a beautiful hymn I loved. The refrain was 'master artist', but that must not be the title since I have been unable to find it on-line. Have you ever heard it?
-
Babi, can you give us some more lines? I'd love to find the hymn.
-
I wonder if this is the song - http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=BRPepc06bZM
-
Storm Warnings
~ Adrienne Rich
The glass has been falling all the afternoon,
And knowing better than the instrument
What winds are walking overhead, what zone
Of grey unrest is moving across the land,
I leave the book upon a pillowed chair
And walk from window to closed window, watching
Boughs strain against the sky
And think again, as often when the air
Moves inward toward a silent core of waiting,
How with a single purpose time has traveled
By secret currents of the undiscerned
Into this polar realm. Weather abroad
And weather in the heart alike come on
Regardless of prediction.
Between foreseeing and averting change
Lies all the mastery of elements
Which clocks and weatherglasses cannot alter.
Time in the hand is not control of time,
Nor shattered fragments of an instrument
A proof against the wind; the wind will rise,
We can only close the shutters.
I draw the curtains as the sky goes black
And set a match to candles sheathed in glass
Against the keyhole draught, the insistent whine
Of weather through the unsealed aperture.
This is our sole defense against the season;
These are the things we have learned to do
Who live in troubled regions.
-
The Singer of Owls
~ Margaret Atwood
The singer of owls wandered off into the darkness.
Once more he had not won a prize.
It was like that at school.
He preferred dim corners, camouflaged himself
with the hair and ears of the others,
and thought about long vowels, and hunger,
and the bitterness of deep snow.
Such moods do not attract glitter.
What is it about me? he asked the shadows.
By this time they were shadows of trees.
Why have I wasted my lifeline?
I opened myself to your silences.
I allowed ruthlessness
and feathers to possess me.
I swallowed mice.
Now, when I'm at the end, and emptied
of words, and breathless,
you didn't help me.
Wait, said the owl soundlessly.
Among us there are no prices.
You sang out of necessity,
as I do. You sang for me,
and my thicket, my moon, my lake.
Our song is a night song.
Few are awake.
-
I wish I could, PAT. BARB, I don't know whether that is the song, since of
course I can't hear it. Can you give us a few lines from it?
"Storm Warnings" is beautifully written, and repeats the old truth...sometimes
all you can do it 'light a candle' against the darkness. "The Singer of Owls" is also poignant.
Are you feeling a bit sad these days, BARB? Spring will be here soon, if that helps.
-
Not sad Babi but reflective - I have been a night owl for over 20 years now trying to come to terms with my life and only last night there was a poet on the Bill Moyers show that said what I had to hear and never understood that I had experienced a tremendous shock and everything about my life was changed because of someone else's actions - lost job, most friends, financial security, retirement, savings, identity, dreams and most of all because of years of secret lies I lost the relationship with my daughter that we both worked very very hard to repair belief in each other and that effort took just over 25 years -
Had I realized the words said by this poet I could have gone about this search (with few folks having a real clue to guide me as I gobbled up every book 100s and 100s that could assist) because I was not the same person - the person as a result of this stripping of my life could not capture who I thought I was -
I realize I have spent all these years trying to cobble together this person I am no longer and I am still not sure who I am. So that is the reflective part - because of a 90 day transformation group I joined in January and now this poet and here I am at age 80 trying to figure out who I am.
-
Look To This Day
~ Kalidasa - 4th century
Look to this day:
For it is life, the very life of life.
In its brief course
Lie all the verities and realities of your existence.
The bliss of growth,
The glory of action,
The splendour of achievement
Are but experiences of time.
For yesterday is but a dream
And tomorrow is only a vision;
And today well-lived, makes
Yesterday a dream of happiness
And every tomorrow a vision of hope.
Look well therefore to this day;
Such is the salutation to the ever-new dawn!
-
The Stream’s Song
~ Lascelles Abercrombie
Make way, make way,
You thwarting stones;
Room for my play,
Serious ones.
Do you not fear,
O rocks and boulders,
To feel my laughter
On your broad shoulders?
So you not know
My joy at length
Will all wear out
Your solemn strength?
You will not for ever
Cumber my play:
With joy and son
I clear my way.
Your faith of rock
Shall yield to me,
And be carried away
By the song of my glee.
Crumble, crumble,
Voiceless things;
No faith can last
That never sings.
For the last hour
To joy belongs:
The steadfast perish,
But not the songs.
Yet for a while
Thwart me, O boulders;
I need for laugher
Your serious shoulders.
And when my singing
Has razed your quite,
I shall have lost
Half my delight.
-
winter
~ abdul nassar palliyal
this winter am not home
winter at home meant
a sweet chat
hot wih grandmas love
winter at home
was a huge hug from akku
the sun of my life
winter at home
was a kiss from aysh
the star of our core
and winter at home
was a long
night with her
under the roof of
dreams and smiles
of joy and
love
this winter am not home
and the winter goes on and on......
-
Perhaps the new you is a much wiser and more capable person, BARB. Maybe it's time to
celebrate the woman you have become. The Kalidasa poem could not be more timely and
appropriate.
-
thanks I think you are right Babi - I liked the poem and saw something in it about living each day but had not made that association - good...again, thanks.
-
Barb, I'm eighty years old this Autust. I think it's a great time to think about "who I am" and "what I want to be when I grow up".
My daughter turned 60 last month, says she is depressed. I told her that 60 is the new 40. But I can't convince myself that 80 is anything but 80!
Sounds like hou are on an exciting journey. Godspeed.
-
Interesting, the points at which we have to redefine ourselves. I'll turn 80 in August too, like bellemere, so the three of us (me, Barb and bellemere) are on the same age page. I had to redefine myself 10 years ago, but at the moment I know (or think I know) "who I am". As to "what I want to be when I grow up", I'll let you know if I ever really grow up. I don't feel like 80, I just feel like me with some extra aches and stiffnesses.
Godspeed on your journey of rediscovery, Barb.
-
When A Friend Bids Goodbye
By Kathrine Yee Baraquia
My dear friend,
close your eyes...
hold my hand,
and hear me whisper...
For the times I was lost,
you were there to look for me.
Will you believe me when I say I love you more ..........
-
A last goodbye to a friend
my darling friend,
when I went outside late that night,
I saw a star burning ever so bright,
I knew you had left this earth to go up above,
To rest in peace and have eternal Love.
But the memories of our days together,
Will stay deep inside my heart forever.
-
Do not stand at my grave and weep
I am not there, I do not sleep
I am a 1,000 winds that blow
I am the diamond glints on snow
I am the sun on ripened grain
I am the gentle autumn rain
When you awaken in the morning's hush
I am the swift uplifting rush
Of quiet birds in circled light
I am the soft star that shines at night
Do not stand at my grave and cry
I am not there; I did not die.
Anonymous
-
All Is Well
Death is nothing at all,
I have only slipped into the next room
I am I and you are you
Whatever we were to each other, that we are still.
Call me by my old familiar name,
Speak to me in the easy way which you always used
Put no difference in your tone,
Wear no forced air of solemnity or sorrow
Laugh as we always laughed at the little jokes we enjoyed together.
Play, smile, think of me, pray for me.
Let my name be ever the household world that it always was,
Let it be spoken without effect, without the trace of shadow on it.
Life means all that it ever meant.
It it the same as it ever was, there is unbroken continuity.
Why should I be out of mind because I am out of sight?
I am waiting for you, for an interval, somewhere very near,
Just around the corner.
All is well.
Henry Scott Holland
1847-1918
Canon of St Paul 's Cathedral
-
Finally a poem from the New Yorker that is not too obscure for me.
Lightness in Aging
It means not having to muscle your bag
On to the baggage rack for the flight to Dublin.
A girl your daughter's age will do that for you.
It means the boy distributes your groceries justly
In your carryall so you can make the car without spillage.
Those lightnesses are not to be taken lightly,
But more than those it's the many-faceted lightness
Of the goldfinch feathering down at morning,
The chickadee's darting blur for the one seed
He sirits away and devours discretely
And it's the tenderness of a long-known kiss
Touching your mouth or eyelid or anywhere,
With this new lightness, its flickering back-lit by the glow
Of that first one fifty years ago.
Gibbons Ruark
-
That's exactly right!!!!
-
Well the mystery of the missing headings is solved - sorta took my breath away and my heart dropped several stories down but we shall have headings that should remain and over the next few weeks hopefully the other pages will be repaired.
Given the headings lost and found here are a few lost and found poems.
LOST AND FOUND
by: George Mac Donald (1824-1905)
MISSED him when the sun began to bend;
I found him not when I had lost his rim;
With many tears I went in search of him,
Climbing high mountains which did still ascend,
And gave me echoes when I called my friend;
Through cities vast and charnel-houses grim,
And high cathedrals where the light was dim,
Through books and arts and works without an end,
But found him not--the friend whom I had lost.
And yet I found him--as I found the lark,
A sound in fields I heard but could not mark;
I found him nearest when I missed him most;
I found him in my heart, a life in frost,
A light I knew not till my soul was dark.
-
LOST AND FOUND
~ Christopher Luke
Yesterday I misplaced my wallet
And frantically searched for it everywhere,
Until finding it buried within my wheelie-bin
Fortunately a few minutes before the refuse collection team arrived
To take all my garbage away!
Yesterday I was fortunate enough
To find that which I had temporarily misplaced,
Yet today when one thinks of something I have lost
I think of those things permanently misplaced,
And other things eroded and/or stolen along life’s way.
“What things are those” I hear you say.
Well, some of them, are obvious if you look closely at me
And listen carefully to what I say.
That’s right – my hair, my eyesight and some of my teeth
Not forgetting my virginity!
I guess we all, or nearly all of us, lose these things as we grow old
And will, in turn, lose other things too
Like memory and academic competence over the use of consonants and vowels,
And arguably no less invaluable things like continence when one loses control of one’s bladder and bowels!
It certainly is no joke to lose those things in life which one values most!
And yet, as time passes, the more things one does lose;
Perhaps the love of others and beloved others
Leaves the most painful vacuum which can neither be replaced nor filled,
Closely followed by deterioration in one’s health and wealth
Which adds to the misery and poverty of growing old!
Sometimes, however, it is good to lose things
Particularly bad habits, unhealthy relationships and our own individual prejudices
Which hold us back from appreciating ourselves and others
From who we are, and what each of us has the ability to achieve,
If only we would permanently close certain chapters in life’s book
Rather than repeatedly indulge in those parts of it
Which oft return to haunt self and others like a predatory ghost!
Today, when one thinks of something lost,
At times one wonders whether it would be more easier
To think of something one has gained or won
Although, in saying that, I suspect in the bigger picture of things
For every loss there is a gain,
Just as in every set of double-entry accounts
There is, as my accountant-boyfriend Lee would tell you,
A credit for every debit if the books are, opr in this case one’s very own book of life is, to balance!
-
I like that one Barb. The first stanza reminds me of George always misplacing his phones. The last stanza speaks to me and my bookkeeper/bean counter training.
-
(http://seniorlearn.org/bookclubs/poetry/poetryspringgirl.jpg) J.W. Waterhouse - Famous Poets and Poems about Spring (http://famouspoetsandpoems.com/thematic_poems/spring_poems.html)
- Link to: Spring Poems (http://poetry.about.com/od/ourpoemcollections/a/springpoems.htm)
Discussion Leaders: Barb (augere@ix.netcom.com) | Join Us! For a Season of Spring Poetry
Sonnet VII
~ John Milton
How soon hath Time, the subtle thief of youth,
Stol'n on his wing my three-and-twentieth year!
My hasting days fly on with full career,
But my late spring no bud or blossom shew'th.
Perhaps my semblance might deceive the truth
That I to manhood am arriv'd so near;
And inward ripeness doth much less appear,
That some more timely-happy spirits endu'th.
Yet be it less or more, or soon or slow,
It shall be still in strictest measure ev'n
To that same lot, however mean or high,
Toward which Time leads me, and the will of Heav'n:
All is, if I have grace to use it so
As ever in my great Task-Master's eye.
|
-
Easter 1916
~ William Butler Yeats
I
I have met them at close of day
Coming with vivid faces
From counter or desk among grey
Eighteenth-century houses.
I have passed with a nod of the head
Or polite meaningless words,
Or have lingered awhile and said
Polite meaningless words,
And thought before I had done
Of a mocking tale or a gibe
To please a companion
Around the fire at the club,
Being certain that they and I
But lived where motley is worn:
All changed, changed utterly:
A terrible beauty is born.
II
That woman's days were spent
In ignorant good will,
Her nights in argument
Until her voice grew shrill.
What voice more sweet than hers
When young and beautiful,
She rode to harriers?
This man had kept a school
And rode our winged horse.
This other his helper and friend
Was coming into his force;
He might have won fame in the end,
So sensitive his nature seemed,
So daring and sweet his thought.
This other man I had dreamed
A drunken, vain-glorious lout.
He had done most bitter wrong
To some who are near my heart,
Yet I number him in the song;
He, too, has resigned his part
In the casual comedy;
He, too, has been changed in his turn,
Transformed utterly:
A terrible beauty is born.
III
Hearts with one purpose alone
Through summer and winter, seem
Enchanted to a stone
To trouble the living stream.
The horse that comes from the road,
The rider, the birds that range
From cloud to tumbling cloud,
Minute by minute change.
A shadow of cloud on the stream
Changes minute by minute;
A horse-hoof slides on the brim;
And a horse plashes within it
Where long-legged moor-hens dive
And hens to moor-cocks call.
Minute by minute they live:
The stone's in the midst of all.
IV
Too long a sacrifice
Can make a stone of the heart.
O when may it suffice?
That is heaven's part, our part
To murmur name upon name,
As a mother names her child
When sleep at last has come
On limbs that had run wild.
What is it but nightfall?
No, no, not night but death.
Was it needless death after all?
For England may keep faith
For all that is done and said.
We know their dream; enough
To know they dreamed and are dead.
And what if excess of love
Bewildered them till they died?
I write it out in a verse --
MacDonagh and MacBride
And Connolly and Pearse
Now and in time to be,
Wherever green is worn,
Are changed, changed utterly:
A terrible beauty is born.
-
April Rain Song
~ Langston Hughes
Let the rain kiss you.
Let the rain beat upon your head with silver liquid drops.
Let the rain sing you a lullaby.
The rain makes still pools on the sidewalk.
The rain makes running pools in the gutter.
The rain plays a little sleep-song on our roof at night—
And I love the rain.
-
I too love the rain.
-
Magic birds were dancing
in the mystic marsh.
The grass swayed with them,
and the shallow waters,
and the earth fluttered under them.
The earth was dancing with the cranes,
and the low sun, and the wind and sky.
~ Marjorie Kinnan Rawlings
-
Thus weave for us
a garment of brightness
That we may walk fittingly
where grass is green,
O our mother the earth,
O our father the sky.
~ Native American Prayer (Tewa Pueblo)
-
That is beautiful.
-
The little South Boston nun who taught my college poetry course, loved Robert Frost. this time of year she liked to declaim,
"Come with rainn thou loud southwestah!
Bring the singah! Bring the nestah!
-
:) :)
-
I feel like a stranger, I've been gone so long.
I've been plagued with eye trouble and really had to give up reading/writing for months. Looking around for a substitute I heard on the ABC that reading poetry with archaic language has been found to spark neurons in our brains (Shakespeare, Wordsworth etc.) and because I always had a thing for Tennyson's
Morte D'Arthur, and was getting concerned about forgetting words, I decided to memorise it, all 7 and a half pages in my old school Book Of Poetry!
I only had to read 4 lines at a time and walk around reciting it over and over, and then add it to the rest in my head.
It felt like scaling Mt. Everest, I couldn't see the finish line, but just trudged on each day, never truly believing I'd see the summit. Now in my head, indelibly inked, are 7 and 1/2 epic pages. Sometimes I hated Arthur and sometimes the 'bold Sir Bedivere',( he was always The Bold Sir Bedivere), but we've made up now.
And it really did help my mind, because I memorised 3 more poems, fairly effortlessly, in quick succession.
Now to catch up here and everywhere!
-
Octavia welcome back - the poetry page has been lingering - the heart went out of me after Babi passed away - it was hard when Fairanna passed on but Babi was such an unexpected shock and she was a daily poster here in poetry.
I thought I was going to resurrect the discussion by August 1 but I became overwhelmed with so much and then got off on other tangents but I will this month put us together again - I have an idea that involves more photos and a heading that is weekly rather than changing for the seasons of the year - in the meantime please feel free to post - I still need more time to get my ducks in a row as the saying goes.
-
I was shocked and saddened by Babi's death too, Barb. She was always here, with a succinct and well timed remark, I thought it would always be like that. She must be missed so much by people who knew her much longer than I did.
Don't push yourself to do things while your heart is still hurting. We aren't encouraged to mourn enough in this country. It's move on, put things behind you, don't embarrass us with your grief-be normal. Whatever normal is. There's plenty of pages here that can be revisited.
Take your time.
-
Thanks you are so thoughtful and I appreciate it. :-*
-
Oh my - we have many poems to fill up the number of posts for a new page and so I am changing our heading here -
The loss of Seamus Heaney today reminded me of how some years ago Fairanna had devoted a month to Seamus Heaney when we were doing a poet a month and Babi often shared the poems of Seamus Heaney - she liked his down to earth message
And so I had this fantasy picture of all three of them along with their poet friends in a pub in heaven sharing stories and their poems - to honor all three let's, this month of September share only poems written by Seamus Heaney and if you have any of the poems written by Fairanna let's include them as well.
-
I am going to post some short poems and some quotes to get us to the top of a new page
-
‘Walk on air against your better judgment’: Heaney on life, poetry, God and Ireland
Seamus Heaney at home in 1999 - Photograph: Pat Langan/The Irish Times
(http://www.irishtimes.com/polopoly_fs/1.1510772.1377866032!/image/image.jpg_gen/derivatives/box_600/image.jpg)
Quotes which made him popular around the world.
“I can’t think of a case where poems changed the world, but what they do is they change people’s understanding of what’s going on in the world.” (This Week magazine, 2004)
-
“If you have the words, there’s always a chance that you’ll find the way.”
“History says, don’t hope ....
But then, once in a lifetime
The longed-for tidal wave.
Of justice can rise up,
And hope and history rhyme” (The Cure at Troy, 1991)
-
“Anyone with gumption and a sharp mind will take the measure of two things: what’s said and what’s done.” (Beowulf: A New Verse Translation, 2001)
-
JoanP reminded us of our very successful discussion some years ago of the Seamus Heaney translation of Beowulf- I still have my copy of his new at the time translation - do you?
-
“Poetry cannot afford to lose its fundamentally self-delighting inventiveness, its joy in being a process of language as well as a representation of things in the world.” (The Redress of Poetry, 1990)
Walk on air against your better judgement.” (Nobel Lecture, 1995)
-
“I’m going to afford myself a year off.... and wait and see, and live in panic for the next poem.” (2010)
“At home in Ireland, there’s a habit of avoidance, an ironical attitude towards the authority figure.”
-
From the Irish Times
Taoiseach Enda Kenny has said the death of Nobel laureate Seamus Heaney today has brought a “great sorrow to Ireland” and only the poet himself could describe the depth of his loss to the nation.
Mr Kenny said: “For us, Seamus Heaney was the keeper of language, our codes, our essence as a people”.
Heaney died this morning at the Blackrock Clinic aged 74 after a short illness
http://www.irishtimes.com/news/ireland/irish-news/tributes-paid-to-keeper-of-language-seamus-heaney-1.1510607
-
Being an artist is dragging your innermost feelings out,
giving a piece of yourself, no matter in which art form, in which medium.
~ Henry Rollins
-
(http://31.media.tumblr.com/202b7a26332a3e2d7cd319cdcbe0455c/tumblr_msdn4fFdgC1ruu2too1_250.jpg)
We know that in September,
we will wander through the warm winds of summer's wreckage.
We will welcome summer's ghost.
~ Henry Rollins
-
(http://24.media.tumblr.com/759a43d2e98b20084912686723deaaa1/tumblr_msdibkjkpz1rc5v2so1_500.jpg)
By all these lovely tokens September days are here,
With summer's best of weather And autumn's best of cheer.
~ Helen Hunt Jackson
-
(http://31.media.tumblr.com/8b2471548671cc988eb9707a02b15f50/tumblr_msdio6nlzo1rc5v2so1_500.jpg)
I love September, especially when we're in it.
~ Willie Stargill
-
Expecting is the greatest impediment to living.
In anticipation of tomorrow, it loses today.
~ Lucius Annaeus Seneca
-
(http://31.media.tumblr.com/2f6e039c98424a56bcfb588efb926a7e/tumblr_msdideGVnG1rc5v2so1_400.jpg)
Even if the hopes you started out with are dashed, hope has to be maintained.
~ Seamus Heaney
-
Nobody knows what anticipation is anymore.
Everything is so immediate.
~ Joan Jett
-
End of Summer
By Stanley Kunitz
An agitation of the air,
A perturbation of the light
Admonished me the unloved year
Would turn on its hinge that night.
I stood in the disenchanted field
Amid the stubble and the stones,
Amazed, while a small worm lisped to me
The song of my marrow-bones.
Blue poured into summer blue,
A hawk broke from his cloudless tower,
The roof of the silo blazed, and I knew
That part of my life was over.
Already the iron door of the north
Clangs open: birds, leaves, snows
Order their populations forth,
And a cruel wind blows.
-
(http://24.media.tumblr.com/1fc836838209a9d4792ebae02afc0166/tumblr_msclbfrMr21rc5v2so1_400.jpg)
The End of Summer
By Rachel Hadas
Sweet smell of phlox drifting across the lawn—
an early warning of the end of summer.
August is fading fast, and by September
the little purple flowers will all be gone.
Season, project, and vacation done.
One more year in everybody’s life.
Add a notch to the old hunting knife
Time keeps testing with a horny thumb.
Over the summer months hung an unspoken
aura of urgency. In late July
galactic pulsings filled the midnight sky
like silent screaming, so that, strangely woken,
we looked at one another in the dark,
then at the milky magical debris
arcing across, dwarfing our meek mortality.
There were two ways to live: get on with work,
redeem the time, ignore the imminence
of cataclysm; or else take it slow,
be as tranquil as the neighbors’ cow
we love to tickle through the barbed wire fence
(she paces through her days in massive innocence,
or, seeing green pastures, we imagine so).
In fact, not being cows, we have no choice.
Summer or winter, country, city, we
are prisoners from the start and automatically,
hemmed in, harangued by the one clamorous voice.
Not light but language shocks us out of sleep
ideas of doom transformed to meteors
we translate back to portents of the wars
looming above the nervous watch we keep.
-
(http://static.guim.co.uk/sys-images/BOOKS/Pix/pictures/2011/8/15/1313397901845/AE-Housman-007.jpg)
XXXIX (from Last Poems)
by AE Housman
When summer's end is nighing
And skies at evening cloud,
I muse on change and fortune
And all the feats I vowed
When I was young and proud.
The weathercock at sunset
Would lose the slanted ray,
And I would climb the beacon
That looked to Wales away
And saw the last of day.
From hill and cloud and heaven
The hues of evening died;
Night welled through lane and hollow
And hushed the countryside,
But I had youth and pride.
And I with earth and nightfall
In converse high would stand,
Late, till the west was ashen
And darkness hard at hand,
And the eye lost the land.
The year might age, and cloudy
The lessening day might close,
But air of other summers
Breathed from beyond the snows,
And I had hope of those.
They came and were and are not
And come no more anew;
And all the years and seasons
That ever can ensue
Must now be worse and few.
So here's an end of roaming
On eves when autumn nighs:
The ear too fondly listens
For summer's parting sighs,
And then the heart replies.
-
(http://farm5.staticflickr.com/4154/4963304209_d6b3a6fcf1_z.jpg)
-
[Sleeping sister of a farther sky]
By Karen Volkman
Sleeping sister of a farther sky,
dropped from zenith like a tender tone,
the lucid apex of a scale unknown
whose whitest whisper is an opaque cry
of measureless frequency, the spectral sigh
you breath, bright hydrogen and brighter zone
of fissured carbon, consummated moan
and ceaseless rapture of a brilliant why.
Will nothing wake you from your livid rest?
Essence of ether and astral stone
the stunned polarities your substance weaves
in one bright making, like a dream of leaves
in the tree’s mind, summered. Or as a brooding bone
roots constellations in the body’s nest.
-
['Joy of my life, full oft for loving you']
By Edmund Spenser
Joy of my life, full oft for loving you
I bless my lot, that was so lucky placed:
But then the more your own mishap I rue,
That are so much by so mean love embased.
For had the equal heavens so much you graced
In this as in the rest, ye might invent
Some heavenly wit, whose verse could have enchased
Your glorious name in golden monument.
But since ye deign’d so goodly to relent
To me your thrall, in whom is little worth,
That little that I am shall all be spent
In setting your immortal praises forth;
Whose lofty argument uplifting me
Shall lift you up unto an high degree.
-
(http://images.akc.org/breeds/action_images/golden_retriever.jpg)
Golden Retrievals
By Mark Doty
Fetch? Balls and sticks capture my attention
seconds at a time. Catch? I don’t think so.
Bunny, tumbling leaf, a squirrel who’s—oh
joy—actually scared. Sniff the wind, then
I’m off again: muck, pond, ditch, residue
of any thrillingly dead thing. And you?
Either you’re sunk in the past, half our walk,
thinking of what you never can bring back,
or else you’re off in some fog concerning
—tomorrow, is that what you call it? My work:
to unsnare time’s warp (and woof!), retrieving,
my haze-headed friend, you. This shining bark,
a Zen master’s bronzy gong, calls you here,
entirely, now: bow-wow, bow-wow, bow-wow.
-
(http://media-3.web.britannica.com/eb-media/62/2462-004-463D6692.jpg)
The Cricket and the Grasshopper
By Dan Beachy-Quick
The senseless leaf in the fevered hand
Grows hot, near blood-heat, but never grows
Green. Weeks ago the dove’s last cooing strain
Settled silent in the nest to brood slow
Absence from song. The dropped leaf cools
On the uncut grass, supple still, still green,
Twining still these fingers as they listless pull
The tangle straight until the tangle tightens
And the hand is caught, another fallen leaf.
The poetry of the earth never ceases
Ceasing — one blade of grass denies belief
Until its mere thread bears the grasshopper’s
Whole weight, and the black cricket sings unseen,
Desire living in a hole beneath the tangle’s green.
-
Fairy-tale Logic
By A. E. Stallings
Fairy tales are full of impossible tasks:
Gather the chin hairs of a man-eating goat,
Or cross a sulphuric lake in a leaky boat,
Select the prince from a row of identical masks,
Tiptoe up to a dragon where it basks
And snatch its bone; count dust specks, mote by mote,
Or learn the phone directory by rote.
Always it’s impossible what someone asks—
You have to fight magic with magic. You have to believe
That you have something impossible up your sleeve,
The language of snakes, perhaps, an invisible cloak,
An army of ants at your beck, or a lethal joke,
The will to do whatever must be done:
Marry a monster. Hand over your firstborn son.
-
Almost there - I must say it has been fun finding these poems and then the photos that enhance the quote or poem - the interent gets more delightful each year. I just need to be at 3680 for the top of the page to feature the new heading
-
Education is the ability to listen to almost anything
without losing your temper or your self-confidence.
~ Robert Frost
-
Welcome to September Poetry Page ~ Seamus Heaney
Let's Honor both Fairanna and Babi by
sharing the poems of of one of their favorites
Irish poet, Seamus Heaney.
Maybe all three are gathered with their friends in heaven's Pub...
(http://seniorlearn.org/bookclubs/poetry/seamusheaney.jpg)
| Postscript
And some time make the time to drive out west
Into County Clare, along the Flaggy Shore,
In September or October, when the wind
And the light are working off each other
So that the ocean on one side is wild
With foam and glitter, and inland among stones
The surface of a slate-grey lake is lit
By the earthed lightening of flock of swans,
Their feathers roughed and ruffling, white on white,
Their fully-grown headstrong-looking heads
Tucked or cresting or busy underwater.
Useless to think you'll park or capture it
More thoroughly. You are neither here nor there,
A hurry through which known and strange things pass
As big soft buffetings come at the car sideways
And catch the heart off guard and blow it open
|
A few Links:
- Famous Poets and Poems about Autumn (http://famouspoetsandpoems.com/thematic_poems/autumn_poems.html)
- Poetry Foundation: Seamus Heaney (http://www.poetryfoundation.org/bio/seamus-heaney)
- Paris Review: Seamus Heaney, The Art of Poetry (http://www.theparisreview.org/interviews/1217/the-art-of-poetry-no-75-seamus-heaney)
- The Seamus Heaney Center for Poetry (http://www.qub.ac.uk/schools/SeamusHeaneyCentreforPoetry/)
Discussion Leaders: Barb (augere@ix.netcom.com)
-
Barbara: great job finishing the page.
I was looking this morning for a poem about a well that I remember reading when we were reading Heaney with Anna years ago (No, it's not "At the Wellhead"). Do you know it?
-
I forgot to say how much I enjoyed the pictures with the poems.
-
JoanK is this the one...
AT THE WELLHEAD
Your songs, when you sing them with your two eyes closed
As you always do, are like a local road
We've known every turn of in the past --
That midge-veiled, high-hedged side-road where you stood
Looking and listening until a car
Would come and go and leave you lonelier
Than you had been to begin with. So, sing on,
Dear shut-eyed one, dear far-voiced veteran,
Sing yourself to where the singing comes from,
Ardent and cut off like our blind neighbour
Who played the piano all day in her bedroom.
Her notes came out to us like hoisted water
Ravelling off a bucket at the wellhead
Where next thing we'd be listening, hushed and awkward.
That blind-from-birth, sweet-voiced, withdrawn musician
Was like a silver vein in heavy clay.
Night water glittering in the light of day.
But also just our neighbour, Rosie Keenan.
She touched our cheeks. She let us touch her braille
In books like books wallpaper patterns come in.
Her hands were active and her eyes were full
Of open darkness and a watery shine.
She knew us by our voices. She'd say she 'saw'
Whoever or whatever. Being with her
Was intimate and helpful, like a cure
You didn't notice happening. When I read
A poem with Keenan's well in it, she said,
'I can see the sky at the bottom of it now.'
-
No, but I like it a lot.
Probably I'm mixing up another poet.
-
I am sorta remembering this one - no well but waterlogged wetness
(http://source.ie/blog/wp-content/uploads/2009/12/15_11_09__02001-450x337.jpg)
Bogland
for T. P. Flanagan
We have no prairies
To slice a big sun at evening--
Everywhere the eye concedes to
Encrouching horizon,
Is wooed into the cyclops' eye
Of a tarn. Our unfenced country
Is bog that keeps crusting
Between the sights of the sun.
They've taken the skeleton
Of the Great Irish Elk
Out of the peat, set it up
An astounding crate full of air.
Butter sunk under
More than a hundred years
Was recovered salty and white.
The ground itself is kind, black butter
Melting and opening underfoot,
Missing its last definition
By millions of years.
They'll never dig coal here,
Only the waterlogged trunks
Of great firs, soft as pulp.
Our pioneers keep striking
Inwards and downwards,
Every layer they strip
Seems camped on before.
The bogholes might be Atlantic seepage.
The wet centre is bottomless.
-
Oh, my.
-
http://www.poets.org/viewmedia.php/prmMID/21889
A Kite for Aibhín
-
Nice, bluebird.
-
Yes it is a nice one Bluebird - I added the title of the poem to your post so that folks have an idea of where the link is taking them.
The first stanza if breath taking isn't it
Air from another life and time and place,
Pale blue heavenly air is supporting
A white wing beating high against the breeze,
The poem brings back memories of flying a kite - we had a nearby hill that slowly tapered off into a huge swamp area where we could pick cattails that in summer turned to what we called Ducktails or Cigars - we used to light them and pretend we were smoking. I believe they were seedheads and were great lit to keep away summer insects.
The big treat was when our father's came home with another roll of string that we could add to our ball that allowed the kites to climb so high we could barely see them.
-
I believe this is one of his first published poems - if not, it is among his earliest works.
(http://imagehost.net/potatomuseum/images/digging1.jpg)
Digging
By Seamus Heaney
Between my finger and my thumb
The squat pen rests; snug as a gun.
Under my window, a clean rasping sound
When the spade sinks into gravelly ground:
My father, digging. I look down
Till his straining rump among the flowerbeds
Bends low, comes up twenty years away
Stooping in rhythm through potato drills
Where he was digging.
The coarse boot nestled on the lug, the shaft
Against the inside knee was levered firmly.
He rooted out tall tops, buried the bright edge deep
To scatter new potatoes that we picked,
Loving their cool hardness in our hands.
By God, the old man could handle a spade.
Just like his old man.
My grandfather cut more turf in a day
Than any other man on Toner’s bog.
Once I carried him milk in a bottle
Corked sloppily with paper. He straightened up
To drink it, then fell to right away
Nicking and slicing neatly, heaving sods
Over his shoulder, going down and down
For the good turf. Digging.
The cold smell of potato mould, the squelch and slap
Of soggy peat, the curt cuts of an edge
Through living roots awaken in my head.
But I’ve no spade to follow men like them.
Between my finger and my thumb
The squat pen rests.
I’ll dig with it.
-
Wheee I found one written by Fairanna in 2004.
A Poem of failure
Why cant I find the words that best describe a cloud ?
Nothing seems to fit that flowing moisture laded air
Sometimes they look like faces . Or ghostly ships at sea.
Sometimes like soap suds floating on a pond,
Some describe as cottony which doesn’t seem to fit;
For cotton is too substantial for these amorphous fluid shapes.
Times when they betray an anger that makes me fear,
Their darkened countenance. A juggernaut they roll
Across a deep gray plain; and punish us with pelting rain.
I have seen them huddled , a flock of sheep slowly moving
At some unseen shepherds command. , Always some who don’t obey
Wandering from the main, foraging..all alone on a blued field of grain
Sometimes along the horizon, they seem like milk spilled across the sky
A spoonful dropped upon the floor,
Spreading outward ,thinly veiling the azure high.
Waiting, for a dark cat cloud to come along and lap it up.
Bubbling over along its edge, a heap of curdled whey
I have seen them on the ocean, a flotilla massed at bay
Ready to do battle like pirates on foray
I have seen them, a tufted blanket from the window of a plane.
But never , never have I seen them look the same.
I have seen them in the morning , blushing to think
We've caught them by surprise or in the sky at sunset
On fire. They touch the world but never burn it down.
Alas, I can never , never pin them down.I just enjoy
These ever moving, never ceasing things ...called clouds.
Anna Alexander
-
How wonderful to bring Anna back to us. I miss her so much!!
-
http://www.seniorlearn.org/bookclubs/archives/general/Poetry/Poetry03.htm
-
Bluebird Ha just sent you an email because your earlier post went over my head - I see now it was in reference to a link to the archives - did you have a poem in mind from this link that you want to copy and paste for us to enjoy.
Are you, I hope I hope I hope planning to scour the archives and find some of Fairanna's poems to copy and paste here so we can enjoy them again - what a blessing that would be.
-
Barb, I'm glad you had so many posts to make to get to a new page; I've really been enjoying them, though it's been taking me a while to digest them.
I wasn't around when you read Heaney's translation of Beowulf. I read Beowulf in college, though, and have always been fond of it. So this gives me an excuse to post a link to a wonderful article by Blake Gopnik that appeared in the Washington Post in 2007. It was sparked by the movie Beowulf, which had just opened, and makes a lot of reference to it, but it deals with Gopnik's experience of reading the poem in the original Anglo-Saxon, and the total strangeness of the mindset of the poem.
http://www.washingtonpost.com/wp-dyn/content/article/2007/11/21/AR2007112102353.html (http://www.washingtonpost.com/wp-dyn/content/article/2007/11/21/AR2007112102353.html)
-
This post fits in with the poem Bogland. As Heaney says, bogs preserve what is buried in them. In Ireland, it's the Great Irish Elk, which is even more magnificent than he says, improbably gigantic horns. In Denmark, it's men, many of them coming to a bad end. Tolland man is one of the most famous, either executed or sacrificed, with a noose around his neck, and all the details in the poem are there in the body, which has a rather sad, wise-looking face. Grauballe and Nebelgard are two more of the bodies from bogs.
http://www.ibiblio.org/ipa/poems/heaney/the_tollund_man.php (http://www.ibiblio.org/ipa/poems/heaney/the_tollund_man.php)
-
So glad PatH that you brought to our attention the archeological finds from the Bogs - wouldn't that be an interesting discussion - the information on these various finds plus any poems written about Bogs - I bet there are more poems than this one by Seamus Heaney. And then to tie it all into some of the myths from both Ireland and Denmark of course throwing in a bit of Shakespeare - wow what a month long study that would be -
PatH I keep thinking you were a part of Senior Learn forever, from back in the mid 1990s but from what you are saying, not so, when did you find Senior Learn and did you and JoanK find the site at the same time? Were you posting when Fairanna was still the discussion leader?
I looked at one of the archived early links to poetry and shocked to see name after name of folks who are no longer with us - felt empty and also I have to admit scary - I remember thinking during those years those who are now my age were ancient and ready to pass over - oh dear - not ready - too much to do - and yet, not the same energy as even 5 years ago. Ah so...
Reminds me of a quote by Seamus Heaney...
“All I know is a door into the dark”
-
I think I'll have to peak in here now and then. I love the links to autumn poems, but I'll wait a few weeks to read them. Judging from the forecast, we still have summer here, although the days are shorter and the sky is filled with blackbirds going to roost at night.
-
It's still pretty steamy here, too, with none of the occasional early bits of fall color yet.
Barb, I joined the old SeniorNet early in 2004. JoanK found the site first, by googling online book clubs, then after a bit got me to join it too. So I was around for some time while FairAnna was doing the poetry, got plenty of chance to appreciate her fine spirit. I did more reading than posting, though. She and JoanK remained telephone friends to the end, though they never managed to meet in person.
Now you are her successor, and a very worthy one too.
-
Glad you peeked in Nlhome - still hot however, dry not steamy but then we don't really look for relief till the end of September and so we are in triple digits again -
PatH I sorta remember that JoanK found SeniroNet and encouraged you to join us - However, I had no memory of when that was. Yes, it was always a treat to receive a phone call from Anna - she was filled with everyday talk that took on a magic that was almost fairy like. Her trees, her yard, her home, her baking, her dog, her house guests, her family, even her neighbors were part of her breathing in and breathing out, she was one with all her surroundings.
I need to scour my books - I know I have a book of Seamus Heaney poetry but for the life of me I can not lay my hands on it. I think i'll look on Amazon to locate what the cover looks like - that should help me in my search.
-
(http://latimesblogs.latimes.com/.a/6a00d8341c630a53ef01156fb50221970c-500wi)
History says, don't hope
On this side of the grave.
But then, once in a lifetime
The longed-for tidal wave
Of justice can rise up,
And hope and history rhyme.
So hope for a great sea-change
On the far side of revenge.
Believe that further shore
Is reachable from here.
Believe in miracle
And cures and healing wells.
Call miracle self-healing:
The utter, self-revealing
Double-take of feeling.
If there's fire on the mountain
Or lightning and storm
And a god speaks from the sky
That means someone is hearing
The outcry and the birth-cry
Of new life at its term.”
― Seamus Heaney
-
(http://25.media.tumblr.com/a388fb601015381f05b6c9bd1fb50b5f/tumblr_msgsbhLsN61qacl6mo1_500.jpg)
Blackberry Picking
Late August, given heavy rain and sun
For a full week, the blackberries would ripen.
At first, just one, a glossy purple clot
Among others, red, green, hard as a knot.
You ate that first one and its flesh was sweet
Like thickened wine: summer's blood was in it
Leaving stains upon the tongue and lust for
Picking. Then red ones inked up and that hunger
Sent us out with milk cans, pea tins, jam-pots
Where briars scratched and wet grass bleached our boots.
Round hayfields, cornfields and potato-drills
We trekked and picked until the cans were full
Until the tinkling bottom had been covered
With green ones, and on top big dark blobs burned
Like a plate of eyes. Our hands were peppered
With thorn pricks, our palms sticky as Bluebeard's.
We hoarded the fresh berries in the byre.
But when the bath was filled we found a fur,
A rat-grey fungus, glutting on our cache.
The juice was stinking too. Once off the bush
The fruit fermented, the sweet flesh would turn sour.
I always felt like crying. It wasn't fair
That all the lovely canfuls smelt of rot.
Each year I hoped they'd keep, knew they would not.
-
(http://upload.wikimedia.org/wikipedia/commons/2/26/Rowan_tree_20081002b.jpg)
Song
A rowan like a lipsticked girl.
Between the by-road and the main road
Alder trees at a wet and dripping distance
Stand off among the rushes.
There are the mud-flowers of dialect
And the immortelles of perfect pitch
And that moment when the bird sings very close
To the music of what happens.
-
Blackberry Picking sure brings back memories of trekking through the woods and up behind the development where raspberries grew on a steep slope. We picked raspberries, blackberries and cherry when we could reach them. I don't know if the cherry trees were native or planted long, long ago and were forgotten and abandoned. There were only a few trees and quite tall. Thanks for sharing, Barb.
-
It does bring back memories doesn't it Frybabe - Berry picking to me was a hot and dry time, blundering through tall grasses bleached by the summer sun - the rewards were great and so worth the effort but it was not near as much fun as peach or later apple picking.
I wanted to make sure about the word Byre in that poem - am I glad I looked it up because I thought it was more like a trough - byre (br)n. Chiefly British, A barn for cows
-
Enjoyed the blackberry poem - remember picking berries like that on my uncle's farm when I was quite small, along the pasture, stepping around the cowpies to get to the bushes.
Here we pick them in the woods, big and juicy - they are the taste of summer to me. But forget a bucketful and yes, the mold grows quickly.
-
The Constant Reader group at Goodreads recommends Seamus Heaney's play, THE BURIAL AT THEBES; A VERSION OF SOPHOCLES' ANTIGONE. I was curious since I read Antigone long ago, so I've ordered it from my library.
Per Booklist, starred review, "There are many translations of Sophocles' Antigone but few with the understated power and spare beauty of Irish Nobel laureate Heaney's version. He has given the play a new title, The Burial at Thebes, that recalls both Antigone's punishment--to be walled up in a cave-- and the crime for which she is punished. He remains faithful to the letter and the spirit of the play, following the structure of Sophocles' fine storytelling beat-by-beat even as he finds words to make this classic story of conflict between an inflexible autocrat and an intransigent rebel legible to modern readers. Written in a muscular but lively style, the translation, like Heaney's best poetry, finds music in the language of the streets and reveals the raw, primal power in the most carefully constructed rhetorical tropes."
-
Wow - that does sound like a book worthy of owning - you are tempting me Margifay
I found one of the books I purchased a few years ago Seamus Heaney the Government of the tongue selected Prose - 1978 - 1987 Only one of his poems - the book is each chapter devoted to a poet as he analysis their work, usually only one poem - facinating - but I do believe i own another book with his poems - still have stacks and shelves and closets and drawers and boxes to search through.
-
(http://news.xinhuanet.com/english/2010-01/05/xin_382010705154023408021.jpg)
Postscript
And some time make the time to drive out west
Into County Clare, along the Flaggy Shore,
In September or October, when the wind
And the light are working off each other
So that the ocean on one side is wild
With foam and glitter, and inland among stones
The surface of a slate-grey lake is lit
By the earthed lightening of flock of swans,
Their feathers roughed and ruffling, white on white,
Their fully-grown headstrong-looking heads
Tucked or cresting or busy underwater.
Useless to think you'll park or capture it
More thoroughly. You are neither here nor there,
A hurry through which known and strange things pass
As big soft buffetings come at the car sideways
And catch the heart off guard and blow it open
-
Nice to see him appreciating swans. I always wondered what yeats had against them.
-
I've seen swans placidly swimming on a lake and on shore nipping who ever mistakenly approaches but never have a seen a flock of swans swooping down - however, from a car window I have seen many sights that "catch the heart off guard and blow it open."
Only a very few miles out of town and this time of year the land blows me away - it stretches meeting the huge sky and whole swaths, almost like geometric shapes of grasses create a serenade with maybe an outcropping or a lone mesquite or maybe even a huge live oak as the only other growing thing - the grasses are nearly white against a large patch of reddish purple against another dove grey and still another bleached khaki with a washed out blue sky above with a few long wispy clouds. Catches me every time even more than these same fields in spring covered in wildflowers.
Soon the flocks of birds moving south will descend on our trees and in our yards but more impressive are the flocks of monarchs - you hate to keep driving since they get caught in the grill and paste themselves dead on your windshield - with all that road kill it is amazing they continue to migrate every year in such numbers.
How about you JoanK do you have some memories of scenes that blew open your heart.
-
(http://chickensintheroad.com/wp-content/uploads/2010/04/IMG_0186.jpg)
Mossbawn: Two Poems in Dedication
For Mary Heaney
I. Sunlight
There was a sunlit absence.
The helmeted pump in the yard
heated its iron,
water honeyed
in the slung bucket
and the sun stood
like a griddle cooling
against the wall
of each long afternoon.
So, her hands scuffled
over the bakeboard,
the reddening stove
sent its plaque of heat
against her where she stood
in a floury apron
by the window.
Now she dusts the board
with a goose's wing,
now sits, broad-lapped,
with whitened nails
and measling shins:
here is a space
again, the scone rising
to the tick of two clocks.
And here is love
like a tinsmith's scoop
sunk past its gleam
in the meal-bin.
-
(http://bestmoviesevernews.com/best-movies-ever-social-fbtwit/wp-content/uploads/2013/05/marjorie-hemmerde-ultracougar-finds-love-310x168.jpg)
Whether it be a matter of personal relations within a marriage
or political initiatives within a peace process,
there is no sure-fire do-it-yourself kit.
-
When I went to the library this week, I found a book of poems about birds, collected by Billy Collins. It includes an old favorite by Elizabeth Bishop: "Sandpiper"
http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/sandpiper/
-
That might be a good focus in the near future JoanK - a month of Bird poems - surely there are many
-
(https://sphotos-a-ord.xx.fbcdn.net/hphotos-ash3/p480x480/539255_232032783600053_1701262393_n.jpg)
The Harvest Bow
by Seamus Heaney
As you plaited the harvest bow
You implicated the mellowed silence in you
In wheat that does not rust
But brightens as it tightens twist by twist
Into a knowable corona,
A throwaway love-knot of straw.
Hands that aged round ashplants and cane sticks
And lapped the spurs on a lifetime of game cocks
Harked to their gift and worked with fine intent
Until your fingers moved somnambulant:
I tell and finger it like braille,
Gleaning the unsaid off the palpable,
And if I spy into its golden loops
I see us walk between the railway slopes
Into an evening of long grass and midges,
Blue smoke straight up, old beds and ploughs in hedges,
An auction notice on an outhouse wall--
You with a harvest bow in your lapel,
Me with the fishing rod, already homesick
For the big lift of these evenings, as your stick
Whacking the tips off weeds and bushes
Beats out of time, and beats, but flushes
Nothing: that original townland
Still tongue-tied in the straw tied by your hand.
The end of art is peace
Could be the motto of this frail device
That I have pinned up on our deal dresser--
Like a drawn snare
Slipped lately by the spirit of the corn
Yet burnished by its passage, and still warm.
An ordinary, rather battered dresser. “Deal” is pine, which is soft wood used to create low-quality furniture and cheap coffins. The pine dresser is thus reminiscent of a poor person’s coffin.
-
The Sept. 9,2013 issue of The New Yorker must have a spy that sneaks a peek at SeniorLearn. They too have a poem by Seamus Heaney. Here it is:
THE GUTTURAL MUSE
Last summer, and at midnight
I smelt the heat of the day:
At my window over the hotel car park
I breathed the muddied night airs off the lake
And watched a young crowd leave the discotheque.
Their voices rose up thick and comforting
As oily bubbles the feeding tench sent up
That evening at dusk-the slimy tench
Once called the doctor fish because his slime
Was said to heal the wounds of fish that touched it.
A girl in a white dress
Was being courted out among the cars:
As her voice swarmed and puddled into laughs
I felt like some old pike all badged with sores
Wanting to swim in touch in touch with soft-mouthed life.
Barb - those pictures that you put with the poems are simply breath taking.
Joan K-I know I am not a faithful follower of this site (as yet) but why just birds? Animals and fish broaden the category , yet still limit it.
Anyhow thanks to all who make this a beautiful site.
-
Jude thanks - had to look up what a tench was and learned it is an interchangeable word for Dr. Fish with habits that illuminate the night scene when the bars close.
A link to the habits and habitat of the Tench - http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Tench
What a contrast between that scene conjured up by night feeding tench and a girl in a white dress - I guess like most of us he/we wish there were few to no tench with many, rather than one vulnerable girl in a white dress. We are always looking for the white hat as our saving hero or in this case, heroine in a white dress.
-
(http://d202m5krfqbpi5.cloudfront.net/authors/1200407647p5/29574.jpg)
“If self is a location, so is love:
Bearings taken, markings, cardinal points,
Options, obstinacies, dug heels, and distance,
Here and there and now and then, a stance.”
-
Welcome to September Poetry Page ~ Seamus Heaney
Let's Honor both Fairanna and Babi by
sharing the poems of of one of their favorites
Irish poet, Seamus Heaney.
Maybe all three are gathered with their friends in heaven's Pub...
(http://seniorlearn.org/bookclubs/poetry/seamusheaney.jpg)
| Postscript
And some time make the time to drive out west
Into County Clare, along the Flaggy Shore,
In September or October, when the wind
And the light are working off each other
So that the ocean on one side is wild
With foam and glitter, and inland among stones
The surface of a slate-grey lake is lit
By the earthed lightening of flock of swans,
Their feathers roughed and ruffling, white on white,
Their fully-grown headstrong-looking heads
Tucked or cresting or busy underwater.
Useless to think you'll park or capture it
More thoroughly. You are neither here nor there,
A hurry through which known and strange things pass
As big soft buffetings come at the car sideways
And catch the heart off guard and blow it open
|
A few Links:
- Famous Poets and Poems about Autumn (http://famouspoetsandpoems.com/thematic_poems/autumn_poems.html)
- Poetry Foundation: Seamus Heaney (http://www.poetryfoundation.org/bio/seamus-heaney)
- Paris Review: Seamus Heaney, The Art of Poetry (http://www.theparisreview.org/interviews/1217/the-art-of-poetry-no-75-seamus-heaney)
- The Seamus Heaney Center for Poetry (http://www.qub.ac.uk/schools/SeamusHeaneyCentreforPoetry/)
Discussion Leaders: Barb (augere@ix.netcom.com)
-
JUDE: "why just birds?" You'll have to ask Collins that.
But he answers it in his introduction. We humans have always been fascinated by birds: their ability to both fly and sing. I am one of those who have felt that fascination since I was a child: if I were a poet, I would use my tongue to celebrate them. So this little collection delights me.
After all, poetry is not necessarily about broadening the field, but about seeing the eternal in the small.
-
OH JoanK i have never heard it put so well - poetry is about seeing the eternal in the small - that is a quote to remember.
Have you been following the series on Birds on PBS - missed a few but those I have watched are fascinating and informative beyond what I thought I knew and I thought I knew a lot about birds, their migrations, and their habitat.
-
Marjifay, thank you for reminding me of Heany's The Burial at Thebes. We read Antigone here recently, and I became aware of it then. It wasn't relevant to our discussion, since we wanted quite literal texts, but now I would like to read it and see what he made of the original. I just got a copy from my library. It's fourth in line, after three books with deadlines for discussions, but since my library system has nine copies and mine is the only one out, I can probably renew it as much as needed.
-
(http://www.vangoghgallery.com/catalog/image/0854/Woman-Peeling-Potatoes.jpg)
In Memoriam M.K.H., 1911-1984
When all the others were away at Mass
I was all hers as we peeled potatoes.
They broke the silence, let fall one by one
Like solder weeping off the soldering iron:
Cold comforts set between us, things to share
Gleaming in a bucket of clean water.
And again let fall. Little pleasant splashes
From each other's work would bring us to our senses.
So while the parish priest at her bedside
Went hammer and tongs at the prayers for the dying
And some were responding and some crying
I remembered her head bent towards my head,
Her breath in mine, our fluent dipping knives--
Never closer the whole rest of our lives.
-
Barbara: that's lovely. Is that Heaney?
-
Yes JoanK - we are only doing Heaney and sprinkling in some of Fairanna's this month - Next month is so the epitome of Autumn, with so many poems celebrating the season we just have to devote a month to the season and then in November how about we do your suggested Birds.
-
By then I will have had to return the bird poetry book to the library, although I'm tempted to buy a copy.
-
(http://upload.wikimedia.org/wikipedia/commons/b/b8/Leather_bucket_of_a_well.jpg)
At The Wellhead
Your songs, when you sing them with your two eyes closed
As you always do, are like a local road
We’ve known every turn of in the past-
That midge-veiled, high-hedged side road where you stood
Looking and listening until a car
Would come and go and leave you lonelier
Than you had been to begin with. So, sing on,
Dear shut-eyed one, dear far-voiced veteran.
Sing yourself to where the singing comes from,
Ardent and cut off like our blind neighbor
Who played the piano all day in her bedroom.
Her notes came out to us like hoisted water
Ravelling off a bucket at the wellhead
Where next thing we’d be listening , hushed and awkward.
That blind-from-birth, sweet-voiced, withdrawn musician
Was like a silver vein in heavy clay.
Night water glistening in the light of day.
But also just our neighbor, Rosie Keenan.
She touched our cheeks. She let us touch her braille
In books like books wallpaper patterns came in .
Her hands were active and her eyes were full
Of open darkness and watery shine.
She knew us by our voices. She’d say she “saw”
Wherever or what ever. Being with her
Was intimate and helpful, like a cure
You didn’t notice happening. When I read
A poem with Keenan’s well in it , she said,
“I can see the sky at the bottom of it now.”
-
I love the picture you've found for this.
-
I love the lines from In Memoriam:
So while the parish priest at her bedside
Went hammer and tongs at the prayers for the dying
-
Yes he sure shows the different ways we seek and achieve comfort in that poem doesn't he - would we all have someone to work next to that fills the heart with silence while using our hands to do the ordinary that will feed the body - seems to me the potato for the Irish is like Bread for others - a staple that will nourish those using hammer and tongs to build a place for themselves in the here after. His poetry has so many levels.
-
(http://farm3.staticflickr.com/2565/3903836251_0a7b27ec4d_z.jpg)
The Disappearing Island
Once we presumed to found ourselves for good
Between its blue hills and those sandless shores
Where we spent our desperate night in prayer and vigil,
Once we had gathered driftwood, made a hearth
And hung our cauldron in its firmament,
The island broke beneath as like a wave.
The land sustaining us seemed to hold firm
Only when we embraced it "in extremis".
All I believe that happened there was vision.
(in ex·tre·mis (ĭn ĕk-strē'mĭs) -- adv.
At the point of death. In grave or extreme circumstances.)
-
I'm not a big poetry reader, but these are lovely, if I can use that word. I can feel the emotion in them; I can envision the scene. The Disappearing Island punctuates the book I just finished which was set along the coast of the Florida Panhandle where the action often took place on sandy islands that were built up or destroyed by the hurricanes that passed over.
-
(http://www.watching-grass-grow.com/house-finch/2008_05_25_finch_nest.jpg)
Changes
As you came with me in silence
to the pump in the long grass
I heard much that you could not hear: the bite of the spade that sank it,
the slithering and grumble as the mason mixed his mortar,
and women coming with white buckets
like flashes on their ruffled wings.
The cast-iron rims of the lid
clinked as I uncovered it,
something stirred in its mouth.
I had a bird's eyes view of a bird,
finch-green, speckly white,
nesting on dry leaves, flattened, still,
suffering the light.
So I roofed the citadel
as gently as I could, and told you
and you gently unroofed it
but where was the bird now?
There was a single egg, pebbly white,
and in the rusted bend of the spout
tail feathers splayed and sat tight.
So tender, I said, 'Remember this.
It will be good for you to retrace this path
when you have grown away and stand at last
at the very center of the empty city.'
-
In the last issue of "The New Republic" there were four lovely pages devoted to Heaney. Much of it was devoted to his funeral, which the author of the piece attended. Her name is Helen Vendler and she too is a poet who knew Heaney. I will give you some of the more interesting passages:
"SH's funeral in Dublin was televised live, marking an event that occupied the front pages in Ireland for several days.....
Seamus established an immediate intimacy even with strangers. The eldest of nine children, he could be anyone's older brother.....Seamus scanned people in a clairvoyant way, realizing that faculties of mind and temperament instantly and deeply.
...volume by volume, decade by decade, Heaney translated feelings in resonant word clusters. For "the troubles in Northern Ireland: "neighborly murders". For early marriage: "the lovely and painful\Covenants of flesh..\The respite in our dewy dreaming faces." For the destruction of the Twin Towers: "Anything can happen".
Brought up a Catholic he was no longer a believer as an adult, but he also remarked that one cannot forget the culture in which one was raised.(At the funeral ) Peter Fallon read Heaney's poem "The Given Note":
"So, whether he calls it spirit music
Or not, I don't care. He took it
Out of wind off mid-Atlantic.
Still, he maintains, from nowhere.
It comes off the bow of gravely.
Rephrases itself into the air."
There is much more but I hope you enjoyed this tidbit.
Again, Barb, you are doing a wonderfully impressive job on this site.
-
Sorry, the fifth line of the last poem had an extra word. It is :"Comes off the bow gravely." I apologize for the extra 'of".
-
Wouldn't have been lovely to have seen an excerpt of the funneral on a Youtube or really the best would have been to see a bit included in at least PBS news.
The poem that you found JUde that was read at the funeral sounds like Seamus Heaney tying all the spirits of here and there together.
-
(http://images.everytrail.com/pics/fullsize/4135895-Screen_shot_2012-02-09_at_12.52.04_PM.png)
The smells of ordinariness
Were new on the night drive through France:
Rain and hay and woods on the air
Made warm draughts in the open car.
Signposts whitened relentlessly.
Montreuil, Abbeville, Beauvais
Were promised, promised, came and went
Each place granting its name's fulfilment.
A combine groaning its way late
Bled seeds across its work-light.
A forest fire smouldered out.
One by one small cafés shut.
I thought of you continuously
A thousand miles south where Italy
Laid its loin to France on the darkened sphere.
Your ordinariness was renewed there.
-
(http://richmondmom.com/wp-content/uploads/2011/03/kite.jpg)
"A Kite for Michael and Christopher"
All through that Sunday afternoon
a kite flew above Sunday,
a tightened drumhead, an armful of blown chaff.
I'd seen it grey and slippy in the making,
I'd tapped it when it dried out white and stiff,
I'd tied the bows of newspaper
along its six-foot tail.
But now it was far up like a small black lark
and now it dragged as if the bellied string
were a wet rope hauled upon
to lift a shoal.
My friend says that the human soul
is about the weight of a snipe,
yet the soul at anchor there,
the string that sags and ascends,
weigh like a furrow assumed into the heavens.
Before the kite plunges down into the wood
and this line goes useless
take in your two hands, boys, and feel
the strumming, rooted, long-tailed pull of grief.
You were born fit for it.
Stand in here in front of me
and take the strain.
-
THE CATECHISM
Q.and A. come back, They "formed my mind."
"Who is my neighbour?" "My neighbour is all mankind."
-
Beautiful poetry, and I will be back. I have so much to catch up with.
I have just bought 2 books of poetry by the Irish poet John O'Donohue, who died much too young.
I have 'Echoes of Memory' and Conamara Blues.
I think his most well known book is Anam Cara(spiritual wisdom from the Celtic world)
www.johnodonohue.com
-
So good to see your post Octavia - just read of your trials - please hang on -
(http://freepages.genealogy.rootsweb.ancestry.com/~irelandlist/bless.jpg)
-
Thank you Barb, I love that Irish Blessing.
I've just been reading all Heaney's poems here, and thinking perhaps I should buy a book of his. My book supply is creeping up. I've been ordering books, mainly poetry, but some fiction. I call them 'keepers', ones that will go to the Old Folks Home with me, if I last that long:-)
The trouble is I keep finding more and more, I just have to have!
I'm waiting on a book of Norman MacCaig's poetry, and I see Heaney said of him 'He means poetry to me.' What better recommendation?
-
I'm about halfway thru Shakespeare's sonnets....Folger of-course, I didn't appreciate quite how much he played on words and how much that word play adds to the meaning of the poems. I also did not realise that the first 20 are written to a young man.......how ignorant can one be really, how much there is to learn and so little time to do it all in....
-
That's wonderful. I'll have to get that edition.
-
Actually, its most of the sonnets--written to a young man I mean....I had only got to about 20 when I posted...."Shall I compare thee to a summer's day"....."Shakespeare in Love" totally misrepresented that one...not that I liked that movie anyway.....I have not got to the dark lady ones yet, but the double and triple and even quadruple meaning of words is quite extraordinary and would have gone completely over my head without Folger. What a total genius, what a facility with language.
-
Dana you are prompting me to dig out my book of Shakespearean Sonnets -
I love the definition of a Sonnet - The word sonnet comes from the Italian word “sonetto” which means “little song”. A sonnet is a poem of fourteen lines using any of a number of formal rhyme schemes, in English typically having ten syllables per line.
From what I learned the first sonnets are credited as being written by Petrarch although some disagree and say other poets during the Italian Renascence were the poets - then we skip to the English sonnets and the first poets were Wyatt and Henry Howard.
The rhyme scheme for the octave is typically a b b a a b b a. The sestet is more flexible. Petrarch typically used c d e c d e or c d c d c d for the sestet. Some other possibilities for the sestet include c d d c d d, c d d e c e, or c d d c c d (as in Wordsworth's "Nuns Fret Not at Their Convents Narrow Room" poem). This form was used in the earliest English sonnets by Wyatt and others.
I think Folger's Shakespearean Library does a nice web page on the History of the Sonnet (http://www.folger.edu/Content/Teach-and-Learn/Teaching-Resources/Teaching-Sonnets/A-Short-History-of-the-Sonnet.cfm)
I always think of the sonnet as a more romantic view of life - I wonder if there are any that show the seamy side or disruptions in life?
Focusing for a bit on Shakespearean Sonnets would be a lovely way to spend the next few weeks - would you enjoy this page if we do just that - focus on the Sonnet or just focus on Shakespearean Sonnets or leave it open to whatever poem strikes your fancy?
I am so glad to see someone interested again is sharing poetry - those who love poetry that were part of this group are no longer with us however, i feel their spirit on these pages. It seems to me we did share sonnets in the past however, poems are read over and over each time with a new appreciation and another chord within seems to be plucked.
Dana I think I will join you sharing a few of Shakespeare's sonnets.
-
this Shakespeare sonnet is about winter taking summer away but for me to replace winter with the drought and it is perfect - perfectly sad making us feel helpless as we see the bounty of our summer dry up into raw rasping skeletons shading the few ants that remain. It also reminds me of us as we age - there are so many losses of friends, but even our ability to do things that were so easy for us as recently as 10 years past - I am smiling thinking of us as bundled sheaves with white and bristly beards that for many of us describes our hair. Makes me think and wonder are we really all sheaves of memories from the summer of our lives?
When I do count the clock that tells the time,
And see the brave day sunk in hideous night;
When I behold the violet past prime,
And sable curls, all silvered o'er with white;
When lofty trees I see barren of leaves,
Which erst from heat did canopy the herd,
And summer's green all girded up in sheaves,
Borne on the bier with white and bristly beard,
Then of thy beauty do I question make,
That thou among the wastes of time must go,
Since sweets and beauties do themselves forsake
And die as fast as they see others grow;
And nothing 'gainst Time's scythe can make defence
Save breed, to brave him when he takes thee hence.
-
I quote Folger, "As he observes the motions of the clock and the movement of all things towards death and decay, the poet faces the fact that the young man's beauty will be destroyed by Time. Nothing besides offspring, he argues, can defy Time's scythe."
The first 17 sonnets talk about how the young man's beauty will be lost to time and death, unless he procreates. The 18th is "a radical change" which says that the young man's beauty will live on in the poet's verse. ( But actually I don't think its such a radical change, because of the "eternal lines" which graft him to Time.)
"Shall I compare thee to a summer's day?
Thou art more lovely and more temperate.
Rough winds do shake the darling buds of May,
And summer's lease hath all too short a date.
Sometime too hot the eye of heaven shines,
And oft is his gold complexion dimmed;
And every fair from fair sometime declines,
By chance or nature's changing course untrimmed
But thy eternal summer shall not fade
Nor lose possession of that fair thou ow'st,
Nor shall Death brag thou wand'rest in his shade
When in eternal lines to time thou grow'st.
So long as men can breathe or eyes can see,
So long lives this, and this gives life to thee.
"eternal lines" means "immortal verse"and also echoes the "lines of life" of sonnet 16, "so should the lines of life that life repair", referring to living children, so "eternal lines" refers to the poet's poetry AND the children the young man should have....
-
Interesting Dana - we all have our queues - For me the structure of a sonnet is my queue - The first 8 lines showing the wonders of the topic followed by 2 lines that are the turn picking out where the last 4 lines are going to either justify or argue with the first 8 lines.
Either way, the structure or the words you picked from the poem, do seem to support your realization that beauty represented in this young man can fade and like the seasons will fade but there is a deeper eternal beauty that death does not destroy and as long as there are eyes to see beauty has life.
Lovey thought, that leaves us with such a deep appreciation for the beauty that surrounds us that springs from nature, human or otherwise, as well as, the beauty created by ourselves and others. I love the line, "And summer's lease hath all too short a date." Sorta smooth on the tongue when it is said aloud.
Off this deeper appreciation of beauty and I smile thinking - for us around here, not a summer's day, although a summer's day can have it own beauty appreciated by some when the sun is like an blacksmith's hammer on the anvil that is the dried up earth with every living thing looking for any shade in the triple digit temps. Soundless, Hawks wheeling on the thermals against an expansive blue sky. Darling buds can be in May but here more likely in March and April. ;)
-
This concept of describing a temporary beauty and linking it to the eternal appears to be a theme taken up by others - here is another poem using the theme.
An Eternal Beauty!!!
by Kumar
As the sun sets,so many colors seems to fill the sky,
With you around,i always seem to get lost in your eyes,
One after another,the waves come and touch your feet,
by dying at your feet they feel their life is complete.
The way you leave your foot prints on the sand,
The way you come near and hold onto my hand,
The way you dance and kick the waters away,
walking behind,almost speechless i would stay.
As the birds fly over the sky to their nest
its ur mesmerizing voice that puts them to rest,
some of them descend and try to have a look at you,
wondering how this bird looks more beautiful than we do.
No poet on this earth can capture your beauty in a book,
Ur beauty is such,even the stars come out and have a look,
Even though all those stars belongs to the heaven above,
Each and every one of them adore the angel i love.
Your beauty is the only one i will always admire,
Everyday of my life,i pray god to keep this desire,
It doesn't matter whether you are twenty or ninety,
In my heart,you will always remain "An Eternal Beauty"
-
Isn't this a nice one--I remember it from school. Think we had to memorize it!
When in disgrace with fortune and men's eyes,
I all alone beweep my outcast state,
And trouble deaf heaven with my bootless cries,
And look upon myself and curse my fate,
Wishing me like to one more rich in hope,
Featured like him,like him with friends possessed,
Desiring this man's art and that man's scope,
With what I most enjoy contented least;
Yet in these thoughts myself almost despising,
Haply I think on thee, and then my state,
Like to the lark at break of day arising
From sullen earth sings hymns at heaven's gate;
For thy sweet love remembered such wealth brings
That then I scorn to change my state with kings.
-
Wow - I never really paid attention to this sonnet - I am blown away - this is strongly suggesting he is supporting the downtrodden or those beyond the pale - of course then there would not be this sentiment towards women but it sure fits now.
-
I see it as him saying that if he's feeling miserable and sorry for himself (pretty much exaggerating his despair as we sometimes do) and then thinks of his beloved his heart leaps like the lark and his self pity is replaced by joy.
-
We don't have the English larks here, but I've been told that they fly up, so high you lose sight of them, then let loose with their amazing song. That's got to be a good image for hope and uplifting and joy.
-
Yes Dana I can see the turn is where he takes the universal and turns it to himself
Yet in these thoughts myself almost despising,
Haply I think on thee, and then my state,
There are so many poets who include the lark as their metaphor - Pat I did not know they fly so high and then sing their song - now you have me curious to find out more about the habits of a lark - ask and you shall receive - I love the internet - anyhow this is a web site that explains more about the habits of the lark and how it is often used in British poems including by Shakespeare.
http://www.jstor.org/discover/10.2307/40624200?uid=3739920&uid=2129&uid=2&uid=70&uid=4&uid=3739256&sid=21104313248343
-
http://wn.com/category:english_classical_violinists#
What an interesting website Barb.
The above is a link to The Lark Ascending by Vaughan Williams. Its lovely. I listened to some lark song and it does have that ongoing trilling captured in the music, which is joyous.
-
It is lovely - something about it sounds almost like Chinese music - the trilling is done beautifully - I do not think I hear on particular bird in the early morning - they all seem to call at about the same time or at least several different kinds call - we have so many doves again and they call early but they are not alone. What birds do you have in your neighborhood calling in the morning?
-
looks like Mary Oliver has a poem about the lark.
THE LARK
And I have seen,
at dawn,
the lark
spin out of the long grass
and into the pink air -
its wings,
which are neither wide
nor overstrong,
fluttering -
the pectorals
ploughing and flashing
for nothing but altitude -
and the song
bursting
all the while
from the red throat.
And then he descends,
and is sorry.
His little head hangs
and he pants for breath
for a few moments
among the hoops of the grass,
which are crisp and dry,
where most of his living is done -
and then something summons him again
and up he goes,
his shoulders working,
his whole body almost collapsing and floating
to the edges of the world.
We are reconciled, I think,
to too much.
Better to be a bird, like this one -
an ornament of the eternal.
As he came down once, to the nest of the grass,
“Squander the day, but save the soul, ”
I heard him say.
-
Spring PoetryJoin Us - We're Celebrating Spring!(http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_LqwQxG1c0BM/S352OnAobpI/AAAAAAAAKz0/wTZ4mnqnaTQ/s400/Spring+Chimera.jpg) - Famous Poets and Poems about Spring (http://famouspoetsandpoems.com/thematic_poems/spring_poems.html)
- Spring Poems (http://poetry.about.com/od/ourpoemcollections/a/springpoems.htm)
|
SONNET 1
From fairest creatures we desire increase,
That thereby beauty's rose might never die,
But as the riper should by time decease,
His tender heir might bear his memory:
But thou, contracted to thine own bright eyes,
Feed'st thy light's flame with self-substantial fuel,
Making a famine where abundance lies,
Thyself thy foe, to thy sweet self too cruel.
Thou that art now the world's fresh ornament
And only herald to the gaudy spring,
Within thine own bud buriest thy content
And, tender churl, makest waste in niggarding.
Pity the world, or else this glutton be,
To eat the world's due, by the grave and thee.
Discussion Leader: Barb (augere@ix.netcom.com) |
-
Every day we should hear at least one little song, read one good poem, see one exquisite picture, and, if possible, speak a few sensible words.
Johann Wolfgang von Goethe
-
to me this is fascinating - two poets with a different slant and writing style about essentially the same or similar subject
Summer Song
William Carlos Williams, 1883 - 1963
Wanderer moon
smiling a
faintly ironical smile
at this
brilliant, dew-moistened
summer morning,—
a detached
sleepily indifferent
smile, a
wanderer’s smile,—
if I should
buy a shirt
your color and
put on a necktie
sky-blue
where would they carry me?
ROMEO
Lady, by yonder blessed moon I swear
That tips with silver all these fruit-tree tops--
JULIET
O, swear not by the moon, the inconstant moon,
That monthly changes in her circled orb,
Lest that thy love prove likewise variable.
-
It has been years since we shared any of Anna Alchmotava's work - here is a heart breaker - no title
He was jealous, fearful and tender,
He loved me like God's only light,
And that she not sing of the past times
He killed my bird colored white.
He said, in the lighthouse at sundown:
"Love me, laugh and write poetry!"
And I buried the joyous songbird
Behind a round well near a tree.
I promised that I would not mourn her.
But my heart turned to stone without choice,
And it seems to me that everywhere
And always I'll hear her sweet voice.
-
Interesting I found this poem by Anne Kingsmill Finch who I never heard of much less read. Looked up as we all do now and found this --
In 1929, in her classic essay A Room of One's Own, Virginia Woolf both critiques Finch's writing and expresses great admiration for it. In Woolf's examination of the "female voice" and her search for the history of female writers, she argues that Finch's writing is "harassed and distracted with hates and grievances," pointing out that to Finch "men are hated and feared, because they have the power to bar her way to what she wants to do—which is to write."
However, Woolf excuses the flaws she perceives in Finch's work by claiming that Finch surely had to "encourage herself to write by supposing that what she writes will never be published." She goes on to acknowledge that in Finch's work, "Now and again words issue of pure poetry…It was a thousand pities that the woman who could write like that, whose mind was turned to nature, and reflection, should have been forced to anger and bitterness."
Woolf goes on in defense of her as a gifted but sometimes understandably misguided example of women's writing. It is evident that Woolf sympathizes deeply with Finch's plight as a female poet, and though she takes issue with some of the content in Finch's writing, she expresses grief that Finch is so unknown: "…when one comes to seek out the facts about Lady Winchilsea, one finds, as usual, that almost nothing is known about her." Woolf wishes to know more about "this melancholy lady, who loved wandering in the fields and thinking about unusual things and scorned, so rashly, so unwisely, 'the dull manage of a servile house.'"
The poem I found...
Jealousy
VAIN Love, why do'st thou boast of Wings,
That cannot help thee to retire!
When such quick Flames Suspicion brings,
As do the Heart about thee fire.
Still Swift to come, but when to go
Thou shou'd'st be more–Alas! how Slow.
Lord of the World must surely be
But thy bare Title at the most;
Since Jealousy is Lord of Thee,
And makes such Havock on thy Coast,
As do's thy pleasant Land deface,
Yet binds thee faster to the Place.
-
Poetry is such a vital element to me that I wonder how so many people get along without it. In My Ideal Bookshelf are/is collected the 'shelves' of 100 or so 'leading cultural figures'. Dipping into its pages randomly is fun. To see what books and what authors are chosen by whom is vastly entertaining. I may have to buy this one. Poetry appears on many shelves but Wallace Stevens keeps crops up. I know beans about this man and his works but be sure that will change. Pulitzer awardee in 1955. This is often mentioned:
The Emperor of Ice Cream
Call the roller of big cigars,
The muscular one, and bid him whip
In kitchen cups concupiscent curds.
Let the wenches dawdle in such dress
As they are used to wear, and let the boys
Bring flowers in last month's newspapers.
Let be be finale of seem.
The only emperor is the emperor of ice-cream.
Take from the dresser of deal.
Lacking the three glass knobs, that sheet
On which she embroidered fantails once
And spread it so as to cover her face.
If her horny feet protrude, they come
To show how cold she is, and dumb.
Let the lamp affix its beam.
The only emperor is the emperor of ice-cream.
???
-
wow powerful stuff - I love the tongue and cheek of it - reducing what can appear devastating to a simple statement that reminds me of a prayer wheel going round and round that we give so much reverence to but has no real affect any more than as emperor of ice cream.
-
This one by Wallace Stevens makes me think
What is Divinity
What is divinity if it can come
Only in silent shadows and in dreams?
Shall she not find in comforts of the sun,
In pungent fruit and bright, green wings, or else
In any balm or beauty of the earth,
Things to be cherished like the thought of heaven?
Divinity must live within herself:
Passions of rain, or moods in falling snow;
Grievings in loneliness, or unsubdued
Elations when the forest blooms; gusty
Emotions on wet roads on autumn nights;
All pleasures and all pains, remembering
The bough of summer and the winter branch,
These are the measures destined for her soul.
-
Barb: Love Divinity! And thanks for explaining Emperor in such a tactful way.
-
I was reading Folger's history of the sonnet (thanks for the link, Barb)....this bit seems more true the more I read:
" Shakespeare’s Sonnets represented a kind of apogée of the English sonnet-writing fashion, and, in fact, may have contributed to the vogue’s fading away, since no one could outdo him or even come close to matching his skill and versatility."
I'm up to no.80 now, they're hard going, so clever, so convoluted, I swear he wrote them for the enjoyment of exercising his mind boggling word skills. I don't think he was expressing heartfelt emotion. And that made me think about his plays and that perhaps for Shakespeare the joy was in the word play, not so much the story,( which he took over from history or the the classics.)
-
Interesting Dana - I wonder if another aspect of his writing especially those Sonnets is the concept of the day to be a bit more what today we would call preachy - not Poetry at all but I recently got a book the Greek writer Epictetus who wrote a sort of manual that includes short essays on Virtue, Happiness, and Effectiveness - this would have been available to Shakespeare but more, this time in history still had morality plays as well as, so many long poems in our canon of literature from this time that wrap themselves around issues of morality. I wonder if Shakespeare was two things, adding his two cents uncovering how morality plays out in life and then at times spoofing the morality in favor of the reality of life especially, how the passions and love alter what we do as compared to what we should do to be virtuous and effective.
I am thinking this poem's bit of tongue and cheek - #80 - that in one breath elevates till you realize the person is elevated enough so that he is making a comment - He shows himself as less egotistical saying he is a bumbling tongue-tied clod although, saucy he dares to speak of the other's fame that he puts their pride right up there with the gods.
! how I faint when I of you do write,
Knowing a better spirit doth use your name,
And in the praise thereof spends all his might,
To make me tongue-tied speaking of your fame.
But since your worth, wide as the ocean is,
The humble as the proudest sail doth bear,
My saucy bark, inferior far to his,
On your broad main doth wilfully appear.
Your shallowest help will hold me up afloat,
Whilst he upon your soundless deep doth ride;
Or, being wracked, I am a worthless boat,
He of tall building, and of goodly pride:
Then if he thrive and I be cast away,
The worst was this, my love was my decay.
Epictetus says things like, " Do not use your body as an occasion for show or luxury.", "People are just people regardless of their talent or influence", "Once we fall, however slightly, into immoderation, momentum gathers and we can be lost to whim.", "A life based on narrow self-interest cannot be esteemed by any honorable measurement." -- just a few quotes that I could see would prompt a wordsmith like Shakespeare to further the explanations with examples of life using clever metaphors in a combo of words.
That last Shakespeare play we discussed - The Tempest - Jonathan found a book about an early sailing ship to the Americas that was blown off course and crash landed in Bermuda - you could see from the history included in the book and our further look into Britain at the time Shakespeare took that story that he would have known since we learned he was an investor and his close supporter was one of the main owner/investors who received the long letter explaining what happened that he would have read that letter and built his play the Tempest around some of the details of that sailing and shipwreck.
Learning all that at the time opened me to the idea that Shakespeare's greater strength is taking the ordinary of the day and building a play or poem using these ordinary events almost like writing material for a soap opera today. Like the soaps the stories are about people we recognize leading lives that we can understand which I do not remember was typical of the writers of his day. But you have to give him - he sure had a way with words expressing in new ways these observations. Somehow learning how he built his stories took away some of the mystic and acclaim that is typical of academics and now I can enjoy reading him more than as if a special author whose books should be behind a locked vitrine wreathed in laurel.
-
Yes I think The Tempest is a good example of how he takes a known story and, I was going to say, weaves his magic....but actually its not one I think is so magical.
Re #80...that's one of the "rival poet" sonnets, where he's comparing himself (saucy bark) to the "tall building" and "proudest sail" of his rival.
He does it again in #86
Was it the proud full sail of his great verse,
Bound for the prize of all-too-precious you (cute!)
That did my ripe thoughts in my brain inhearse,
Making their tomb the womb wherin they grew?
That's almost too clever, his thoughts entombed in the womb of their gestation and he's having fun, he's not upset by some rival lover....who Folger says (for various reasons ) has been thought to be George Chapman who had just published the first 7 books of his translation of the Iliad.
I wonder if there was a privately circulating set of sonnets by Chapman or some other guy....Folger says Shakespeare's were written for private circulation and only published later
-
Hmm I wonder - I need to read the Folger's - golly there is so much to gobble up but this would be fun since you are already into it.
-
Found this and it was perfect for my frustrating day of waiting for the phone call promised and never made - I was kicking myself for not getting things done I had planned and realized if i take and give a promise seriously than of course I would keep my end and forgo other plans and so stop kicking myself for not carrying out my original plans. Lesson I hope learned and this poem helped me sort it out.
Unkept Promises
The forest is dark here.
Trees are haunting me.
The sky is clouded with pain.
She told me she would be here.
She told me to be patient,
but she wouldn't be late.
Her lies have stolen me before.
Yet here I am,
believing one more.
The ground is becoming cold .
The night is wrapping me in a cloak.
I feel the eerie air flow around me now.
I should have never come here.
I should have never believed her.
Those staggering words,
she left them in the air.
She promised me.
Never again.
She is late now.
But it's to late for me to leave.
The night has stolen me.
Left me falling to my knees.
If you find me here,
know that it was for you.
You left me waiting here,
but my promise was true.
-
Well for heavens sake even Shakespeare has something to say about ill-kept time promises.
Sonnet 115
Those lines that I before have writ do lie,
Even those that said I could not love you dearer:
Yet then my judgment knew no reason why
My most full flame should afterwards burn clearer.
But reckoning Time, whose million'd accidents
Creep in 'twixt vows, and change decrees of kings,
Tan sacred beauty, blunt the sharp'st intents,
Divert strong minds to the course of altering things;
Alas! why, fearing of Time's tyranny,
Might I not then say, 'Now I love you best,'
When I was certain o'er incertainty,
Crowning the present, doubting of the rest?
Love is a babe, then might I not say so,
To give full growth to that which still doth grow?
-
Found this Amy Lowell poem - quite lovely
Madonna of the Evening Flowers
All day long I have been working,
Now I am tired.
I call: "Where are you?"
But there is only the oak-tree rustling in the wind.
The house is very quiet,
The sun shines in on your books,
On your scissors and thimble just put down,
But you are not there.
Suddenly I am lonely:
Where are you?
I go about searching.
Then I see you,
Standing under a spire of pale blue larkspur,
With a basket of roses on your arm.
You are cool, like silver,
and you smile.
I think the Canterbury bells are playing little tunes.
You tell me that the peonies need spraying,
That the columbines have overrun all bounds,
That the pyrus japonica should be cut back and rounded.
You tell me these things.
But I look at you, heart of silver,
White heart-flame of polished silver,
Burning beneath the blue steeples of the larkspur,
And I long to kneel instantly at your feet,
While all about us peal the loud sweet
Te Deums of the Canterbury bells.
-
Sonnet 115; it’s an odd sort of ill-kept promise, since what he is saying is that he promised that he loved her as much as possible, and now he’s saying “no, I love you even more, and it may still increase, I just said that because I was afraid that in the future time’s changes would mess things up, so this would be the peak, as good as it gets, but now I know that my love is evolving, has grown beyond then, and will grow even more in the future, so it was a lie that I loved you as much as possible then.”
Wow, the sonnet sure sounds a lot better than my summary. ;D
I didn’t know there was a rivalry between Shakespeare and Chapman. Indeed, I hadn’t quite taken in how early he was. I knew him only from Keats’ sonnet On first looking into Chapman’s Homer until we read the Iliad on the old site. Then, comparing translations, I looked at Chapman. I found him almost unreadable, though one of the other participants loved him.
-
The Summer Day
Mary Oliver
Who made the world?
Who made the swan, and the black bear?
Who made the grasshopper?
This grasshopper, I mean-
the one who has flung herself out of the grass,
the one who is eating sugar out of my hand,
who is moving her jaws back and forth instead of up and down-
who is gazing around with her enormous and complicated eyes.
Now she lifts her pale forearms and thoroughly washes her face.
Now she snaps her wings open, and floats away.
I don't know exactly what a prayer is.
I do know how to pay attention, how to fall down
into the grass, how to kneel down in the grass,
how to be idle and blessed, how to stroll through the fields,
which is what I have been doing all day.
Tell me, what else should I have done?
Doesn't everything die at last, and too soon?
Tell me, what is it you plan to do
with your one wild and precious life?
-
I love Mary Oliver!
-
Late September
Charles Simic, 1938
The mail truck goes down the coast
Carrying a single letter.
At the end of a long pier
The bored seagull lifts a leg now and then
And forgets to put it down.
There is a menace in the air
Of tragedies in the making.
Last night you thought you heard television
In the house next door.
You were sure it was some new
Horror they were reporting,
So you went out to find out.
Barefoot, wearing just shorts.
It was only the sea sounding weary
After so many lifetimes
Of pretending to be rushing off somewhere
And never getting anywhere.
This morning, it felt like Sunday.
The heavens did their part
By casting no shadow along the boardwalk
Or the row of vacant cottages,
Among them a small church
With a dozen gray tombstones huddled close
As if they, too, had the shivers.
-
Autumn
Amy Lowell, 1874 - 1925
They brought me a quilled, yellow dahlia,
Opulent, flaunting.
Round gold
Flung out of a pale green stalk.
Round, ripe gold
Of maturity,
Meticulously frilled and flaming,
A fire-ball of proclamation:
Fecundity decked in staring yellow
For all the world to see.
They brought a quilled, yellow dahlia,
To me who am barren
Shall I send it to you,
You who have taken with you
All I once possessed?
-
Autumn Grasses
Margaret Gibson
In fields of bush clover and hay-scent grass
the autumn moon takes refuge
The cricket’s song is gold
Zeshin’s loneliness taught him this
Who is coming?
What will come to pass, and pass?
Neither bruise nor sweetness nor cool air
not-knowing
knows the way
And the moon?
Who among us does not wander, and flare
and bow to the ground?
Who does not savor, and stand open
if only in secret
taking heart in the ripening of the moon?
-
I've just run across, in Project Gutenberg, a volume by Andrew Lang called The Library. In it he includes a few poems including this from the front matter which I assume he himself wrote.
Books, books again, and books once more!
These are our theme, which some miscall
Mere madness, setting little store
By copies either short or tall.
But you, O slaves of shelf and stall!
We rather write for you that hold
Patched folios dear, and prize “the small,
Rare volume, black with tarnished gold.”
You might like this epigram about a book-worm written by Evenus, the grammarian (the well respected if not well known Greek poet who lived around the same time as Socrates).
Pest of the Muses, devourer of pages, in crannies that lurkest,
Fruits of the Muses to taint, labour of learning to spoil;
Wherefore, oh black-fleshed worm! wert thou born for the evil thou workest?
Wherefore thine own foul form shap’st thou with envious toil?
-
Oh ho hoe - both great but the Evenus - ahhh saying it aloud wraps the tongue in wonderful sounds - I love it - now I need to look and find more of his work translated to English - Frybabe to you have a favorite poet?
-
Barb, I have never been big on poetry. However, Ogden Nash and Robert Frost held my attention when I was young. The Epic of Gilgamesh, the Odyssey and the Illiad later. I've read some of Ovid's Metamorphosis and even tried to read Beowulf in old English. Oh, Helen Steiner Rice. I forgot about her. I used to routinely pick out cards with her poems on them to send, but never managed to buy any of her works for myself.
I have been collecting some old poetry volumes on Project Gutenberg to try to read sometime, like The Man for Snowy River which, by the way, I didn't know was a poem until recently.
Oh, can't forget Mother Goose when I was a little one. Loved those.
-
We had someone from Australia who used to include for us bits of The Man from Snowy River - she like so many of those who regularly shared poems have passed on - the last round of losses put a dent in what was. Hope they lived their last years as the young cowboy, The Man from Snowy River descended the mountain.
When they reached the mountain's summit, even Clancy took a pull,
It well might make the boldest hold their breath,
The wild hop scrub grew thickly, and the hidden ground was full
Of wombat holes, and any slip was death.
But the man from Snowy River let the pony have his head,
And he swung his stockwhip round and gave a cheer,
And he raced him down the mountain like a torrent down its bed,
While the others stood and watched in very fear.
He sent the flint stones flying, but the pony kept his feet,
He cleared the fallen timber in his stride,
And the man from Snowy River never shifted in his seat -
It was grand to see that mountain horseman ride.
Through the stringybarks and saplings, on the rough and broken ground,
Down the hillside at a racing pace he went;
And he never drew the bridle till he landed safe and sound,
At the bottom of that terrible descent.
-
Are you talking about Gumtree? I still think of her on occasion. As best as I can tell, we haven't seen KiwiLady in almost two years. Octavia seems to still be about, although she hasn't posted in quite a while. I do miss our Australian/New Zealander contingent.
-
Yes, Gumtree and you are right we have not seen a post from Kiwilady in awhile - seems to me she posted last winter but only once or twice - the biggest loss for me was Babi - she was so positive in every discussion she posted and she regularly posted here in poetry.
-
The Man from Snowy River reminds me of Robert W. Service--maybe the frontier voice. Who is the author?
Goodness, I miss all of them. Gumtree and I shared a lot of interests, and often thought alike about books. Octavia and I shared an interest in some Greek poets--C. P. Cavafy and George Seferis. (Of course she was reading them in Greek and I was reading them in English.) Seferis is very difficult, like T. S. Eliot, and I only understand about half of what he's saying, but he resonates with me.
Looking up Kiwilady, I see she was last here in Feb., 2013, and even longer ago on the other site. I hope she's all right.
Babi had wide-ranging interests, and she used to post first thing in the morning, to free up the computer for her daughter, so I always knew when I signed on in the morning I'd find her good comments.
-
I found this in a book called The Winds of the World(1917) by Talbot Mundy. It looks like a novel of intrigue, the poem excerpt (maybe from Yasmini's Song, parts quoted elsewhere) appears to be a warning of war or insurrection. The book setting is India.
Have you heard the dry earth shrug herself
For a storm that tore the trees?
Have you watched loot-hungry Faithful
Praising Allah on their knees?
Have you felt the short hairs rising
When the moon slipped out of sight,
And the chink of steel on rock explained
That footfall in the night?
Have you seen a gray boar sniff up-wind
In the mauve of waking day?
Have you heard a mad crowd pause and think?
Have you seen all Hell to pay?
-
Wow that was powerful and yet filled with veils and dusky beauty.
-
That's indeed powerful. But I had a weird deja-vue. The structure is almost identical to a light-hearted Shakespearean love poem from Ben Johnson:
Have you seen the bright lily grow
Before rude hands have touched it?
Have you marked but the fall of snow
Before the soil hath smutched it?
Have you felt the wool of the beaver,
Or swan's down ever?
Or have smelt o' the bud o'the brier,
Or the nard in the fire?
Or have tasted the bag of the bee?
O so white, O so soft, O so sweet is she.
Totally unrelated in subject, but I wonder if the author (somehow I think it's a woman) had been fed this in a British school and was playing on it for her audience.
-
you do have to wonder don't you...his bio indicates he left school and England when he was age 16 and it sounds like his adventures were as exciting as his novels.
-
Frybabe, was the poem by Mundy, or is it a quote?
-
I don't know, PatH. None of the online copies of the book that I could find included front matter or acknowledgements of any kind. Odd. The only reason I know the book was published in 1916-1917 is from mention in articles I read about the author.
The only other remote possibility I came up with is that Laurence Hope (ne: Adela Florence Cory) who wrote spent time in India helping to edit her father's newspaper the "Sind Gazette". She had a short but interesting history of her own. http://www.poetryfoundation.org/bio/laurence-hope#about She would have been known to Mundy, I think. Here poems can be found here, or downloaded free from Project Gutenberg. http://www.poemhunter.com/laurence-hope/poems/
-
Well y'all have me so curious and after reading his bio I ended up finding the book on Amazon that they are selling for less than the coast of shipping - for less than three dollars total the book is on its way - and then if there is anything giving credit I will share but this guy sounds like life was one long adventure - reading adventure stories brings me back to my youth - I especially loved sea stories although I have never been fond of Patrick O'Brian's Aubrey–Maturin -
Regardless if the poem was a parody or not it is a powerful poem with depth and beauty - one of the online sites I read about the book said the poem is from - oh now i forget the name of the piece but it was an Indian sect or religious 'song' and parts of this long traditional 'song' are seeded throughout the story.
-
And I went on to read some of the poems of "Laurence Hope". I really like them. Some of the rhythms remind me of Kipling. She has both an understanding of the problems of a woman in that society, trying to find a place for her passionate nature, and for a man, faced with the need for courage and keeping to one's duty. But I don't see her writing that fine insurrection poem.
Barb, if you remember what the "religious song" was, I'd really like to know.
-
I will try - i read so many links when looking for something and my history only gets those that are from their own web site. As I remember the word 'song' was used as some would call an early epic story in verse a 'song' like The Song of Roland.
-
I am by no means a sports fan, but I ran across this poem in a little volume that seems primarily devoted to Cricket called CRICKET SONGS, by Norman Gale. I thought it was fun as are others, like "Rub It In".
OUT
O very potent little word,
'Out!'
How often have we sadly heard
'Out!'
When stupid umpires surely sin,
Just as to settle we begin,
And say, in place of saying 'in,'
'Out!'
Though I am Captain of the team,
'Out!'
Though I in doubt may gravely seem,
'Out!'
Though I have barely scored a run
My average goes down with one,
And other Bats must have the fun—
'Out!'
I see Jones laugh behind his hand—
Out!
Next match, by Jove, the brute shall stand
Out!
Our cousin, Lydia Lake, is here,
And in her eyes I would appear
A Swell; hinc illae—Jones's sneer—
Out!
Ah! lucky Jones begins to hit
Out!
Another four! I wish he'd get
Out!
I see him look where Lydia sits
To note if she applauds his hits—
She does! She'll burst her gloves to bits!—
Out!
Yet why should I be Jones's butt,
Out?
I have a plan that chap to cut
Out!
What boots it thus to mope, my soul?
I go to sit by Lydia. Scowl,
O Jones, for you, methinks, I bowl
Out!
http://www.gutenberg.org/files/47354/47354-h/47354-h.htm
-
Tee hee.
-
Join Us!
Please Add A Poem For Us To Enjoy On This,
Our Poetry Page(https://img0.etsystatic.com/015/0/6005538/il_570xN.408788220_p21o.jpg)
A Few Links To Enjoy- Famous Poets and Poems about Winter (http://famouspoetsandpoems.com/thematic_poems/winter_poems.html)
- Link to: Winter Poems (http://poetry.about.com/od/ourpoemcollections/a/winterpoems.htm)
Discussion Leaders: Barb (augere@ix.netcom.com)
-
This was probably the last poem written by Khalil Hawi (1919-1982).
لبنان
كنا جداراً يلتقي جدار
ما اُوجع الحوار
ما اُوجع القطيعه
تغصُّ بالفجيعه
ما اُوجع الحوار
We were walls facing walls
It was painful to talk
It was painful to feel the distance
Choked by the tragedy
It was painful to talk
A link about Khalil Hawi (http://english.al-akhbar.com/node/12460)
-
Light Is More Important Than The Lantern
by Nizar Qabbani
Light is more important than the lantern,
The poem more important than the notebook,
And the kiss more important than the lips.
My letters to you
Are greater and more important than both of us.
They are the only documents
Where people will discover
Your beauty
And my madness.
Translated by B. Frangieh and C. Brown
Link to Nizar Qabbani (http://allpoetry.com/Nizar-Qabbani)
-
Thanks for the links to the winter poems.
We've had our first snow that requires a shovel, this weekend.
-
My Symphony by William Channing
To live content with small means:
To seek elegance rather than luxury, and
Refinement rather than fashion;
To be worthy, not respectable,
Wealthy, not rich;
To study hard, think quietly,
Talk gently, act frankly;
To listen to stars and birds, to
Babes and sages, with open heart;
To bear all cheerfully, do all bravely,
Await occasions, hurry never,--
In a word, to let the spiritual,
Unbidden and unconscious,
Grow up through the common--
This is to be my symphony.
-
Oh just fabulous - a sentiment that my Mom taught me but not put so eloquently - the line wealthy, not rich is pure Mom - in the 30s we were still living with the effects of the depression so her more memorable quote may have come from that experience but her quote about the circumstances of others was - they are poor from not having money - and others who wrapped themselves in what appeared like luxury in a way to let you know it she would say - they are rich from having money - the poem you shared reminded me of her spirit.
-
Well this is exciting - found a poet I had not heard of and he turns out to be one of the more famous European poets in the early nineteenth century - Heinrich Heine born Jewish - his life experiences are so in line with several of the books we read these past years from Hare with Amber Eyes and especially all the background we read with not only I Always Loved You but The Greater Journey: Americans in Paris - the story of Heinrich Heine fits right in, furthering a bit more of history from the German point of view.
Here is a link to one of his many online bio's - this link is easy to read although, not as all encompassing http://www.kirjasto.sci.fi/hheine.htm
The way I found him was looking up Epics - those I am familiar with are mostly about war, lots of ancient wars except for Hiawatha and I wanted to find an Epic poem featuring something other than heroics - Found one called, A Winter's Tale that turns out to be the English Translation for Heinrich Heine's Epic poem Deutschland.
His epic poem is quite lovely and funny - with descriptions of the countryside he includes many quips about the state of affairs in Germany that was slipping back to the conservative governess of the past as compared to the freedom, especially for Jews, during the Napoleonic Era.
Purchased the book and I will share some of the versus -
A different song, a better song,
will get the subject straighter:
let's make a heaven on earth, my friends,
instead of waiting till later.
Why shouldn't we be happy on earth,
why should we still go short?
why should the idle belly consume
what working hands have wrought?
There's bread enough grows here on earth
to feed mankind with ease,
and roses and myrtles, beauty and joy,
and (in the season) peas.
Yes, fresh green peas for everyone
as soon as the pods have burst.
Heaven we'll leave to the angles, and
the sparrows, who had it first.
And should we find that after death
we've grown some wings, we'll make
a point of calling on you up there
for some blessed tea-and-cake.
-
Here is another bit from further and deeper into the poem
To get to Hagen from Cologne
costs five Perssian thaler six groschen.
The coach was full, so I had to ride
in the trailer, it wasn't a posh 'un.
A late autumn morning, damp and grey,
the coach-wheels ploughing mud;
bad weather, bad roads - but they couldn't damp
the contentment that pulsed in my blood.
I am breathing the air of home again!
My checks glow and understand.
And all this dirt on the road, it is
the filth of my fatherland.
Like a welcome from old acquaintances
were the waving tails of our dapples,
and their steaming dung seemed as beautiful
as Atalanta's apples.
We passed through Mühlheim. Nice little town,
the people quiet, hard-working.
The last time I was here was May
of AD one-and-thirty.
The splendour of blossom was everywhere then,
the sunlight was laughing and winking,
the birds were singing their courting songs
and people were hoping and thinking -
Thinking: 'the Scrawny Brotherhood
will soon have their bill to settle.
We'll offer them a farewell toast
from long thin tubes of metal!
And freedom will come with dance and play
and bring the tricolour pennant;
perhaps she'll even bring back from the dead
the Corsican Lieutenant.'
But the Scrawny Brotherhood never went,
and many of their nation
who were thin as rakes when they came to these parts
now sport a corporation.
The pallid crew looked as full of fun
as the cardinal virtues in those days.
Since then they've learned to swill our wine
and make most days red-nose-days.
Freedom herself has sprained her foot
and lost her exuberant powers;
even in Paris the tricolour
looks sadly down from the towers.
the emperor's been resurrected since,
but English worms had eaten
too much away. Now he's buried again -
he knew when he was beaten
I was there myself as the creremony:
gold victory goddesses holding
the golden coffin wherein he lay,
the coach itself was golden.
Along the Champs Elysées, to where
Old Triumph still stands arching,
on through teh mist, on over the snow
the solemn procession came marching.
The music was grating, dissonant,
the musicians frozen handed,
melancholy the greeting I had
from the eagle on every standard.
the people looked like ghosts that walked,
lost in old recollection -
the magic dream of empire had
a short, sad resurrection.
I wept that day. I could not keep
the tears in my eyes from welling,
to hear the lost cry of 'Vive l'Empereur'
pathetically swelling.
-
Christmas In The Olden Time
~ Sir Walter Scott (1771-1832)
Heap on more wood! — the wind is chill;
But let it whistle as it will,
We’ll keep our Christmas merry still.
Each age has deemed the new born year
The fittest time for festal cheer.
And well our Christian sires of old.
Loved when the year its course had rolled,
And brought blithe Christmas back again,
With all his hospitable train.
Domestic and religious rite
Gave honour to the holy night:
On Christmas eve the bells were rung;
On Christmas eve the mass was sung;
That only night, in all the year,
Saw the stoled priest the chalice rear.
The damsel donned her kirtle sheen;
The hail was dressed with holly green;
Forth to the wood did merry men go,
To gather in the mistletoe,
Then opened wide the baron’s hail
To vassal, tenant, serf, and all;
Power laid his rod of rule aside,
And ceremony doff’d his pride.
The heir, with roses in his shoes,
That night might village partner choose.
The lord, underogating, share
The vulgar game of “post and pair!”
All hailed with uncontroll’d delight
And general voice, the happy night
That to the cottage, as the crown,
Brought tidings of salvation down.
The fire with well dried logs supplied,
Went roaring up the chimney wide;
The huge hail table’s oaken face,
Scrubb’d till it shone, the day to grace,
Bore then upon: its massive board
No mark to part the squire and lord.
Then was brought in the lusty brawn,
By old, blue-coated serving-man;
Then the grim boar’s head frowned on high,
Crested with bays and rosemary.
Well can the green-garbed ranger tell,
How, when, and where, the monster fell;
What dogs before his death he tore,
And all the baiting of the boar.
The wassail round in good brown bowls,
Garnished with ribbon, blithely trowls.
There the huge sirloin reeked: hard by
Plum-porridge stood, and Christmas pie;
Nor failed old Scotland to produce
At such high tide her savoury goose.
Then came the merry masquers in,
And carols roar’d with blithesome din;
If unmelodious was the song,
It was a hearty note, and strong.
Who lists may in their mumming see
Traces of ancient mystery;
White shirts supplied the masquerade,
And smutted cheeks the visor made
But oh! what masquers, richly dight,
Can boast of bosoms half so light!
England was merry England when
Old Christmas brought his sports again.
’Twas Christmas broached the mightiest ale,
’Twas Christmas told the merriest tale;
A Christmas gambol oft would cheer
A poor man’s heart through half the year.
-
The Poetical Works of Christina Georgina Rossetti
Earth grown old, yet still so green,
Deep beneath her crust of cold
Nurses fire unfelt, unseen:
Earth grown old.
We who live are quickly told:
Millions more lie hid between
Inner swathings of her fold.
When will fire break up her screen?
When will life burst thro' her mould?
Earth, earth, earth, thy cold is keen,
Earth grown old.
-
The Poetical Works of Christina Georgina Rossetti
This Advent moon shines cold and clear,
These Advent nights are long;
Our lamps have burned year after year
And still their flame is strong.
'Watchman, what of the night?' we cry,
Heart-sick with hope deferred:
'No speaking signs are in the sky,'
Is still the watchman's word.
The Porter watches at the gate,
The servants watch within;
The watch is long betimes and late,
The prize is slow to win.
'Watchman, what of the night?' But still
His answer sounds the same:
'No daybreak tops the utmost hill,
Nor pale our lamps of flame.'
One to another hear them speak
The patient virgins wise:
'Surely He is not far to seek' –
'All night we watch and rise.'
'The days are evil looking back,
The coming days are dim;
Yet count we not His promise slack,
But watch and wait for Him.'
One with another, soul with soul,
They kindle fire from fire:
'Friends watch us who have touched the goal.'
'They urge us, come up higher.'
'With them shall rest our waysore feet,
With them is built our home,
With Christ.' – 'They sweet, but He most sweet,
Sweeter than honeycomb.'
There no more parting, no more pain,
The distant ones brought near,
The lost so long are found again,
Long lost but longer dear:
Eye hath not seen, ear hath not heard,
Nor heart conceived that rest,
With them our good things long deferred,
With Jesus Christ our Best.
We weep because the night is long,
We laugh for day shall rise,
We sing a slow contented song
And knock at Paradise.
Weeping we hold Him fast Who wept
For us, we hold Him fast;
And will not let Him go except
He bless us first or last.
Weeping we hold Him fast to-night;
We will not let Him go
Till daybreak smite our wearied sight
And summer smite the snow:
Then figs shall bud, and dove with dove
Shall coo the livelong day;
Then He shall say, 'Arise, My love,
My fair one, come away.'
-
The Feast of Lights
~ Emma Lazarus, 1849 - 1887
Kindle the taper like the steadfast star
Ablaze on evening’s forehead o’er the earth,
And add each night a lustre till afar
An eightfold splendor shine above thy hearth.
Clash, Israel, the cymbals, touch the lyre,
Blow the brass trumpet and the harsh-tongued horn;
Chant psalms of victory till the heart takes fire,
The Maccabean spirit leap new-born.
Remember how from wintry dawn till night,
Such songs were sung in Zion, when again
On the high altar flamed the sacred light,
And, purified from every Syrian stain,
The foam-white walls with golden shields were hung,
With crowns and silken spoils, and at the shrine,
Stood, midst their conqueror-tribe, five chieftains sprung
From one heroic stock, one seed divine.
Five branches grown from Mattathias’ stem,
The Blessed John, the Keen-Eyed Jonathan,
Simon the fair, the Burst-of Spring, the Gem,
Eleazar, Help of-God; o’er all his clan
Judas the Lion-Prince, the Avenging Rod,
Towered in warrior-beauty, uncrowned king,
Armed with the breastplate and the sword of God,
Whose praise is: “He received the perishing.”
They who had camped within the mountain-pass,
Couched on the rock, and tented neath the sky,
Who saw from Mizpah’s heights the tangled grass
Choke the wide Temple-courts, the altar lie
Disfigured and polluted--who had flung
Their faces on the stones, and mourned aloud
And rent their garments, wailing with one tongue,
Crushed as a wind-swept bed of reeds is bowed,
Even they by one voice fired, one heart of flame,
Though broken reeds, had risen, and were men,
They rushed upon the spoiler and o’ercame,
Each arm for freedom had the strength of ten.
Now is their mourning into dancing turned,
Their sackcloth doffed for garments of delight,
Week-long the festive torches shall be burned,
Music and revelry wed day with night.
Still ours the dance, the feast, the glorious Psalm,
The mystic lights of emblem, and the Word.
Where is our Judas? Where our five-branched palm?
Where are the lion-warriors of the Lord?
Clash, Israel, the cymbals, touch the lyre,
Sound the brass trumpet and the harsh-tongued horn,
Chant hymns of victory till the heart take fire,
The Maccabean spirit leap new-born!
-
"How beautiful are thy tents, Jacob"
~ By Yehuda Amichai
"How beautiful are thy tents, Jacob."
Even now, when there are neither tents nor Jacob’s
tribes, I say, how beautiful.
Oh, may there come something of redemption,
an old song, a white letter,
a face in the crowd, a door opening
for the eye, multicolored
ice cream for the throat,
oil for the guts, a warm
memory for the breast.
Then my mouth will open wide
in everlasting praise,
open like the belly of a
wide—open calf hung on a hook
in a butcher’s shop of the Old City market.
-
The Great Feast
By Reece, aged 10, from Coventry, England
Like the colour of silver,
in the night sky,
the new moon rises,
the holy month has past,
the fasting is over,
tomorrow is the great feast of Eid-ul-Fitr.
We will eat spicy chicken,
and mouthwatering pakoras,
I'll call my neighbours,
and friends on the street,
may the peace of Allah,
and joy of Eid,
be with everyone.
-
An Old Cracked Tune
Stanley Kunitz, 1905 - 2006
My name is Solomon Levi,
the desert is my home,
my mother’s breast was thorny,
and father I had none.
The sands whispered, Be separate,
the stones taught me, Be hard.
I dance, for the joy of surviving,
on the edge of the road.
-
I like that. And he lived to 101?
-
A bit from Elliot that appeals to my idea of Christmas - not merry and bright but the joy that comes from our spiritual heart beat.
If we had a keen vision of all that is ordinary in human life,
it would be like hearing the grass grow on the squirrel's
heart beat, and we should die of that roar which is the
other side of silence.
And another from Mechtild of Magdeburg
Teach me the power and strength of silence
that I may go into the world
as still as a mouse
in the depths of my heart.
Wishing y'all a silence that touches your spiritual beauty.
-
We are going to embark on a reading of The Lady of Shalott in February. Here is another of Tennyson's poems.
THE OLD YEAR.
Ring out, wild bells, to the wild sky,
The flying cloud, the frosty light:
The year is dying in the night;
Ring out, wild bells, and let him die.
Ring out the old, ring in the new,
Ring, happy bells, across the snow:
The year is going, let him go;
Ring out the false, ring in the true.
Ring out the grief that saps the mind,
For those that here we see no more;
Ring out the feud of rich and poor,
Ring in redress to all mankind.
Ring out false pride in place and blood,
The civic slander and the spite;
Ring in the love of truth and right,
Ring in the common love of good.
Ring out old shapes of foul disease,
Ring out the narrowing lust of gold;
Ring out the thousand wars of old,
Ring in the thousand years of peace.
Ring in the valiant man and free,
The larger heart, the kindlier hand;
Ring out the darkness of the land,
Ring in the Christ that is to be.
-
Gosh this could be written about today -
ing out old shapes of foul disease,
Ring out the narrowing lust of gold;
Ring out the thousand wars of old,
Ring in the thousand years of peace.
-
Found this the other day by Sri Chinmoy - interesting viewpoint...
I Butchered Your Ignorance
When I thought I was the doer
Of all my deeds,
I turned to mist.
I died.
I became the emperor of giant failures.
My soul came to the fore,
Consoled my visionless ignorance.
God made His Appearance supreme.
“You fool, be not wedded to impossibility’s
lifeless beauty.
I waste not a leaf.
I butchered your ignorance wild for you
To equal
My Transcendental Throne.”
-
Interesting, long poem by George Melville Baker (1832–1890) about the dangers of drinking. http://www.gutenberg.org/files/47934/47934-h/47934-h.htm
Baker was a playwright and publisher in Boston, MA. He wrote quite a few plays so I am wondering why I can't find much of a bio on him. Many of his plays were comedies or farces and are still in print today. He appears to have been a temperance advocate. https://secure.flickr.com/photos/lhoracek/4546603159/in/photostream/
-
My guess is Frybabe that it is because he is a single issue poet - the same with some of the Cowboy poets, who many do a great job but again their theme, analogies and metaphors are not universal.
There are many poets who write from a certain place including the traditions, landscape, myths etc. but the theme can be related to other locals with their myths highlighting values and feelings that folks can have from Ushuaia and Puerto Williams to Svalbard, Norway where as, poets with a single issue theme have their day till history and new approaches to these issues not only change reading but the issues in the material become dated.
Today folks do not rail against or admonish drunken behavior without including at least the problem of drugs much less the many other obsessions just as there are only a slim number of folks who read poetry who are familiar with riding, cattle, ranch culture, open spaces etc.
-
MEMORY AND I
“O memory, where is now my youth,
Who used to say that life was truth?”
“I saw him in a crumbled cot
Beneath a tottering tree;
That he as phantom lingers there
Is only known to me.”
“O Memory, where is now my joy,
Who lived with me in sweet employ?”
“I saw him in gaunt gardens lone,
Where laughter used to be;
That he as phantom wanders there
Is known to none but me.”
“O Memory, where is now my hope,
Who charged with deeds my skill and scope?”
“I saw her in a tomb of tomes,
Where dreams are wont to be;
That she as spectre haunteth there
Is only known to me.”
“O Memory, where is now my faith,
One time a champion, now a wraith?”
“I saw her in a ravaged aisle,
Bowed down on bended knee;
That her poor ghost outflickers there
Is known to none but me.”
“O Memory, where is now my love,
That rayed me as a god above?”
“I saw him by an ageing shape
Where beauty used to be;
That his fond phantom lingers there
Is only known to me.”
Thomas Hardy
-
Another Thomas Hardy. Ageless, because war it seems is ageless. A sentiment shared down through the ages.
SONG OF THE SOLDIERS’ WIVES
I
At last! In sight of home again,
Of home again;
No more to range and roam again
As at that bygone time?
No more to go away from us
And stay from us?—
Dawn, hold not long the day from us,
But quicken it to prime!
II
Now all the town shall ring to them,
Shall ring to them,
And we who love them cling to them
And clasp them joyfully;
And cry, “O much we’ll do for you
Anew for you,
Dear Loves!—aye, draw and hew for you,
Come back from oversea.”
III
Some told us we should meet no more,
Should meet no more;
Should wait, and wish, but greet no more
Your faces round our fires;
That, in a while, uncharily
And drearily
Men gave their lives—even wearily,
Like those whom living tires.
IV
And now you are nearing home again,
Dears, home again;
No more, may be, to roam again
As at that bygone time,
Which took you far away from us
To stay from us;
Dawn, hold not long the day from us,
But quicken it to prime!
-
Yeates writes of war -
The Stare’s Nest by My Window
The bees build in the crevices
Of loosening masonry, and there
The mother birds bring grubs and flies.
My wall is loosening; honey-bees
Come build in the empty house of the stare.
We are closed in, and the key is turned
On our uncertainty; somewhere
A man is killed, or a house burned,
Yet no clear fact to be discerned;
Come build in the empty house of the stare.
A barricade of stone or of wood;
Some fourteen days of civil war;
Last night they trundled down the road
That dead young soldier in his blood;
Come build in the empty house of the stare.
We had fed the heart on fantasies,
The heart’s grown brutal from the fare;
More substance in our enmities
Than in our love; O, honey-bees,
Come build in the empty house of the stare.
And then the last four lines of Wordsworth Ode Intimations of Immortality gives us comfort and hope.
Thanks to the human heart by which we live,
Thanks to its tenderness, its joys, and fears,
To me the meanest flower that blows can give
Thoughts that do often lie too deep for tears.
-
Consider the Space Between Stars
Consider the white space
between words on a page, not just
the margins around them.
Or the space between thoughts:
instants when the mind is inventing
exactly what it thinks
and the mouth waits
to be filled with language.
Consider the space
between lovers after a quarrel,
the white sheet a cold metaphor
between them.
Now picture the brief space
before death enters, hat in hand:
vanishing years, filled with light.
by Linda Pastan
-
Good poem Barb. I never heard of Lindon Pastan. Will look her up.
-
here is a form that is new to me... The clerihew
The Poet's Manual and Rhyming Dictionary defines it as 'a humorous pseudo-biographical quatrain, rhymed as two couplets, with line of uneven length more or less in the rhythm of prose'. Add to this, that the name of the subject usually ends the first or, less often, the second line, and that the humour of the clerihew is whimsical rather than satiric.
Edmund Clerihew Bentley (1875-1956) is remembered mainly for his classic detective story Trent's Last Case and for the humorous verse form that was named after him - the clerihew. It was at the age of sixteen, while he was at St. Paul's School in London, that Bentley first started writing clerihews, as a diversion from school work. G. K. Chesterton, Bentley's life-long friend, was at St. Paul's at the same time, and he too wrote clerihews.
Here is one of Bentley's original clerihews from this period:
Sir Humphrey Davy
Abominated gravy.
He lived in the odium
Of having discovered sodium.
A few others:
The people of Spain think Cervantes
Equal to half-a-dozen Dantes;
An opinion resented most bitterly
By the people of Italy.
Dante Alighieri
Seldom troubled a dairy.
He wrote the Inferno
On a bottle of Pernod.
Cecil B. De Mille,
Rather against his will,
Was persuaded to leave Moses
Out of 'The Wars of the Roses'.
-
Like Brooms of Steel
Emily Dickinson, 1830 - 1886
Like Brooms of Steel
The Snow and Wind
Had swept the Winter Street -
The House was hooked
The Sun sent out
Faint Deputies of Heat -
Where rode the Bird
The Silence tied
His ample - plodding Steed
The Apple in the Cellar snug
Was all the one that played.
-
Winter Study
Mark Wunderlich
Two days of snow, then ice
and the deer peer from the ragged curtain of trees.
Hunger wills them, hunger
pulls them to the compass of light
spilling from the farmyard pole.
They dip their heads, hold
forked hooves
above snow, turn furred ears
to scoop from the wind
the sounds of hounds, or men.
They lap at a sprinkling of grain,
pull timid mouthfuls from a stray bale.
The smallest is lame, with a leg
healed at angles, and a fused knob
where a joint once bent.
It picks, stiff, skidding its sickening limb
across the ice’s dark platter.
Their fear is thick as they break a trail
to the center of their predator’s range.
To know the winter
is to ginger forth from a bed in the pines,
to search for a scant meal
gleaned from the carelessness
of a killer.
-
Anything Can Happen
Seamus Heaney, 1939 - 2013
Anything can happen. You know how Jupiter
Will mostly wait for clouds to gather head
Before he hurls the lightning? Well, just now
He galloped his thunder cart and his horses
Across a clear blue sky. It shook the earth
And the clogged underearth, the River Styx,
The winding streams, the Atlantic shore itself.
Anything can happen, the tallest towers
Be overturned, those in high places daunted,
Those overlooked regarded. Stropped-beak Fortune
Swoops, making the air gasp, tearing the crest off one,
Setting it down bleeding on the next.
Ground gives. The heaven’s weight
Lifts up off Atlas like a kettle-lid.
Capstones shift, nothing resettles right.
Telluric ash and fire-spores boil away.
-
Chance
Molly Peacock, 1947
may favor obscure brainy aptitudes in you
and a love of the past so blind you would
venture, always securing permission,
into the back library stacks, without food
or water because you have a mission:
to find yourself, in the regulated light,
holding a volume in your hands as you
yourself might like to be held. Mostly your life
will be voices and images. Information. You
may go a long way alone, and travel much
to open a book to renew your touch.
-
TO THE WHIP-POOR-WILL.
“Why dost thou come at set of sun,
Those pensive words to say?
Why whip poor Will?—What has he done?
And who is Will, I pray?
“Why come from you leaf-shaded hill,
A suppliant at my door?—
Why ask of me to whip poor Will?
And is Will really poor?
“If poverty’s his crime, let mirth
From out his heart be driven:
That is the deadliest sin on earth,
And never is forgiven!
“Art Will himself?—It must be so—
I learn it from thy moan,
For none can feel another’s woe
As deeply as his own.
“Yet wherefore strain thy tiny throat,
While other birds repose?
What means thy melancholy note?
The mystery disclose.
“Still ‘whip-poor-will!’—Art thou a sprite,
From unknown regions sent
To wander in the gloom of night,
And ask for punishment?
“Is thine a conscience sore beset
With guilt—or, what is worse,
Hast thou to meet writs, duns, and debt—
No money in thy purse?
“If this be thy hard fate indeed,
Ah well may’st thou repine:
The sympathy I give, I need—
The poet’s doom is thine.
“Art thou a lover, Will?—Hast proved
The fairest can deceive?
Thine is the lot of all who’ve loved
Since Adam wedded Eve.
“Hast trusted in a friend, and seen
No friend was he in need?
A common error—men still lean
Upon as frail a reed.
“Hast thou, in seeking wealth or fame,
A crown of brambles won?
O’er all the earth ’tis just the same
With every mother’s son!
“Hast found the world a Babel wide,
Where man to mammon stoops?
Where flourish arrogance and pride,
While modest merit droops?
“What, none of these?—Then, whence thy pain,
To guess it who’s the skill?
Pray have the kindness to explain
Why I should whip poor Will?
“Dost merely ask thy just desert?
What, not another word?—
Back to the woods again, unhurt—
I will not harm thee, bird!
“But treat thee kindly—for my nerves,
Like thine, have penance done;
Treat every man as he deserves—
Who shall ’scape whipping?’—None.
“Farewell, poor Will—not valueless
This lesson by thee given:
‘Keep thine own counsel, and confess
Thyself alone to heaven!’ ”—Morris.
-
The first three lines sound might familiar to me.
THE OAK.
“Woodman, spare that tree!
Touch not a single bough!
In youth it sheltered me,
And I’ll protect it now.
’Twas my forefather’s hand
That placed it near his cot;
There, woodman, let it stand,
Thy axe shall harm it not!
“That old familiar tree,
Whose glory and renown
Are spread o’er land and sea,
And wouldst thou hack it down?
Woodman, forbear thy stroke!
Cut not its earth-bound ties;
Oh spare that aged oak,
Now towering to the skies!
“When but an idle boy
I sought its grateful shade;
In all their gushing joy
Here, too, my sisters played.
My mother kissed me here;
My father pressed my hand—
Forgive this foolish tear,
But let that old oak stand!
“My heart-strings round thee cling,
Close as thy bark, old friend!
Here shall the wild-bird sing,
And still thy branches bend.
Old tree! the storm still brave!
And, woodman, leave the spot;
While I’ve a hand to save,
Thy axe shall harm it not.”—Morris.
-
Edgar Allen Poe in the magazine, Southern Literary Messenger April 1849 issues, writes an article about the poet George P. Morris, 1802-1864
"Woodman Spare that Tree" and "By the Lake where droops the Willow" are compositions of which any poet, living or dead, might justly be proud. By these, if by nothing else, Morris is immortal. It is quite impossible to put down such things by sneers. The affectation of contemning them is of no avail, unless to render manifest the envy of those who affect the contempt. As mere poems, there are several of Morris' compositions equal, if not superior, to either of those just mentioned, but as songs I much doubt whether these latter have ever been surpassed.
Like you Frybabe I have heard the opening lines often but I never heard them sung. Well here it is - it was a popular Victorian Parlor Song
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=MjyD5wZjZ-U
-
The poem reminds me of an old family tradition of "the walking-stick tree". One of my ancestors started a farm in Ohio (in Kirtland, now part of greater Cleveland) right after he got out of the army from the war of 1812. The story has it that when he got to where his house was going to be he stuck his walking stick in the ground and it grew. True or not, there was a tree in that spot that had been there pretty much from the beginning, and was still flourishing when my mother was a grownup, and I think a lot longer. I can just picture my relatives faced with that woodman. Their language would not have been so gentle.
The farm has long since been turned into subdivisions, but the original farmhouse remained in the family until 30-40 years ago, and I suspect is still standing.
-
Special Announcement
Our website will be down, beginning Monday evening, June 29, GMT, for a large update.
Please do not post at this time as your post will probably disappear.
We do not know how long it will take the computer expert to load this update and have it working.
The website will not look as it has when it comes up until we tweak it, so please be patient. Please continue to check back for news. We hope to be up and functioning by Tuesday, but if not, it shouldn't be too much longer.
Thank you for your patience
|
-
I found this poem in Beadle's Dime National Speaker (Speaker Series #2). Blurb for the book: "BEADLE'S DIME NATIONAL SPEAKER, EMBODYING GEMS OF ORATORY AND WIT, PARTICULARLY ADAPTED TO AMERICAN SCHOOLS AND FIRESIDES." The Battle for Malakoff was a major battle of the Crimean War. It was the battle that brought the Seige of Sevastopol to an end.
LET THE CHILDLESS WEEP.—Metta Victoria Victor.
The news is flying along the streets:
It leaves a smile with each face it meets.
The heart of London is all on fire—
Its throbbing veins beat faster and higher—
With eager triumph they beat so fast—
"The Malakoff—Malakoff falls at last!"
Hark to the murmur, the shout, the yell—
"The Malakoff's fallen!"— well, 'tis well!
But let the childless weep.
I am faint and stunn'd by the crowd;
My head aches with the tumult loud.
On this step I will sit me down,
Where the city palaces o'er me frown.
I would these happy people could see
Sights which are never absent from me;
The sound of their joy to sobs might swell,
They would swallow tears—well—it is well!
But let the childless weep.
If they could see my two young sons
Shatter'd and torn by Russian guns,—
The only children God gave me—dead!
With the rough earth for a dying bed.
Side by side, in the trenches deep—
Perchance they would weep as I must weep.
No sons of theirs on that red hill fell,
And so they smile and say, "'tis well!"
But let the childless weep.
I know where in the cottages low
Women's faces grow white with woe;
Where throats are choked with tears unshed
When widows' children ask for bread.
I think of one whose heart has grown
As cold and heavy as this stone.
But cabinets never think so low
As a mother's anguish, and so—and so
Why let the childless weep.
O Queen! your children around you sleep;
Their rest at night is sweet and deep
Do you ever think of the mothers many
Whose sons you required, and left not any?
Do you think of young limbs bruised and crush'd
And laughing voices forever hush'd?
My soul with a fierce rage might swell,
But grief hath all the place—'tis well!
Let the childless weep.
Could God have seen with prophet eye,
When He piled the Malakoff hill so high,
That it was to be soaked through and through
With streams and streams of blood-red dew,
And covered over with anguish?—no!
Or He would have leveled it small and low.
It is man who is haughty, fierce, and cruel—
Who heaps on his altar the living fuel!
Let the childless weep.
England! England! haughty and bold!
You still covet what you behold;
To have your own proud will and way
You will make widows, thousands a day.
You buy your power with human life,
And the sobbing child and hopeless wife
Give up their dearest at your call—
But hearts must break and towers must fall
Let the childless weep.
Weep? I can not weep while around
Swells the victory's awful sound.
The Malakoff fell,—but England's way
O'er the bosoms that loved her deepest lay.
Victoria's children laugh in glee!—
Does she remember mine, or me?
Oh, footman, leave me this cold stone—
My sons are dead and I am alone—
The childless can not weep.
Metta Victoria Victor (another Pennsylvanian) was an editor for the Beadle and dime novelist who wrote one of the first full length detective novels in America, The Dead Letter (1866). So far, I can find just a little bio on her, with no indication that she ever was in England or covered the Crimean War for the news media of the day. Still, the poem caught my eye.
-
I'd never heard of her - heart wrenching poem with some allegory I would need to take time to connect the dots. What ever in the world were you reading to come across this bit of wonderment?
-
One of my Project Gutenberg finds, Barb. It appears she wrote under numerous pseudonyms.
Here is some more info about her and her writings:
http://chnm.gmu.edu/dimenovels/the-authors/metta-victor
Here is a bit about Beadle and Company, which published many of her works, and its' role in the history of publishing and printing inexpensive works. They revolutionized the printing of such works by buying cheap paper, using inexpensive bindings, and standardizing the book size.The result enabled them to sell them at 10cents each. Hence, the birth of the Dime Store Novel.
http://chnm.gmu.edu/dimenovels/the-publishers/beadle-adams
Link to The Dead Letter at Librivox.
https://librivox.org/the-dead-letter-by-metta-victoria-fuller-victor/
Link to Beadle's Dime National Speaker (Speaker Series #2) on Project Gutenberg, where I found the poem:
https://www.gutenberg.org/ebooks/49291
-
Join Us!
Please Add A Poem For Us To Enjoy On This,
Our Poetry Page(http://seniorlearn.org/bookclubs/poetry/wintermyths430x274.jpg)
A Winter Myth A Few Links To Enjoy- Famous Poets and Poems about Winter (http://famouspoetsandpoems.com/thematic_poems/winter_poems.html)
- Link to: Winter Poems (http://poetry.about.com/od/ourpoemcollections/a/winterpoems.htm)
Discussion Leaders: Barb (augere@ix.netcom.com)
Well for heaven's sake the dime store novel explained - thanks for these links - need to spend some time reading about Beadle and Company and learning more about Metta - interesting bit of poetry but not really outstanding is it as a poem where as, writing about this bit of history it is enlightening - I am really curious though about this detective novel.
She was earlier than Arthur Conan Doyle who was only 7 years old when she published The Dead Letter But more, the first detective novel written in English has always been given to The Moonstone (1868) by Wilkie Collins - so what is the reasons I wonder if The Dead Letter was published in 1866.
I can fantasize several reasons - she was a women using her female name - or - London was the literary capitol and books published in the US were not looked for as a resource for new kinds of literature - or - by the time the book had circulated enough for a copy to reach London folks were all ready headlong into Wilkie Collins - or - the circulation of The Dead Letter was so low no one that mattered in the literary world at the time knew about it. I am curious but I have other curiosities on my plate just now tp stop everything and delve into this mystery of how Wilkie Collins was given the honors. But this is all very interesting so I will at least dip in my toe.
-
OK it looks like they are beginning now, to do a backup, and will start on the upgrade about 5:15 Eastern time. I don't think I'd post anything now until this is over, if you want to see it again.
Fingers crossed!!
-
Heop! Back on Poetry Page after months away and can't remember how to post.
emsil me, please. pdreger92@comcast.net (bellemere)
-
Just as usual Bellamarie - been cleaning out and found this delightful series of art books that I used to send to folks who were recently grieving - only have 2 copies left but the wording is so precious.
Caretakers of Wonder
This very night,
while you lie quietly in your bed,
open your eyes.
Now, look out your window!
For even at this yawning hour,
so many of your friends
are working to keep
the world magical.
Yes. they are the ones
Who make new stars
and put them up.
The ones who light
and keep the stars burning.
The ones who keep the moon company,
feeding him when he is too thin
and watching his diet
when he is too full.
The ones who keep
the sky and the horizon
tightly fastened to each other.
The ones who make sure
that the night
is kept buttoned-up
against the cold.
And do you know
what else is happening?
Yes, even now
some of your friends
are busy making sure
that all is ready for morning...
They are the ones
weaving the meadows
and telling the trees
where to stand.
The ones putting fruit
back on the branches.
The ones painting
feathers on birds
and
designs on the wings
of butterflies.
The ones practicing
the great rainbow
balancing act.
The ones collecting
yesterday's raindrops,
mending old clouds,
and delivering
newly stuffed ones.
And yes,
all day tomorrow
your friends will be at work
(behind the scenes, of course)...
They are the ones
who will raise the sun
into place.
The ones who will
load up the night
and bring it back
to storage.
The ones who will give the wind directions,
fly the clouds,
and tell
the rain where to fall.
The ones who will
make changes in the weather
and decide the season.
The ones who will
make sure that the sun
gets down safely.
Now, while you sleep tonight...
...imagine what you most
would like to do
to help keep the world
magical?
For you know
that one of these nights
your friends are going to tap
on your window
and invite you to become
one of the
Caretakers of Wonder.
-
Beautiful, Barb. I am sending it to my Sis-in-Law whose hubby would have been 79 today. He passed a couple years ago. She is still having a hard time!
-
I am the People, the Mob
Carl Sandburg, 1878 - 1967
I am the people—the mob—the crowd—the mass.
Do you know that all the great work of the world is done through me?
I am the workingman, the inventor, the maker of the world’s food and
clothes.
I am the audience that witnesses history. The Napoleons come from me
and the Lincolns. They die. And then I send forth more Napoleons
and Lincolns.
I am the seed ground. I am a prairie that will stand for much plowing.
Terrible storms pass over me. I forget. The best of me is sucked out
and wasted. I forget. Everything but Death comes to me and makes
me work and give up what I have. And I forget.
Sometimes I growl, shake myself and spatter a few red drops for history
to remember. Then—I forget.
When I, the People, learn to remember, when I, the People, use the
lessons of yesterday and no longer forget who robbed me last year,
who played me for a fool—then there will be no speaker in all the
world say the name: “The People," with any fleck of a sneer in his
voice or any far-off smile of derision.
The mob—the crowd—the mass—will arrive then.
-
The Shapes of Leaves
By ~ Arthur Sze, 1950
Ginkgo, cottonwood, pin oak, sweet gum, tulip tree:
our emotions resemble leaves and alive
to their shapes we are nourished.
Have you felt the expanse and contours of grief
along the edges of a big Norway maple?
Have you winced at the orange flare
searing the curves of a curling dogwood?
I have seen from the air logged islands,
each with a network of branching gravel roads,
and felt a moment of pure anger, aspen gold.
I have seen sandhill cranes moving in an open field,
a single white whooping crane in the flock.
And I have traveled along the contours
of leaves that have no name. Here
where the air is wet and the light is cool,
I feel what others are thinking and do not speak,
I know pleasure in the veins of a sugar maple,
I am living at the edge of a new leaf.
-
Oh, I really like that one Barb. Thanks for sharing. I am not familiar with Arthur Sze.
The poem reminds me of the kind of poems that were published in the old Ideals publications. One particular poem, which I first came across in an Ideals, that has always stuck with me is "It Takes a Heap o' Livin" by Edgar A. Guest. I've seen it also titled "Home".
It Takes a Heap O' Livin
By Edgar A. Guest
It takes a heap o' livin' in a house t'make it home,
A heap o' sun an' shadder, an' ye somtimes have t'roam
Afore ye really 'preciate the things ye lef' behind,
An' hunger for 'em somehow, with 'em allus on yer mind.
It don't make any difference how rich ye get t'be,
How much yer chairs an' tables coast, how great yer luxury;
It ain' a hom t'ye, thought it be the palace of a king,
Until somehow yer soul is sort o' wrapped round everything.
Home ain't a place that gold can buy or get up in a minute
Afore it's home there's got t'be a heap o' livin' in it;
Within the walls there's got t'be some babies born, and then
Right there ye've got t'bring 'em up t'women good, and' men;
And gradjerly, as time goes on, ye find ye wouldn't part
With anything they ever used--they've grown into yer heart:
The old high-chairs, the play things, too, the little shoes they wore
Ye hoard; an' if ye could ye'd keep the thumb-marks on the door.
Ye'eve got t'weep t'make it home, ye'eve got t'sit an' sigh
An' watch beside a loved one's bed, an' know that Death is nigh;
An' in the stillness o' the night t'see Death's angel come
An' close the eyes o' her that smiled, an' leave her sweet voice dumb.
For these are scenes that grip the heart, an' when yer tears are dried,
An' tuggin' at ye always are the pleasant memories
O' her that was an' is no more--ye can't escape from these.
Ye've got to sing an' dance fer years, ye've got t'romp an' play,
An' learn t'love the things ye have by usin' 'em each day;
Even the roses round the porch must blossom year by year
Afore they 'come a part o' ye, suggestin' someone dear
Who used t'love 'em long ago, an' trained 'em just t'run
The way they do, so's they would get the early mornin' sun;
Ye've got to love each brick an' stone from cellar up t'dome;
It takes a heap o' livin' in a house t'make it home.
Well, for heavens sake, they still publish Ideals. I didn't know that.
-
Well neither did I because like you I looked forward to that magazine - never filled with things you "should" do and the loveliest photographs all centered around the values we admired as small town Americans with an appreciation for the fast landscape. Need to look into it - could use a shot of calm and noble character.
-
Excerpt from text by Robert Louis Stevenson . . .
Home no more home to me, whither must I wander?
Hunger my driver, I go where I must.
Cold blows the winter wind over hill and heather:
Thick drives the rain and my roof is in the dust.
Loved of wise men was the shade of my roof-tree,
The true word of welcome was spoken in the door–
Dear days of old with the faces in the firelight,
Kind folks of old, you come again no more . . .
Lone stands the house, and the chimney-stone is cold.
Lone let it stand, now the friends are all departed,
The kind hearts, the true hearts, that loved the place of old.
Spring shall come, come again, calling up the moorfowl,
Spring shall bring the sun and the rain, bring the bees and flowers;
Red shall the heather bloom over hill and valley,
Soft flow the stream through the even-flowing hours.
Fair the day shine as it shone on my childhood–
Fair shine the day on the house with open door;
Birds come and cry there and twitter in the chimney–
But I go for ever and come again no more.
-
I ran across a poem "A Happy Birthday" on a friend's Facebook post on for his birthday that I liked (it was supposedly used with the author's permission) by Ted Kooser. I wasn't familiar with him, so ordered the book "Delights & Shadows" and I am enjoying those poems. There's one, "Tattoo," that is early in the collection, and it struck me as so real an image, one I've seen in my small town. Mr. Kooser is a poet who was Poet Laureate of the U.S. in 2004, and the book won a Pulitzer Prize, yet I was unfamiliar with him and it - I think because I have moved away from poetry in the last 10-15 years.
-
Ah yes, a wonderful poet isn't he - what I liked about his work his poems allows us to see head pictures of the country scene where most of what he writes about takes place.
Our achieve for poetry is not as easy to search but there was a time back when Fair Anna was with us and leading poetry that each month we studied a poet and during the year Ted Kooser was Poet Laureate we studied his work and I believe I am remembering that Ted Kooser posted in our discussion - we liked his poetry so much that we would often post one of his poems long after we spent the month focusing on his work especially, when he wrote while getting rid of his Cancer. There was one about meeting a neighbor near a barn that I am vaguely remembering - hope you enjoy the book nlhome and maybe you would post one of his poems for us to enjoy.
-
I am reading a John Ringo SF book, and lo and behold, he quotes a Kipling poem at the end of each chapter. I just had to look it up, so here it is:
Hymn Before Action
1896
The earth is full of anger,
The seas are dark with wrath,
The Nations in their harness
Go up against our path:
Ere yet we loose the legions --
Ere yet we draw the blade,
Jehovah of the Thunders,
Lord God of Battles, aid!
High lust and froward bearing,
Proud heart, rebellious brow --
Deaf ear and soul uncaring,
We seek Thy mercy now!
The sinner that forswore Thee,
The fool that passed Thee by,
Our times are known before Thee --
Lord, grant us strength to die!
For those who kneel beside us
At altars not Thine own,
Who lack the lights that guide us,
Lord, let their faith atone!
If wrong we did to call them,
By honour bound they came;
Let not Thy Wrath befall them,
But deal to us the blame.
From panic, pride, and terror
Revenge that knows no rein --
Light haste and lawless error,
Protect us yet again,
Cloke Thou our undeserving,
Make firm the shuddering breath,
In silence and unswerving
To taste Thy lesser death.
Ah, Mary pierced with sorrow,
Remember, reach and save
The soul that comes to-morrow
Before the God that gave!
Since each was born of woman,
For each at utter need --
True comrade and true foeman --
Madonna, intercede!
E'en now their vanguard gathers,
E'en now we face the fray --
As Thou didst help our fathers,
Help Thou our host to-day.
Fulfilled of signs and wonders,
In life, in death made clear --
Jehovah of the Thunders,
Lord God of Battles, hear!
The title of the book, titled A Hymn before Battle, is an homage to Kipling. How about that Kipling in space. 8)
-
In the late 1880s Thorpe recalled for a Chicago magazine how the poem came to be. While reading the September 1865 issue of Peterson’s, a popular women’s journal that published verse and fiction among articles on fashion and homemaking, she stumbled upon “Love and Loyalty,” an anonymously written short story by “a new contributor.”* The tale features a young woman, Bessie, whose lover, Basil, has been condemned to die at curfew by a council of Cromwell’s Puritan associates during the English Civil War. Rose, who was supposed to be working on her math homework, couldn’t get the story out of her head:
The figures became a confused unintelligible jumble of meaningless characters; but clearly and distinctly before my mental vision arose these words: “Curfew must not ring tonight.” Again and again I resolutely banished them, but they returned persistently, until in sheer desperation I swept the exasperating figures from my slate and wrote “England’s sun was slowly setting.”
The notebook containing this first draft, with the title “Bessie and the Curfew,” is dated April 5, 1867—when Rose was only sixteen years old. Three years later the finished poem with its familiar title was accepted for publication, and she received as payment a one-year subscription to the newspaper (value: $1.50). She agreed to delete the last stanza, both for reasons of space and because she wasn’t quite happy with it; as a result, it is omitted from many versions of the poem. She subsequently revised the final stanza and included it in her 1887 collection Ringing Ballads, the source of the text used here.
Curfew must Not Ring To-night
Rose Hartwick Thorpe (1850–1939)
Slowly England's sun was setting o'er the hilltops far away,
Filling all the land with beauty at the close of one sad day;
And its last rays kissed the forehead of a man and maiden fair,--
He with steps so slow and weary; she with sunny, floating hair;
He with bowed head, sad and thoughtful, she, with lips all cold and white,
Struggling to keep back the murmur, "Curfew must not ring to-night!"
"Sexton," Bessie's white lips faltered, pointing to the prison old,
With its walls tall and gloomy, moss-grown walls dark, damp and cold,--
"I've a lover in the prison, doomed this very night to die
At the ringing of the curfew, and no earthly help is nigh.
Cromwell will not come till sunset;" and her lips grew strangely white,
As she spoke in husky whispers, "Curfew must not ring to-night!"
"Bessie," calmly spoke the sexton (every word pierced her young heart
Like a gleaming death-winged arrow, like a deadly poisoned dart),
"Long, long years I've rung the curfew from that gloomy, shadowed tower;
Every evening, just at sunset, it has tolled the twilight hour.
I have done my duty ever, tried to do it just and right:
Now I'm old, I will not falter. Curfew bell must ring to-night!"
Wild her eyes and pale her features, stern and white her thoughtful brow,
As within her secret bosom, Bessie made a solemn vow.
She had listened while the judges read, without a tear or sigh,
"At the ringing of the curfew, Basil Underwood must "die.
And her breath came fast and faster, and her eyes grew large and bright;
One low murmur, faintly spoken. "Curfew must not ring to-night!"
She with quick step bounded forward, sprang within the old church-door,
Left the old man coming slowly, paths he'd trod so oft before.
Not one moment paused the maiden, But with eye and cheek aglow,
Staggered up the gloomy tower, Where the bell swung to and fro;
As she climbed the slimy ladder, On which fell no ray of light,
Upward still, her pale lips saying, "Curfew shall not ring to-night!"
She has reached the topmost ladder, o'er her hangs the great dark bell;
Awful is the gloom beneath her, like the pathway down to hell.
See! the ponderous tongue is swinging; 'tis the hour of curfew now,
And the sight has chilled her bosom, stopped her breath, and paled her brow.
Shall she let it ring? No, never! Her eyes flash with sudden light,
As she springs, and grasps it firmly: "Curfew shall not ring to-night!"
Out she swung,-- far out. The city Seemed a speck of light below,--
There twixt heaven and earth suspended, As the bell swung to and fro.
And the sexton at the bell-rope, old and deaf, heard not the bell,
Sadly thought that twilight curfew rang young Basil's funeral knell.
"Still the maiden, clinging firmly, quivering lip and fair face white,
Stilled her frightened heart's wild throbbing: "Curfew shall not ring tonight!"
It was o'er, the bell ceased swaying; and the maiden stepped once more
Firmly on the damp old ladder, where, for hundred years before,
Human foot had not been planted. The brave deed that she had done
Should be told long ages after. As the rays of setting sun
Light the sky with golden beauty, aged sires, with heads of white,
Tell the children why the curfew did not ring that one sad night.
O'er the distant hills comes Cromwell. Bessie sees him; and her brow,
Lately white with sickening horror, has no anxious traces now.
At his feet she tells her story, shows her hands, all bruised and torn;
And her sweet young face, still hagggard, with the anguish it had worn,
Touched his heart with sudden pity, lit his eyes with misty light.
"Go! your lover lives," said Cromwell. "Curfew shall not ring to-night!"
Wide they flung the massive portals, led the prisoner forth to die,
All his bright young life before him. Neath the darkening English sky,
Bessie came, with flying footsteps, eyes aglow with lovelight sweet;
Kneeling on the turf beside him, laid his pardon at his feet.
In his brave, strong arms he clasped her, kissed the face upturned and white,
Whispered, "Darling, you have saved me, curfew will not ring to-night."
-
This is the opening poem to a book called Famous Discoverers and Explorers of America by Charles H. L. Johnston (1917).
THE VOICE
A voice came from the westward, it whispered a message clear,
And the dripping fog banks parted as the clarion tones drew near;
It spoke of shores untrodden, and it sang of mountains bold,
Of shimmering sands in distant lands which were covered with glittering gold.
It sang of hemlock forests, where the moose roamed, and the bear,
Where the eider bred near the cascade’s head, and the lucivee had his lair.
It praised the rushing water falls, it told of the salmon red,
Who swam in the spuming ripples by the rushing river’s head.
It chanted its praise of the languorous days which lay ’neath the shimmering sun,
Of the birch canoe and the Indian, too, who trapped in the forests dun.
Yea, it told of the bars of silver, and it whispered of emeralds green,
Of topaz, sapphire, and amethyst, which shone with a dazzling sheen.
Of warriors red with feathered head, of buffalo, puma, and deer,
Of the coral strand in a palm-tree land, and of dizzying mountains sheer.
And the voice grew louder and louder, and it fell upon listening ears,
Of the men who had heard strange music which was moistened with women’s tears.
Of the men who loved to wander, of the souls who cared to roam,
Whose bed was the hemlock’s branches, who rejoiced in the forest’s gloom.
Leif the Lucky, Magellan, deLeon and Cortés bold,
Cartier, Drake, and Franklin; Pizarro and Baffin, old;
Shackleton, Hudson, Roosevelt; brave Peary and gay Champlain,
Frémont, Lewis, Balboa; Verendrye, and the Cabots twain;
’Twas the voice that called them onward, ’twas the voice that is calling still,
And the voice will call ’till the end of it all, and the voice has a conquering will.
A lucivee is a wildcat spirit of northern Wabanaki folklore.
The poems in the book are unattributed, so I have to assume that Johnston was the author of those as well as the text. He wrote a number of history books, but for some reason, I am unable to find any information on the man himself.
-
The Peace of Wild Things
By Wendell Berry
When despair for the world grows in me
and I wake in the night at the least sound
in fear of what my life and my children’s lives may be,
I go and lie down where the wood drake
rests in his beauty on the water, and the great heron feeds.
I come into the peace of wild things
who do not tax their lives with forethought
of grief. I come into the presence of still water.
And I feel above me the day-blind stars
waiting with their light. For a time
I rest in the grace of the world, and am free.
-
Been mighty quiet here lately. I found this in The Southern Literary Messanger, Vol. 1, No. 1, August 1834. The poem is attributed to the Hon. R. H. Wilde, who was at the time a member of the House of Representatives from the State of Georgia.
MY LIFE IS LIKE THE SUMMER ROSE.
My life is like the summer rose
That opens to the morning sky,
And ere the shades of evening close,
Is scattered on the ground to die;
Yet on that rose's humble bed
The softest dews of night are shed
As though she wept such waste to see,
But none shall drop one tear for me!
My life is like the autumn leaf
Which trembles in the moon's pale ray,
Its hold is frail, its date is brief,
Restless;—and soon to pass away:
Yet when that leaf shall fall and fade
The parent tree will mourn its shade,
The wind bemoan the leafless tree,
But none shall breathe a sigh for me!
My life is like the print, which feet
Have left on Tampa's desert strand,
Soon as the rising tide shall beat
Their trace will vanish from the sand;
Yet, as if grieving to efface
All vestige of the human race,
On that lone shore loud moans the sea,
But none shall thus lament for me.
-
Not critical but I have become aware of something I think we all do - when something is so moving and brings us to a state of awe we liken it to life - we elevate the experience to the most profound and personal - it used to be that god was easily admired for 'his' handwork and now, with science having done a better job of explaining the progression and evolution of matter the next most awesome creation is our lives, with all its quirks and magnificence and unknowns.
Some artists seem to take the awe inspiring and bring it to the nuts and bolts of everyday living and then I realized the gods and the Judaeo-Christian God is often placed as the cause of the everyday functioning of the universe but especially, the functioning of the earth, the wind, water, blossoms, birds, animals. A good poet seems to get in the middle of these everyday occurrences and show us how awesome without summing up these creations as a one word concept that should be rife with meaning for the reader, like 'life' or 'God' or gods themselves.
One of our best, Shakespeare, who also could extol the wonders of the world, infusing each wonder with an everyday kitchen, garden, toolshed choice of words. Like - “Rough winds do shake the darling buds of May,” - not the poetic east winds or west winds or a wayward Spring northwinds - or God sent Spring winds - or the writer, "I" saw the mighty wind do its work - also, Shakespeare has buds shaken not blowing or reaching, much less, restless or humble or petals scattered - all picturesque although not mind rattling like shaken - the wind actually shaking buds.
I only recently thought of this when someone introduced the concept while reading the psalms - using simple everyday forceful words to describe, the poet author leaves little for the reader to have to dig deep to imagine or to skim over as a gentle concept that only describes the outcome rather than the action - these bits really capture what I'm attempting to say -
You make springs gush forth in torrents
To flow between the hills.
The birds of the sky nest by the waters;
they sing among the branches.
You made the moon to measure the seasons,
The sun knows its time for setting.
There is the sea, vast and spacious,
teeming with creatures beyond number—
living things both large and small.
There the ships go to and fro,
These fragments of Psalm 104, as did the quote from Shakespeare, reminds me of a Picasso sculpture that shows a duck running to take flight with forks as feet. The everyday that stops us and brings wonderment and astonishment at what we are seeing that is such an eloquent statement without the classic molding of a birds feet much less describing the footprint in the mud left by this bird.
(http://www.ourtownny.com/apps/pbcsi.dll/bilde?Site=NP&Date=20150914&Category=CITYARTS&ArtNo=150919979&Ref=EP&NewTbl=1&item=1?q=100)
Just an observation that has me looking afresh at poems about which we read in many books about writing poetry the authors agree, all writing should describe the action. Now I finally see action versus describing the effects of action...
-
Last day of winter - this is long - very long - however, from a Master - one of his early works... written in 1905 - published in 1915
ROBERT FROST
THE DEATH OF THE HIRED MAN
Mary sat musing on the lamp-flame at the table
Waiting for Warren. When she heard his step,
She ran on tip-toe down the darkened passage
To meet him in the doorway with the news
And put him on his guard. ‘Silas is back.’
She pushed him outward with her through the door
And shut it after her. ‘Be kind,’ she said.
She took the market things from Warren’s arms
And set them on the porch, then drew him down
To sit beside her on the wooden steps.
‘When was I ever anything but kind to him?
But I’ll not have the fellow back,’ he said.
‘I told him so last haying, didn’t I?
If he left then, I said, that ended it.
What good is he? Who else will harbor him
At his age for the little he can do?
What help he is there’s no depending on.
Off he goes always when I need him most.
He things he ought to earn a little pay,
Enough at least to buy tobacco with,
So he won’t have to beg and be beholden.
“All right, “ I say, “I can’t afford to pay
Any fixed wages, though I wish I could."
"Someone else can." "Then someone else will have to."
I shouldn't mind his bettering himself
If that was what it was. You can be certain,
When he begins like that, there's someone at him
Trying to coax him off with pocket-money,-
In haying time, when any help is scarce.
In winter he comes back to us. I'm done.'
'Sh! not so loud: he'll hear you,' Mary said.
'I want him to: he'll have to soon or late.'
'He's worn out. He's asleep beside the stove.
When I came up from Rowe's I found him here,
Huddled against the barn-door fast asleep,
A miserable sight, and frightening, too-
You needn't smile-I didn't recognize him-
I wasn't looking for him-and he's changed.
Wait till you see.'
'Where did you say he'd been?'
'He didn't say. I dragged him to the house,
And gave him tea and tried to make him smoke.
I tried to make him talk about his travels.
Nothing would do: he just kept nodding off.'
'What did he say? Did he say anything?'
'But little.'
'Anything? Mary, confess
He said he'd come to ditch the meadow for me.'
'Warren!'
'But did he? I just want to know.'
'Of course he did. What would you have him say?
Surely you wouldn't grudge the poor old man
Some humble way to save his self-respect.
He added, if you really care to know,
He meant to clear the upper pasture, too.
That sounds like something you have heard before?
Warren, I wish you could have heard the way
He jumbled everything. I stopped to look
Two or three times-he made me feel so queer-
To see if he was talking in his sleep.
He ran on Harold Wilson-you remember-
The boy you had in haying four years since.
He's finished school, and teaching in his college.
Silas declares you'll have to get him back.
He says they two will make a team for work:
Between them they will lay this farm as smooth!
The way he mixed that in with other things.
He thinks young Wilson a likely lad, though daft
On education-you know how they fought
All through July under the blazing sun,
Silas up on the cart to build the load,
Harold along beside to pitch it on.'
'Yes, I took care to keep well out of earshot.'
'Well, those days trouble Silas like a dream.
You wouldn't think they would. How some things linger!
Harold's young college boy's assurance piqued him.
After so many years he still keeps finding
Good arguments he sees he might have used.
I sympathize. I know just how it feels
To think of the right thing to say too late.
Harold's associated in his mind with Latin.
He asked me what I thought of Harold's saying
He studied Latin like the violin
Because he liked it-that an argument!
He said he couldn't make the boy believe
He could find water with a hazel prong-
Which showed how much good school had ever done him.
He wanted to go over that. But most of all
He thinks if he could have another chance
To teach him how to build a load of hay-'
'I know, that's Silas' one accomplishment.
He bundles every forkful in its place,
And tags and numbers it for future reference,
So he can find and easily dislodge it
In the unloading. Silas does that well.
He takes it out in bunches like big birds' nests.
You never see him standing on the hay
He's trying to lift, straining to lift himself.'
'He thinks if he could teach him that, he'd be
Some good perhaps to someone in the world.
He hates to see a boy the fool of books.
Poor Silas, so concerned for other folk,
And nothing to look backward to with pride,
And nothing to look forward to with hope,
So now and never any different.'
Part of a moon was falling down the west,
Dragging the whole sky with it to the hills.
Its light poured softly in her lap. She saw it
And spread her apron to it. She put out her hand
Among the harp-like morning-glory strings,
Taut with the dew from garden bed to eaves,
As if she played unheard some tenderness
That wrought on him beside her in the night.
'Warren,' she said, 'he has come home to die:
You needn't be afraid he'll leave you this time.'
'Home,' he mocked gently.
'Yes, what else but home?
It all depends on what you mean by home.
Of course he's nothing to us, any more
Than was the hound that came a stranger to us
Out of the woods, worn out upon the trail.'
'Home is the place where, when you have to go there,
They have to take you in.'
'I should have called it
Something you somehow haven't to deserve.'
Warren leaned out and took a step or two,
Picked up a little stick, and brought it back
And broke it in his hand and tossed it by.
'Silas has better claim on us you think
Than on his brother? Thirteen little miles
As the road winds would bring him to his door.
Silas has walked that far no doubt today.
Why doesn't he go there? His brother's rich,
A somebody-director in the bank.'
'He never told us that.'
'We know it though.'
'I think his brother ought to help, of course.
I'll see to that if there is need. He ought of right
To take him in, and might be willing to-
He may be better than appearances.
But have some pity on Silas. Do you think
If he had any pride in claiming kin
Or anything he looked for from his brother,
He'd keep so still about him all this time?'
'I wonder what's between them.'
'I can tell you.
Silas is what he is-we wouldn't mind him-
But just the kind that kinsfolk can't abide.
He never did a thing so very bad.
He don't know why he isn't quite as good
As anybody. Worthless though he is,
He won't be made ashamed to please his brother.'
'I can't think Si ever hurt anyone.'
'No, but he hurt my heart the way he lay
And rolled his old head on that sharp-edged chair-back.
He wouldn't let me put him on the lounge.
You must go in and see what you can do.
I made the bed up for him there tonight.
You'll be surprised at him-how much he's broken.
His working days are done; I'm sure of it.'
'I'd not be in a hurry to say that.'
‘I haven’t been. Go, look, see for yourself.
But, Warren, please remember how it is:
He's come to help you ditch the meadow.
He has a plan. You mustn’t laugh at him.
He may not speak of it, and then he may.
I’ll sit and see if that small sailing cloud
Will hit or miss the moon.'
It hit the moon.
Then there were three there, making a dim row,
The moon, the little silver cloud, and she.
Warren returned-too soon, it seemed to her,
Slipped to her side, caught up her hand and waited.
'Warren?' she questioned.
'Dead,' was all he answered.
-
"A Winter Eden"
A winter Eden in an alder swamp
Where conies now come out to sun and romp,
As near a paradise as it can be
And not melt snow or start a dormant tree.
It lifts existence on a plane of snow
One level higher than the earth below,
One level nearer heaven overhead
And last year’s berries shining scarlet red.
It lifts a gaunt luxuriating beast
Where he can stretch and hold his highest feast
On some wild apple tree’s young tender bark,
What well may prove the years’ high girdle mark.
Pairing in all known paradises ends:
Here loveless birds now flock as winter friends,
Content with bud inspecting. They presume
To say which buds are leaf and which are bloom.
A feather hammer gives a double knock.
This Eden day is done at two o’clock.
An hour of winter day might seem too short
To make it worth life’s while to wake and sport.
-
(http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_LqwQxG1c0BM/S352OnAobpI/AAAAAAAAKz0/wTZ4mnqnaTQ/s400/Spring+Chimera.jpg) Spring Poetry- Famous Poets and Poems about Spring (http://famouspoetsandpoems.com/thematic_poems/spring_poems.html)
- Spring Poems (http://poetry.about.com/od/ourpoemcollections/a/springpoems.htm)
|
Cuttings
~ Michael P. Garofalo
Ahh, the wide almond groves in full white flower
Stunning in the morning sun.
Old naked Winter in
his garb of grays and browns has run.
Forsythia blooms
Come and go in the blink of a yellow Eye,
Then, suddenly, mysteriously,
Green erupts; and we sigh.
We would love you to Join us
As we celebrate Spring!Discussion Leader: Barb (augere@ix.netcom.com)
|
-
Oh, I do love Robert Frost, one of the few poets I took to.
-
Here is a dedication to Grace Bartlett Stryker from a volume called Poems of Life by Katherine Forrest Hamill that I like.
Words fail me when I strive to say
What you’ve meant to me—for so long a day
Hope—Inspiration—Sympathy.
Steadfast and true, whate’er might be.
O priv’lege rarest to the end
As in the past, to call you—friend.
-
I take that this is a sad commentary on love lost, not to be regained.
SOMETHING GONE
YOU come to me—you take my hand,
You try to make me see
Things should become as they once were,
’Twixt you and me.
I listen to each word, you say,
I mark well ev’ry tone,
Only to find—you plead in vain,—
There’s something gone.
Something gone—that cannot come back again,
Tho’ most entreatingly you pray.
Yet, not mine the fault,—but yours alone,
It went away.
Interesting to note that the writer places the blame entirely on the other.
-
One more. Something I don't think I've run across in a poem (or I've forgotten) - a dialog set to poetry. i wonder if this one has any relation to the first one I posted.
GOOD-BYE
She
GOOD-bye, yes, I’ve decided
It’s best—it should not go on,
The quite delightful companionship
You and I, for some time, have known.
No, do not try to dissuade me,
I’ve thought it most carefully o’er,
To arrive at but one conviction—
We must see each other no more.
He
And you think to sever our friendship
By a mere putting away,
Letting the same, as it were, slip from us
Nor permitting me to say,
A word in defence of its going
As if I’d no right to share
In the matter of decision
I ask you,—Is it fair?
She
Man-like you refuse to reason
To see it’s the only way,
That the step really should have been taken
Even before to-day.
With you ’tis quite diff’rent,—the matter,—
You’ve priv’lege entire of your life;
But my freedom bows to restriction,—
I am another man’s wife.
He
Yes, another man’s wife, but the honor
The Fates have conferred, it would seem
He doesn’t the quite appreciate,—
At least, ’tis the knowledge I gleam.
From observing his attitude towards you,
Which I’m sure,—and you can but agree,
Is not in the least in keeping with what
A husband’s towards a wife should be.
She
And his failing you think permits me
Favor to accept at your hands,
That the vow I took at the altar
Ceases to impose its demands.
In sickness or health I promised,
“For better or worse”,—till the day,
He who gave should in his judgment
See fit to take away.
He
And you’ll let it bind you, that promise,
To a man who does not care;
Whose int’rest is the thoroughly selfish,
In whose secrets—you do not share,
Listen, dear, the priv’lege of Mortals,—
To get what we can out of life.
Free yourself from the bond that is irksome
And find happiness, as my wife.
She
Nay, not so, the rule of living
Holds faithful but to the one test;
Nor counts it—another’s transgression,
We must give of ourselves—our best.
Of no use to appeal the exception,
The truth remains fix’ed alway,
So, good-bye, it must be,—and, God bless you,—
There is nothing more to say.
-
It is full summer now, the heart of June;
Not yet the sunburnt reapers are astir
Upon the upland meadow where too soon
Rich autumn time, the season's usurer,
Will lend his hoarded gold to all the trees,
And see his treasure scattered by the wild and spendthrift breeze.
Too soon indeed! yet here is the daffodil,
That love-child of the Spring, has lingered on
To vex the rose with jealousy, and still
The harebell spreads her azure pavilion,
And like a strayed and wandering reveler
Abandoned of its brothers,
Whom long since June's messenger
The mistitle-thrush has lightened from the glade,
One pale narcissus loiters fearfully
Close to a shadowy nook, where half afraid
Of their own loveliness some violets lie
That will not look the gold sun in the face
For fear of too much splendour,
- ah! methinks it is a place
Which should be trodden by Persephone
When wearied of the flowerless fields of Dis!
Oscar Wilde
-
(http://66.media.tumblr.com/7c30aaa766a9145f0b5185bc86177efc/tumblr_o9d99xIxmK1uoyugzo1_1280.jpg)
|
Things fall apart; the centre cannot hold;
Mere anarchy is loosed upon the world,
The blood-dimmed tide is loosed, and everywhere
The ceremony of innocence is drowned;
The best lack all conviction, while the worst
Are full of passionate intensity...
|
-
(http://66.media.tumblr.com/f44607c4a6bd317411af62d222cafa7e/tumblr_o9dhzxj5Z71ro4v2no1_1280.jpg)
| The Lover Tells of the Rose in His Heart
All things uncomely and broken, all things worn out and old,
The cry of a child by the roadway, the creak of a lumbering cart,
The heavy steps of the ploughman, splashing the wintry mould,
Are wronging your image that blossoms a rose in the deeps of my heart.
The wrong of unshapely things is a wrong too great to be told;
I hunger to build them anew and sit on a green knoll apart,
With the earth and the sky and the water, re-made, like a casket of gold
For my dreams of your image that blossoms a rose in the deeps of my heart.
|
-
Yeats!
-
Yes, Yeats - so much loveliness especially for this time of year don't you think -
-
thought this was the last before a new heading but nope 9 more and then the new heading...
-
(http://66.media.tumblr.com/c47a22f00ba55d560f69d315dc305cba/tumblr_o96qugUjzK1ro4v2no1_1280.jpg)
| Down by the salley gardens
my love and I did meet;
She passed the salley gardens
with little snow-white feet.
She bid me take love easy,
as the leaves grow on the tree;
But I, being young and foolish,
with her would not agree.
In a field by the river
my love and I did stand,
And on my leaning shoulder
she laid her snow-white hand.
She bid me take life easy,
as the grass grows on the weirs;
But I was young and foolish,
and now am full of tears.
|
-
One more for today...!
(http://67.media.tumblr.com/b0d6df48312039ae5ffeee33443d21a8/tumblr_o9bnclP2xY1ro4v2no1_1280.jpg)
|
We saw the last embers of daylight die
And in the trembling blue-green of the sky
A moon, worn as if it had been a shell
Washed by time’s waters as they rose and fell
About the stars and broke in days and years
|
-
(https://66.media.tumblr.com/9cf86623b38617e9a68dc2efdb78f3d1/tumblr_msgw2aYmNg1rsswhpo1_500.jpg)
|
I have looked upon those brilliant creatures,
And now my heart is sore.
All's changed since I, hearing at twilight,
The first time on this shore,
The bell-beat of their wings above my head,
Trod with a lighter tread.
Unwearied still, lover by lover,
They paddle in the cold
Companionable streams or climb the air;
Their hearts have not grown old;
Passion or conquest, wander where they will,
Attend upon them still.
But now they drift on the still water,
Mysterious, beautiful;
Among what rushes will they build,
By what lake's edge or pool
Delight men's eyes when I awake some day
To find they have flown away?
|
-
(https://65.media.tumblr.com/5363dafe34c9e500b6f931535cb4b497/tumblr_o99qrviI4A1r4u4hbo1_500.jpg)
|
Have you ever stood in a woodland and
closed your eyes,
even for a few moments?
Could you hear
the rummaging of the squirrel,
smell the familiar pungency of the damp musk
that follows the rainfall, or
feel the movement of the wind
as it danced through the trees?
I have often found myself watching
the woodlands, those beautiful, radiant colours
that turn and change with the moods
of the seasons. Tracing
the contours of the twisting limbs
which rise towards the sky
to finally burst with offshoots of green.
But there is so much more to the woodlands
than what is seen.
So often, the beauty of the woodland is a scene
to behold with the eyes alone.
|
-
Barn, you've found such lovely pix to go with the poems. Thank you for including them.
I just discovered "Catholic Courses", Dante' s Inferno on my Amazon Prime channel. I've added it to my watch list.
-
Need to go search for it - I've become enchanted with Moliere - there is the movie on Prime and then another that is not free but started me off, Bicycling With Moliere a take off on The Misanthrope so that I had to find a book of his plays and also download on my kindle the Misanthrope - his plays are in rhyme and filled with wit and the kind of thinking typical of the Paris Salons of the seventeenth century.
We do not read much French literature, poetry or plays and they are all really chewy - fell in love with Voltaire a couple of years ago and now Moliere - to me there work is more sublet and witty than the English writers. Much wittier than Shakespeare - Shakespeare does comedy where as both Moliere and Voltaire do farce - instead of a comedy of manners theirs seems to be word gymnastics so that the comedy is in the wording. Fun...
-
Sorry Barb, I see my auto spell on my Kindle automatically changed Barb to Barn and I didn't catch it. I truly hate that auto correction feature.
-
;) yes, I figured as much - :-*
-
Mid-summer… when the alchemy
of Nature transmutes the sylvan
landscape to one vivid and almost
homogeneous mass of green; when the
senses are well-nigh intoxicated with
the surging seas of moist verdure and
the subtly indefinable odours
of the soil and the vegetation. In such
surroundings the mind loses its perspective;
time and space become
trivial and unreal, and echoes of
a forgotten prehistoric past
beat insistently upon the enthralled
consciousness.
H.P.Lovecraft
| (https://65.media.tumblr.com/3ab350cc8d03a7c90e958a8f4736fee8/tumblr_o8ukswDG5J1rn3sq0o1_1280.jpg)
|
-
Our Poetry Page Reads
Shakespeare Sonnets
2016 the world commemorates
400 years since the death of William Shakespeare.
(http://d13a6ytc0s97c3.cloudfront.net/uploads/listing/image/67/event_RS556808_36980_ROY210915_010-lpr.jpg)
April, 1616. A man died, but a legacy was born; one which proved
so essential not only to the development of
drama and literature, but to language, to thoughts and ideas.
A Sonnet a Day
July 1, till December 1,
We read in order, from 1 to 154
A Shakespeare Sonnet each day.
Welcome
Please share your comments about the day's Sonnet.
Link: First Post of Our Discussion on July 1 (http://seniorlearn.org/forum/index.php?topic=176.msg283685#msg283685)
Shakespeare Anniversary Links
- Shakespeare400 (http://www.shakespeare400.org/)
- Shakespeare 400 at The Globe (http://www.shakespearesglobe.com/400)
- Shakespeare 400 Chicago (http://www.shakespeare400chicago.com/)
- Dame Judi leads Shakespeare Day gala finale (http://www.bbc.com/news/entertainment-arts-36111591)
- Turning Shakespeare’s sonnets into short films (http://[url=http://www.pbs.org/newshour/bb/turning-shakespeares-sonnets-short-films/)
Discussion Leaders: Barb (augere@ix.netcom.com)
-
Scroll down about 9 or 10 posts for the start of
Shakespeare's Sonnet a Day
to post number #3890
Not a horror story fan, I never read H P Lovecraft. I had Call of the Cthulhu on my Kindle but trashed it when I discovered he was a horror writer. What a surprise to see he also wrote poetry. Must investigate further.
-
Frybabe He did a couple of books of poetry but yes, most of his published work is horror stories - here is another of his poems
A Garden
By H. P. Lovecraft
There’s an ancient, ancient garden that I see sometimes in dreams,
Where the very Maytime sunlight plays and glows with spectral gleams;
Where the gaudy-tinted blossoms seem to wither into grey,
And the crumbling walls and pillars waken thoughts of yesterday.
There are vines in nooks and crannies, and there’s moss about the pool,
And the tangled weedy thicket chokes the arbour dark and cool:
In the silent sunken pathways springs an herbage sparse and spare,
Where the musty scent of dead things dulls the fragrance of the air.
There is not a living creature in the lonely space around,
And the hedge-encompass’d quiet never echoes to a sound.
As I walk, and wait, and listen, I will often seek to find
When it was I knew that garden in an age long left behind;
I will oft conjure a vision of a day that is no more,
As I gaze upon the grey, grey scenes I feel I knew before.
Then a sadness settles o’er me, and a tremor seems to start:
For I know the flow’rs are shrivell’d hopes—the garden is my heart!
-
There is a certain nostalgic and melancholy about these two poems. He is looking back to try to find what once was that but is now in decay. Melancholy tends to appeal to me both in the poetry and in music, for some reason.
I read a short bio about Lovecraft. He was not a healthy child and suffered night terrors as well. A bit worse than your run of the mill nightmare, my Ex also suffered from them as a child. Both of Lovecraft's parents ended up in a mental institution. A very passive personality, he never gained the self-confidence to promote his works nor could he handle criticism. He died in poverty at the age of 46 of stomach cancer.
-
Ouch - I wonder if writing horror fiction goes hand and glove with reliving the feelings of being abandoned as a child - Poe was another whose father left immediately after he was born and his mother died when he was only 3 then he is separated from his brothers and sisters - sent to live with the Allen family - I'm not much for horror either - lots of southern horror stories - easy to imagine creepy scary stories when walking in the woods of the deep south - the vegetation is almost like a jungle and the thick canopy is a screen so the sun barely makes it in - but I think even in the small towns the long hot days and long hot summers caste a stillness that I miss now that Austin is so 'with it' - that stillness made day dreaming an easy pass time that if you have inner demons the stress and tensions I bet play out in your day dreams.
-
I haven't been in here for a while--missed some good stuff too. Barb, were you giving us a quiz game by not giving the authors of some poems? Post 3871 is surely Houseman, though I don't recognize the poem.
Post 3866, which Frybabe correctly identifies as Yeats, is The Second Coming, which I really like. I profoundly disagree with his theory of cyclical history, which is the point he's making, but it's a magnificent description of the way the world seemed to be falling apart after WWI, and the closing lines are unforgettable:
"And what rough beast, its hour come round at last,
Slouches towards Bethlehem to be born?
-
Oh dear - hadn't thought - the words strung together was the focus admired - never thought of the author - Lovecraft because his writing verse is so out of character.
Down by the salley gardens is also Yeats. 3871
Things fall apart; the centre cannot hold; - Yeats
The Lover Tells of the Rose in His Heart - Yeats
We saw the last embers of daylight die - Yeats
I have looked upon those brilliant creatures, - Yeats
Have you ever stood in a woodland and closed your eyes, even for a few moments? - Karis Jade Petty of the Woodland Trust
The page finishes with Lovecraft.
-
Here is a lovely...
(https://66.media.tumblr.com/cb7b5b768d76ddc2a3e2d8375ac4ebf1/tumblr_o9jjg0sXrj1ro4v2no1_500.jpg)
|
The salmon west leapt soft, spawned wild to sunset,
and the poaching lovers stood heron still in the foam
of the orchard, baited to catch some sound of home,
while no dog barked and no door slammed and no child shouted.
But poplar leaves clashed like cymbals in the thin wind that blew
and at last the moon boomed out of the apple-tree and the two
lovers drove into the amorous dusk
and swam like swans through the clamorous air.
|
For PatH ;) by Isabella Gardner
-
With the heading announcing a Sonnet a day some folks may be confused - yes, a Shakespeare Sonnet a Day starts on July 1 - less than 2 days from now...
-
I don't think I have ever popped in here. I look forward to my introduction to Shakespeare! Be back tomorrow July 1st.
-
Today we start - July 1 - Shakespeare's Sonnets - One a day - 154 Sonnets.
OK --- PLEASE - share YOUR reaction - we all have access to and can read the hundreds of analysis in books and web sites by the Shakespeare specialists and poetry gurus. We really do not need to repeat what we can all pour over first hand.
Pundits, soon after the death of Shakespeare started ruminating in their attempt to identify the lady Shakespeare was writing to or about. Some call her the 'Dark Lady' others the 'Secret Lady'. Please, let’s forget about doing the work of scholars who spent the greater part of their education and life coming to grips with how and for whom these Sonnets were created.
Instead, let’s enjoy these Sonnets for what they are - love poems - Make believe you are the recipient of the love expressed in these poems or the poem is describing a secret lover's impression of you.
We are not reading the Sonnets to identify theme or meter, interpretation or intention. Let's just enjoy the work of this gifted poet afresh, without any concern to the tons of material attempting to explain the work so that we do not lose the immediacy of the beauty expressed, the turn of phrase, so we can be astounded anew with the flow of thought and the lovers argument for accepting his love.
In these 154 Sonnets there are only three things the lover is expressing - the brevity of life, the fleetingness of beauty, and the trappings of desire.
Tell us about your first reaction – After your second read were you moved – Did you catch something you did not catch in the first reading - was there a particular phrase that caught you as you read - Then after your third read, what emotions within yourself did the poem touch. Did Shakespeare pull you in? What did you find appealing about the 14 lines declaring an aspect of love - - -
-
Shakespeare Sonnet I
(https://p2.liveauctioneers.com/3908/76062/39756069_1_l.jpg)
From fairest creatures we desire increase,
That thereby beauty's rose might never die,
But as the riper should by time decease,
His tender heir might bear his memory:
But thou, contracted to thine own bright eyes,
Feed'st thy light's flame with self-substantial fuel,
Making a famine where abundance lies,
Thyself thy foe, to thy sweet self too cruel.
Thou that art now the world's fresh ornament
And only herald to the gaudy spring,
Within thine own bud buriest thy content
And, tender churl, makest waste in niggarding.
Pity the world, or else this glutton be,
To eat the world's due, by the grave and thee. |
William Shakespeare's Sonnet 1https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=v64ym0XqlqM
-
I see this sonnet saying to make the best of life, and hope to leave a lasting impression after death. Treat yourself with kindness, and enjoy what lies in the beauty of life.
-
Baptism of fire:
Good thing Barb said read the poems several times; on the first reading I found it very difficult. A poetry textbook I have suggests that on the first reading, sometimes you have to concentrate on just working out which subjects go with which verbs, just straightening out the sentences in your mind, and that's certainly what I had to do here. Then I could read it for a combination of beauty and meaning. By the third reading, I had gotten to Bellamarie's conclusion. Shakespeare is very specific in the way he wants his subject to make a lasting impression. You are beautiful, he is saying, but your beauty will fade, and you will die, but if you have children, your beauty will live on in them, and the world will not be deprived of you. A pretty thought indeed, and said in beautiful but difficult language.
I've peeked ahead. The next few are easier.
-
PatH., I think I read it at least 4xs, before even reading Barb's post about reading it several times. It is amazing how you can read something over and over and see new things each time, although the main idea still pops out. I liked this very much. Gave me a serene feeling.
Barb, We are not reading the Sonnets to identify theme or meter, interpretation or intention. Let's just enjoy the work of this gifted poet afresh, without any concern to the tons of material attempting to explain the work so that we do not lose the immediacy of the beauty expressed, the turn of phrase, so we can be astounded anew with the flow of thought and the lovers argument for accepting his love.
I like the fact we are going to read and "feel" the words rather than dissect, and analyze the sonnet.
-
I love to try to figure things out. When I read Shakespeare, I find it takes several pages(or in this case sonnets) before I can read superficially and understand the gist of the poem. So, here goes - - I have been attracted to so many men who are only focused on themselves with no room for anyone or anything else. They see their legacy in the money they make or in the "hell they raise" even as they age. While they are living, they bury all they have to give the world within their "bud" The poem implies that they waste, I think, their lives, by making their whole world themselves. It is like the Biblical image of hiding one's light "under a basket." My children and grandchildren will remember me, I hope, and will pass on part of me to future generations. The reality is that beyond two generations few will even know who I was.
-
Thanks for doing the work, BELLAMARIE and PAT. I admit to being lost.
-
So glad I put Sonnet I up late last night - I just knew there would be some early birds - just got in and love how the poem touched each of you.
That is a lovely thought Bellamarie to stay with you for the day after reading the Sonnet - "Treat yourself with kindness, and enjoy what lies in the beauty of life." Nice - it is often difficult to treat yourself with kindness when you are concerned about mistakes and being valued by others - a good reminder isn't it. Wouldn't it be interesting to get ideas from each other how to treat ourselves with kindness - hmmm
Ah PatH yes, these Sonnets do take a couple of reads don't they - I think part of the reason is the now archaic ways people expressed themselves - after all these were written over 400 years ago and where we admire Shakespeare's skill with language and sentence structure some of how he writes is archaic to us today. So it takes a bit but then most folks suggest all poems only give up their depths with repeated reads as you found reading this Sonnet.
Words for all moms - we too easily forget moms were beautiful maidens whose beauty is being passed on through the ages - "You are beautiful, he is saying, but your beauty will fade, and you will die, but if you have children, your beauty will live on in them, and the world will not be deprived of you."
I guess here we can ruminate what is beauty - Is it opinion on looks - is a beautiful soul one that easily pleases because others feel good in the presence of a soul they understand - there are so many way we express beauty - in our appearance, dress, manners, kindnesses, writing, the very script we use to write - on and on - then the qualities of curiosity and artistic expression and even diligence can all express beauty - wow - we are surely gifted aren't we.
I am glad Bellamarie that PatH said what you needed to hear so that serenity was your reaction - nice.
Mkaren you see another idea - the idea that some men "...are only focused on themselves with no room for anyone or anything else." And their legacy is in their financial wealth or, I love how you said this "the "hell they raise" even as they age" - the "bud" is their living burial - almost sounds like a compost pile that feeds on itself - I wonder if like a compost pile their wealth and behavior assists others - their behavior could be a lesson couldn't it - and then to wrap it up with their "bud" is hiding "under a basket" - but the great thought you have about your children and grandchildren remembering you - yes! You probably can add to that Mkaren, that your DNA will go on for eternity and so where a conscious memory of your face and connection to you may pass your DNA continues and I bet there are even habits and ways you always do things that are unconsciously picked up and passed along as well.
Words strung into phrases - this is grand how we each focus on different words or different phrases and something within pops into focus - love it...
I must say my first reaction which was the other day rather than this morning - was confusion - I had never read all the Sonnets and never in order - had this wild expectation that they were going to tell a logical story of the progression of love - And I thought - Holy Hannah a boy meets girl and right off the bat he says "From fairest creatures we desire increase," well - I was just not prepared for so bold a thought stated upon first meeting a girl - shoot, talk of increase was not something I remember talking about till marriage was on the table.
Well I did not think to peek ahead and decided maybe there was not a progression of girl meets boy - and maybe there are various aspects of love that will be the feature of each Sonnet - that was when I found Michael Ball singing from the play Aspects Of Love and had the entire musical from Youtube playing while I put together the posts.
And so, right or wrong about the future Sonnets I calmed down and read it through several times - I struggled to even make sense of the last two lines that in a Sonnet are supposed to resolve the problem or theme of the first 12 lines - I struggled and struggled - looked up words and got a gest of it but nothing smooth - I sorta pick up that he is berating himself for what he sees as selfish, taking her beauty in order to add to the future, part of himself - Not sure I like this conclusion - because I do not see having children as taking a women's beauty unless we measure beauty as a human form untouched yet by life - well that could be another whole discussion but the conclusion I was reading into those last 2 lines did not bring Bellamarie's serenity.
But the two lines that I've been obsessing over - that I may yet memorize
"His tender heir might bear his memory:
But thou, contracted to thine own bright eyes,"
In particular the word tender - I have been rolling that word over in my mind contently since last night - I was choosing between a few graphics and looking again at the Chagall all I saw was tenderness - the colors, the movement of the figures and how they overlapped, and their hair, and the repeat of them in a small circular frame.
Then I thought how easy it is for us to feel and be tender with a baby and even with small animals or a sick person and then realization was like a rolling dust storm - to tend is part of the word tender - how long has it been since I tended my housecleaning with tenderness - washed a dish with tenderness - having so many mechanical helpers today I realized how easily I lost the ability to do my tasks with tenderness - I remember my grandmother drying each spoon so that it was as if she was polishing it and how she tenderly smoothed the laundry so that it practically ironed before it was dry. Then my thoughts went to how tenderness has not been part of my business - kindness, yes - but tenderness?
Then I found this great quote - "kindness reveals concern and respect for others. Tenderness bring inner peace and happiness to the heart."
And so for me reading the word 'tender' within the context of the line was an eye opener and brought me a new reverence for not only tenderness but the desire to think tenderly as I tend me, my relationships and my surroundings.
-
Joan you posted while I was busy typing away - ah - lost - love you came in and shared that you were lost reading the Sonnet.
Its OK to not have an understanding that makes sense - each Sonnet will bring you something and I know it sounds funny but you experienced being lost - great - of course you could get signals that would help as if you were lost like a map or maybe there is an expectation for understanding that just is not there - you can decide Joan -
In this discussion of Shakespeare's Sonnets we are not looking for a 'right' way only what hits you and how reading the sonnet makes you feel and if there was any phrase or word that you could grab onto or that had you daydreaming of other things - almost like looking at a painting or going to a Ballet while seeing dancers and hearing the music -
For an intellectual message we have many online and in books that have shared their educated impressions - we just do not need to add to the plethora of analysis - just your impressions - No message or hidden story to uncover - just enjoy it and let us know what you enjoy.
I love it - lost - how often we are lost in our own life and our own thoughts...
-
MKaren,
The reality is that beyond two generations few will even know who I was.
This I fear is true of all of us, and it makes me feel a little sad. I like knowing a part of me will always exist in the bloodline (DNA) of my family. And because I have faith in the afterlife, I know I will enjoy seeing those future generations, and maybe even send them a few little signals that will make them pause and wonder...... what/who was that? :)
Barb, you made me smile, because I still rinse my dishes and silverware one by one before putting into the dishwasher, and I still fold my laundry a bit meticulously with tenderness and care.
-
So today I went to Barnes and Noble because I had a settlement credit from them that was a part of a class action suit that was won. It was a surprise in my email box, so off to spend it. I carried around the Complete Works of William Shakespeare as I browsed the Inspirational section looking for a daily book of scriptures. Well, needless to say I found the perfect 365 Moments of Peace for a Woman's Heart Reflections on God's Gifts of Love, Hope, and Comfort, so I sat the Shakespeare book down and decided to buy it another time. I just did not want to let loose of $20.00 right before going on vacation next week, and the credit was only $14.00 which almost covered the cost of the inspirational book. I have a birthday coming up in July, so who knows my hubby may sneak back and buy it for me. :)
-
Shakespeare Sonnet II
(http://i.imgur.com/HpciNyH.jpg)
When forty winters shall beseige thy brow,
And dig deep trenches in thy beauty's field,
Thy youth's proud livery, so gazed on now,
Will be a tatter'd weed, of small worth held:
Then being ask'd where all thy beauty lies,
Where all the treasure of thy lusty days,
To say, within thine own deep-sunken eyes,
Were an all-eating shame and thriftless praise.
How much more praise deserved thy beauty's use,
If thou couldst answer 'This fair child of mine
Shall sum my count and make my old excuse,'
Proving his beauty by succession thine!
This were to be new made when thou art old,
And see thy blood warm when thou feel'st it cold. |
-
At the risk of overkill - however, we are only reading the second Sonnet, so a repeat as a reminder - to read these Sonnets relaxed and settled, enjoy and comment as if these love poems were spoken to you.
We are not reading the Sonnets to identify theme or meter, interpretation or intention. Let's just enjoy the work of this gifted poet afresh, without any concern to the tons of material attempting to explain the work so that we do not lose the immediacy of the beauty expressed, the turn of phrase, so we can be astounded anew with the flow of thought and the lovers argument for accepting love.
In these 154 Sonnets there are only three things the lover is expressing - the brevity of life, the fleetingness of beauty, and the trappings of desire.
Tell us about your first reaction – After your second read were you moved – Did you catch something you did not catch in the first reading - was there a particular phrase that caught you as you read - Then after your third read, what emotions within yourself did the poem touch. Did Shakespeare pull you in? What did you find appealing about the 12+2 lines declaring an aspect of love - - -
-
I like this second sonnet. "Beauty" lives on in you children and in generations to come. Something of yourself is passed on to each new generation. I would like to think that it is speaking, also, of inner beauty.
The first sonnet I found somewhat incomprehensible, but then I didn't reread or concentration on picking it apart for meaning.
-
Bellamarie sounds like you made a choice from your heart using your store credit at Barnes and Noble. I too have a huge tome of Shakespeare's plays and actually find to enjoy a read I end up with a used copy of a single play so I can handle better the size of the book. My huge copy does not have the Sonnets included - for that I found on sale a lovely book filled with art work and pages of quotes from the plays along with the Sonnets. Not big like a coffee table book but something on that order.
Frybabe glad you came in and shared - yes, we are not picking these Sonnets apart - Inner beauty - to value inner beauty over or along side outer beauty - I wonder when we are young and courting if inner beauty crossed our mind or did we simply fall for someone who looked pleasing?
I wonder if we read these Sonnets when we were young adults if we would have been more consciously aware that we held the keys to the future - but then I realize when I had my children the concept of passing on a way of treating each other to the next generation was not even imagined - the only guidance for Moms, and he was not accepted by many was, Dr. Spock's Baby and Child Care.
Inner beauty was relegated to the churches. Some churches were about kindness to each other and others were about rooting out sin in ourselves and judging others. The only real guidance for the future passed on from parent to child that I remember was to love the land.
I'll be back later - full day again... folks I've been helping roll into town today after their almost 1700 mile drive with their 3 children and a packed vehicle that is the 'stuff' they need for the next week till the moving van arrives. They must be exhausted...
-
I feel so blessed to have spent last week in Disney World with my two granddaughters, Violet , age 8,and Cordelia or Dilly, age 6. In spite of temps in the 90s and humidity the same, I watched those two little girls show unrestrained joy at what they were experiencing and seeing. I remembered that I once felt that kind of joy, showed my emotions openly, and laughed until I cried just as those girls did. Each time someone told me how much Violet looks and acts like me, it thrills me. When Dilly pulled herself up to her full 40" and told the guide in Animal Kingdom that the cheetah my be the fastest animal on earth, but the fastest creature is the peregrine falcon, I knew I would live beyond my years. Winters have taken their toll, my joints hurt all the time, and as Dilly told me, "You can't keep up with us because your legs are old. But I will be forever young in my offspring, even when I am long forgotten.
-
Yes, MKaren. this second sonnet really speaks to us, doesn't it.
Interesting that he wrote it so young. And funny that his example of old age is forty! Many of us are twice that, but it's still true, except that we have more generations to express our "beauty" (whatever that is for each of us) through.
-
That's beautiful, Karen. :)
As one who also can't keep up with the young ones, either, I thought that was glorious.
-
Oh what an experience to remember Karen - bet they pull out that memory with Grandma being with them years later when they have their children. Oh and a smart grandchild that is not afraid to tell it as it is - love it. Yes, the winters are not easy on the body - amazing how for 100s, no for 1000s of years - generation after generation folks lived and raised children in houses only heated by a fire - boggles the mind.
Read a book once - a novel - cannot remember the title but essentially this guy was telling his son how fortunate we are that we are here among the living because it means our ancestors lived through the plague of the Black Death - when you read how it wiped out over half of Europe and some suggest up to three quarters of the population it really is amazing isn't it that we are alive.
His example of old age at forty does sound young doesn't it Joan - men no longer go through their midlife crisis as early as 40 - more like mid fifties - just in our lifetime seems to me that the average age has extended - I'm thinking when we were young the age line was sixties - somehow 67 pops up in my vague memory and now it is mid 70s or at least last I looked. We sure do have more than our children to see as young extensions of ourselves. I guess that is what most men took pride in - having a son that was as strong and capable as they remember themselves. And yet, the idea of a 40 year old man who spends much of his time in the out of doors and has about 25 years of experiences seems more like a leader to me even if the body slows down.
Ginny you too see the enjoyment and wonders of youth in your good looking grandson - Loved the photo you shared of him working alongside his grand-dad in the field - I've enjoyed my grandsons but frankly till this poem I never thought of them as an extension of me - I do notice they share interests and abilities that we have in common - just never thought of it.
When the poem refers to his proud livery as being in tatters I was take up short - we forget how few changes of clothes our grandparents had in their closet and going back, how every piece of clothing in the seventeenth century was not only hand sewn but the very cloth was hand woven and so having one piece of clothing for years and years would have been usual. I've enjoyed looking at fashion through out history and the men's clothing for this time in history seems full, with lots of puffs, ruffs and ribbons that must have been for the titled where as, those who were retired soldiers or worked in a guild probably dressed more plainly.
I can only imagine this would be more typical of our young suitor.
(https://encrypted-tbn0.gstatic.com/images?q=tbn:ANd9GcT3esvGYkXfpMNg-Fglrbc9M_DXVSUoCg8EeM3dbFhVzwx5TBlV)
I think my favorite line in this Sonnet is, "This were to be new made when thou art old" mostly because it reminds me of the recent photos on facebook of Ann with her great grandchildren. The Mom to these children is behind Ann and that is her granddaughter - isn't it wonderful... just amazing the similarities between all the girls and the boy looks so much like Ann's husband. Don't you just love the scrapped knees on both the children - reminds me of Ann and her scrappy abilities to live to the fullest.
(https://scontent.xx.fbcdn.net/v/t1.0-9/13508938_10207738041821626_7458898205550791697_n.jpg?oh=d94b28489e520fa871692048d4101abb&oe=57F69B12)
-
(https://67.media.tumblr.com/f9193ce7d7f1e0b4cdeca17354854f38/tumblr_o9qc6hIGw31qjjrsro1_1280.jpg)
Look in thy glass, and tell the face thou viewest
Now is the time that face should form another;
Whose fresh repair if now thou not renewest,
Thou dost beguile the world, unbless some mother,
For where is she so fair whose unear'd womb
Disdains the tillage of thy husbandry?
Or who is he so fond will be the tomb
Of his self-love, to stop posterity?
Thou art thy mother's glass, and she in thee
Calls back the lovely April of her prime:
So thou through windows of thine age shall see
Despite of wrinkles this thy golden time.
But if thou live, remember'd not to be,
Die single, and thine image dies with thee |
-
Another sonnet saying the same thing. Is the poet addressing a man, or a woman? In this one, the first part definitely refers to a woman, as does the last part, but lines 7 and 8 refer to a man. In sonnet 2, no gender-specific pronouns are used toward the listener, though the proposed child is male. In sonnet 1, "his" is used, but it doesn't refer to the listener, who is described more as you would describe a woman, but could be either. Is Shakespeare applying his message to both sexes?
-
PatH, my take is he is pleading with a women - He is telling her to look into a mirror (glass) to ascertain now is the time to create another, who will be a new, fresh copy of the face in the mirror. Beguile (to enchant) the world rather than, being a women who is not so fair because she did not choose to be a mother (tillage of the husbandry) in spite of his fondness for her therefore, his "self-love" will be encased within himself as if a tomb and so, no posterity for him.
Interesting, since for the last three poems I had a sense that was making me uncomfortable that this line of wooing was rather selfish - almost like years ago how guys used to talk girls into early sex with the line 'if you love me' or 'you do not love me unless'. Today girls and boys do not hold the constraints of 50 and more years ago. This Sonnet actually comes right out and says, it is 'his' "self-love" and since he is infatuated with her beauty and charm she is supposed to see the wisdom in coupling with him for the purpose of posterity.
Today's standards that line of logic seems crass and yet, when you read books on the history of marriage that was the reason for marriage - and when, as a child we learned about the seven sacraments of which marriage became one of them during the Council of Trent in 1547, the concept or rather purpose of a Roman Catholic marriage was just that; "The matrimonial covenant, by which a man and a woman establish between themselves a partnership of the whole of life, is by its nature ordered toward the good of the spouses and the procreation and education of offspring; this covenant between baptized persons has been raised by Christ the Lord to the dignity of a sacrament."
I remember that being such a big aha for me when we studied it because my father and his family were German Lutheran where as, my Mom and Grandmother were Catholic. My father's sister had nothing positive to say about my sister and I attending parochial school - ah so... memories.
Hmmm just thought - wait, I do not want to go there - it is too easy to see and make the ties of Shakespeare's life experiences to his writing - again, others have done that Ad Infinitum so back to; "...the immediacy of the beauty expressed, the turn of phrase, so we can be astounded anew with the flow of thought and the lovers argument for accepting love."
So then he suggests as she looks into the mirror she can see her mother as in turn her mother can see you in herself which is reminding the mother of her youth or prime (April) which he suggests is her golden time and through her child that he wants her to create with him and despite her wrinkles this child will look as she does during this, her golden age.
Then the last two lines that are typically the retort that in this Sonnet seems to be more of the same, that if she dies single, (so marriage evidently goes along with this agreement for children) and so if she dies alone there will be no future image for her to see herself again.
This whole story line could be a metaphor to the creation of many initiatives. Youth could be the early aspects of a creative thought that if the idea is not matched with the 'tools' of creation than there is no prototype of the idea and it has no future.
There is a saying, we have more ideas than time to bring them to fruition and then, it is easy to bottle up bringing to life any idea as we grapple with how worthy the outcome of the idea - Like brainstorming where some, before they open their mouth want to judge if the idea has legs, is really just pie in the sky. Part of encouraging some to share their ideas is a similar argument, 'God gave you the capacity to think of these ideas and so you are playing judge over God's gifts'... and so forth.
Of the three similar Sonnets this one appears to be laid out like a legal brief - and I wonder if the concept of looking in a glass was the suitor enticing with vanity. Seems to me that was one of the 'sins' of the time - wasn't this when Puritans were denouncing all the ribbons and bows on clothing and sumptuary laws and taxation dictated what folks were supposed to wear. And thinking on it, very few owned a mirrors. Yes, just looked it up - mirrors were by and large still imported from Venice although, there was Sir Robert Mansell’s glass house in London in 1625. The process of making a mirror was such they were rare until the seventeenth century. Hmm so this Sonnet including the concept of a mirror (looking glass) was as if today a Sonnet was written something to do with using a computer or really owning something even more rare because of its newness.
I keep forgetting Shakespeare was actually a product of the sixteenth century rather than the seventeenth century. He was born in 1564 although died in 1616 - knowing this is commemorating 400 years since his death I do not think I will ever forget the date of his death.
The line that had me laugh out-loud - the audacity - the archaic way of suggesting sex - "the tillage of thy husbandry" - oh Lordy... talk about keeping women in their place - they are the farm land that 'he' gets to till - yikes.
-
I get the feeling S. is addressing himself, i.e. talking to himself in the mirror - what's going on, man? Do you want to die alone having left no trail, no evidence (offspring) that you were here? Stop being so enamored of yourself (in your youth?) and get moving if you don't want to die alone with no one left who will remember you.
This sounds like my Croatian grandfather who thought if you weren't married by age 21 and didn't have kids right away, that you had missed the big boat and life was all over for you. (Note: When I was 12, I remember telling my Mom that I was never having kids and never getting married. I was right about the first part, and I married at 40. My brother must have taken this sonnet to heart - he had 5 children, so I figure he used up my quota and his, too! 👬👫🚶)
-
I have been wondering all day if my mother saw herself in me? I think I saw myself in my father. I can see him in my glass, but more importantly, I am like him in manner. We both are introverts, love learning, slow moving, calm, and patient. My mother, a type A personality, extrovert, high strung woman, kept telling me I was like my father. The older I get the more right she is.
So thou through windows of thine age shall see
Despite of wrinkles this thy golden time.
I love these lines.
-
I see this as an aging woman who looks into a mirror seeing the changes that have take place. It seems the mother he is speaking of seems pretty to the outside world, yet is not so pretty inside of herself, regardless of how she has tried to renew her face. Then he switches to speaking of the husband whom the wife disdains because he seems to be full of himself, and it will be noted when he dies. And the next lines he goes back to the woman looking into the mirror seeing herself as her mother now that she has aged. He speaks of her seeing her aging, the wrinkles that are there. And he ends with a bit of a cryptic message saying, she will not be remembered when she is gone, and will die alone with no lasting memory.
It's a bit of a sad poem for me. I see it as aging, dying and not leaving anything behind.
I see glimpses of my mother and father in myself.
-
Maybe S. was talking to one of his male cohorts rather than to himself. When I read it over a few times, it still seems like it is addressed to a man. In particular, the reference to "For where is she...whose ...womb disdains...thy husbandry" (read: sperm donor).
I wonder if it was common for men of that era to speak openly with one another about the progressive state of their lineage?
-
Don't you just love it - we all see the action in this poem a little differently than each other - I think that is exactly what good poetry does - they say we become the authors in that we bring to a reading our own history and viewpoints based in our life experiences - and that seems to filter down to the smallest detail - reading this 3rd Sonnet is exactly that - who we each see is talking and based on that we even can make an assumption of what is important.
Leah, I too wonder if men saw the birth of the children in light of lineage - I think there is something to that in that titled people sure made an issue over who was eligible to whom for a union of marriage that would further the family lineage and most important the families titles with all the perks that went with a title as well as the responsibilities to the king and in addition the family wealth.
I got a kick reading your earlier post about your Croatian Grandfather - he wasn't the only one - when I was young it was a race among the girls as to who could marry first and who would start their family first - girls attending collage were only their to earn their MRS rather than BA or BS.
Personally it never occurred to me that my children were bits of me - I think I've always prized independence that I could only imagine my children as independent beings from the time the were in their highchairs. Only now that I see photos of the grandboys do I see similarities and also what amazes me is how many of my interests are their interests. That really shocks me - that many of the things I like to do they seem to be naturally good at and keep that interest.
Interesting Bellamarie you see a conversation going on in the poem and a women who sees herself age and it not as pretty inside that she cannot hide by renewing her face. And a husband full of himself that his wife sees as unworthy behavior. And sad of all that the women will die alone and not leave any memory of herself.
Oh yes, agree, that is sad. Sad thing when we do not feel worthy ourselves and are judging ourselves as not pretty on the inside and of course how we see ourselves is how we see others therefore her husband could only be seen as unworthy because if it wasn't one reason like being full of himself it would be another. And to feel that alone - how easy it is for folks to feel removed even from a loving God. There are many who live a life all alone but never feel lonely and others who live alone but feel loved - but to live lonely and without love - ouch - if prayers are heard it seems these are the people that need our prayers and it is Shakespeare's poem that helps to bring that message to us.
Karen, it is true isn't it how we are often a combination of our parents and our personality seems to favor one or the other. I find it difficult since my life is so different than the life my parents lived and their trials brought out different characteristics. It sounds like your parents had opposite personalities.
And yes, the one line especially "So thou through windows of thine age shall see" such a lovely way of saying time passes - "windows of thine age" - lovely imagery in those few words.
That last line "Die single, and thine image dies with thee." I was imaging hearing the beginning of Beethoven's 5th when that line is said - dada da dooom - or something that came from the pen of Mozart when writing his Requiem Mass - wow talk about drama...
Well - little did I know - as of tomorrow the Sonnet and art work will be in a different format - I was using a table and it turns out that Joan and PatH, have their connection so that the print is very large that enables an easier read - when showing even a small size graphic it grows huge when the computer is set up that way and pushes away the space for the the poem so that it is one word below the next word for the entire poem - can you just imagine how maddening that must be.
So now I know never to have a photo, if I want it to be seen, to be more than 300+ but less then 400 pixels in width or else all wording is shoved aside - and it is better not to combine two sides of a table because one side becomes so big it shoves to oblivion the other side - with all of that - if you followed - means the starting tomorrow the Sonnet will appear with a bit of a change in format so everyone can see it easily. -- I'm off to watch my Sunday night shows on PBS...
-
For those who see Sonnet IV about a man as "thy beauty's legacy"
(http://www.shakespeares-sonnets.com/Images/Essex01.JPG)
-
Definitions of a few words used in Sonnet IV
bequest - a legacy.
niggard - a stingy or ungenerous person.
largess - generosity in bestowing money or gifts upon others.
usurer - a person who lends money at unreasonably high rates of interest.
executor - a person who produces something or puts something into effect.
-
Our Sonnet for today - Sonnet IV - is on the next page where it will be easier to refer to as you write your comments -
-
Our Poetry Page Reads
Shakespeare Sonnets
2016 the world commemorates
400 years since the death of William Shakespeare.
(http://d13a6ytc0s97c3.cloudfront.net/uploads/listing/image/67/event_RS556808_36980_ROY210915_010-lpr.jpg)
April, 1616. A man died, but a legacy was born; one which proved
so essential not only to the development of
drama and literature, but to language, to thoughts and ideas.
A Sonnet a Day
July 1, till December 1,
We read in order, from 1 to 154
A Shakespeare Sonnet each day.
Welcome
Please share your comments about the day's Sonnet.
Link: First Post of Our Discussion on July 1 (http://seniorlearn.org/forum/index.php?topic=176.msg283685#msg283685)
Shakespeare Anniversary Links
- Shakespeare400 (http://www.shakespeare400.org/)
- Shakespeare 400 at The Globe (http://www.shakespearesglobe.com/400)
- Shakespeare 400 Chicago (http://www.shakespeare400chicago.com/)
- Dame Judi leads Shakespeare Day gala finale (http://www.bbc.com/news/entertainment-arts-36111591)
- Turning Shakespeare’s sonnets into short films (http://[url=http://www.pbs.org/newshour/bb/turning-shakespeares-sonnets-short-films/)
Discussion Leaders: Barb (augere@ix.netcom.com)
-
Shakespeare Sonnet IV
(https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-hmpcoEb83-I/UJJ3SREY_EI/AAAAAAAAByI/Mc7orbzQYS0/s320/il_570xN.316315857.jpg)
Unthrifty loveliness, why dost thou spend
Upon thyself thy beauty's legacy?
Nature's bequest gives nothing but doth lend,
And being frank, she lends to those are free.
Then, beauteous niggard, why dost thou abuse
The bounteous largess given thee to give?
Profitless usurer, why dost thou use
So great a sum of sums, yet canst not live?
For having traffic with thyself alone,
Thou of thyself thy sweet self dost deceive.
Then how, when Nature calls thee to be gone,
What acceptable audit canst thou leave?
Thy unused beauty must be tomb'd with thee,
Which, used, lives th' executor to be. |
William Shakespeare's Sonnet 4, read by Jamie Muffett.https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=PilUSrdYKQM (https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=PilUSrdYKQM)
-
S's writings seemed so obscure to me when I was younger, and now they give up more meaning and sense than I expected.
This sonnet, too, seems to me to be addressed to a male rather than a female (as the accompanying image suggests). S's speaker keeps hammering away at this theme/criticism/point of view from one sonnet to the next. It is amazing that he found so many ways to repeat the same message. Someone must not be listening which makes me wonder if it is a young person intent on his own way, or just oblivious to the info being offered. This last makes sense to ME since, as I stated at the start that S. was quite beyond my grasp when I was a young person. 🤔
The use of the many references to money-related terms certainly strips it of any association to romance or love. Unless you count the 'self-love' hinted at by "...having traffic with thyself alone,..."
The use of the terms "loveliness" and "beauty's legacy" in those days must have been equally descriptive of men and women - we might refer to a beautiful boy in referencing physical beauty/attractiveness; in my circles calling someone a beautiful man is more likely drawing attention to the intrinsic qualities he possesses that are more feminine in nature: gentle, tender, thoughtful, etc.
-
I have a very busy day today but wanted to pop in since I was gone all day yesterday. One thing I realized for myself is in reading these Sonnets, NOT t read anyone else's posts before reading and posting my own thoughts. I like feeling the poem with NO preconceived notion, definition of words or another's feelings. It's really fun experiencing them as a the novice I am, and allowing just myself to read, think, feel and express what is happening at this very moment of reading it.
I'm really enjoying these very much!! Be back later after all the July 4th celebrating. Happy 4th to everyone!
-
I agree Leah. I wondered when I was young what was so special about the sonnets. They were hard to understand and I really couldn't figure them out very well. A friend helped me write an essay for my lit class on the sonnet that has the phrase "bare ruined choirs" in it. When I couldn't figure out what it meant, she went through the sonnet explaining the images to me. How the heck did I write a paper on something that I didn't get? Do you suppose "life's experience" brings more meaning and relevance to them?
In Sonnet IV there seems to be some expectation that beauty is to be used in some way other than pleasing oneself. So, I am guessing that one must not just masturbate but must attract a man or a woman who will bear your child or give you a child. Otherwise your beauty has been wasted and will go to the tomb with you.. The implication here through all we have read so far is that to not bear children was to waste your life.
-
I'm with you Leah "S's speaker keeps hammering away at this theme/criticism/point of view from one sonnet to the next." Golly - I had no idea there were that many arguments to be made to convince someone their only worth on this earth was to bare children. Now this attitude, that still thrives among those from the Middle East ties it together making sense. I may not agree but then, I am lucky to be living in the west at this time in history when our worth is not measured only by our having children.
But to the poetry - Yes, good thought, Shakespeare does not seem as difficult as it was to us when we were younger - I wonder if part of that was not only our trying to measure up for a good grade as well as, not reading it for enjoyment or - I remember actors going on about how difficult and now I wonder if that was affectation - In other words an ego thing where they have to lay it on thick about the difficulty of doing Shakespeare which then kept the plays in the highest echelon of goal setting for an actor.
But then, fair is fair and my thought is that as we age we've read so many books and are aquatinted with more and more words so that we not only do not shy from new words but we can see the connections to other words and so we can dope it out. I also think it helps not to be reading poems without the sing song mannerism many of us used and was considered acceptable as we read poetry aloud. Well whatever the reason Leah, I am glad you are finding it an easier read.
Yep, for sure Bellemarie - to have that fresh new read so we can detect for ourselves what is being said and almost like walking through a garden in a park - we can stop and enjoy and question the names of flowers and other plants that catch our eye at our own pace. Sounds good that you are reading the Sonnets for your own enjoyment and understanding - great...!
Oh lordy Karen the dreaded class essay - well you are with us so you pulled through. "bare ruined choirs" was it ;) we will have to remember when we get to Sonnet 77 that it was your school essay nemesis.
"In Sonnet IV there seems to be some expectation that beauty is to be used in some way other than pleasing oneself." Yes Karen, and I have mixed attitudes - not feelings because feelings depend on which take is used.
In one breath it sounds like - baby making is all we are good for - our only value or worth - the only thing important in our life which was/is to use our beauty to pass on to the next generation because if we do not than we do not have any worth at all. No matter the gardens we tend and create, or the needlework we stitch or the joy we encourage in a household - none of that matters unless we have children.
Then in the other breath I think beauty is a gift and like finding a penny, it only brings luck when you pass it on, so that to pass on this gift seems noble and a loving thing to do.
I also like the line "Nature's bequest gives nothing but doth lend," which yes, is like yesterday's Sonnet about the wrinkles of age taking over the beauty of youth but it says "lend" which to me is special - thinking how often something you would like to borrow and there is no one that has it to lend - so I am back to Nature bequeathing a gift of beauty even if it is for lend.
Also I wonder, the poor souls - the women who are barren - were they considered a waste - there was Henry the VIII, not only setting aside a loved first wife because she was barren but then, off came their heads if they did not produce a son. I cannot believe he was the only one on earth with this attitude or that it was reserved just for kings. No wonder the saying, "keep them barefoot and pregnant" - the implications of that saying are monstrous when you realize barefoot was not much different than tying a pet dog up with a leach.
Reading this it is too easy for me to go off on a tangent. It takes me a minute or so to accept that is the way it was and so I may as well get on with it.
I do think this Sonnet was a smoother read - somehow it flowed and the words we no longer regularly use were not so foreign. I must say though, I was fine and thought it lovely till the phrase "Profitless usurer,". That was when my heckles rose from the back of my neck right into my head - ;D :D probably my blood pressure :P shooting up - anyhow all fun aside - that was a low blow - calling a women and a pretty young thing at that a "usurer" - grrrr.
And so like you Leah, not only was there no romance it was down right insulting - and he wants to have babies with her???? Sheesh...! And then he tops it off with "What acceptable audit canst thou leave?" I would give him an audit - send him packing with such a smile he would never know what hit him. No Romeo is he...!
Haha the poem brings inner fireworks on the 4th of July - oh oh oh life can really be funny at times.
-
One thing I realized for myself is in reading these Sonnets, NOT to read anyone else's posts before reading and posting my own thoughts. I like feeling the poem with NO preconceived notion, definition of words or another's feelings.
Bellamarie, I totally agree with you. I'm doing the same thing. These are multilayered poems, and we all pull different things out of them. If you read someone else's interpretation first, it may distract you from seeing what you are attuned to see in the poem, and you miss your unique view. If someone else says something you didn't think of, you can either decide you think they're wrong or see how it fits into what you think.
-
PatH you posted while I was cleaning up my post - I do that - I think I am saying what is on my mind and then when it is in post form even if I had it in Word, once it hits the page the post is not as clearly saying what I want to say - so I am correcting and changing phrases and and and - and did not notice you had joined us -
I am glad you picked up on what Bellamarie is doing for herself - sounds good doesn't it - we can so easily give more attention agreeing or disagreeing with the idea of another poster that we loose that fresh read and our own reaction.
Hope you and Joan can see the poems clearer with the new format - looking forward to your impressions...
-
Barb, you were posting while I was writing. These first sonnets, and those for a while more, seem to be variations on the same story. Beauty (probably moral as well as physical) is both admirable and important. Beauty fades with age and time, but it can be perpetuated in our progeny, in whom we see our former beauty reborn. In addition, beauty unshared is wasted, unappreciated by anyone.
(Just in case anyone groans at the thought of half a year of sonnets saying this, he goes off on other themes after a bit.)
This sonnet doesn't mention progeny; it's about the waste of beauty unshared. The sonnets are beginning to look more and more like a courtship (marriage or seduction, or plea for children, pick which you want). Maybe he even felt he had to come up with the weekly sonnet. Anyway, we can enjoy watching how many ways he can say almost the same thing in gorgeous language. I'm betting on Shakespeare to keep us entertained.
-
OK Barb, now I was writing while you were posting. I never had any trouble with the format of picture/text. I use a Mac with Safari, and my problems are different and don't exist here. Joan just recently got stuck in acquiring the new PC system, and that's probably the problem. She's no doubt celebrating the Glorious Fourth with her extended family, and will report when possible.
-
Unthrifty loveliness, why dost thou spend
Upon thyself thy beauty's legacy?
When I look at the picture of the beautiful woman and then read these two lines it's as if Shakespeare is saying, why waste your beauty, as if he is speaking to the woman being vain.
Nature's bequest gives nothing but doth lend,
And being frank, she lends to those are free.
Here I see him telling her that nature gives us beauty, it costs nothing, and all are able to enjoy it freely, who are able to come outside of themselves to receive it.
Then, beauteous niggard, why dost thou abuse
The bounteous largess given thee to give?
I see him seeing this beautiful woman being so vain, that she does not see an inner beauty of importance, because she is too busy trapped in worrying about her outer image.
Profitless usurer, why dost thou use
So great a sum of sums, yet canst not live?
For having traffic with thyself alone,
Thou of thyself thy sweet self dost deceive.
It appears she is all wrapped up in herself, she is not able to enjoy life with others. Self centeredness. She is imprisoned in herself.
Then how, when Nature calls thee to be gone,
What acceptable audit canst thou leave?
She is so busy worrying about herself and beauty, that she is not leaving anything of importance after she dies. She has not given of herself, so others will remember her for something of worth.
Thy unused beauty must be tomb'd with thee,
Which, used, lives th' executor to be.
Here he is telling the beautiful woman that she will die and take her beauty with her, but what good will that all be when she has not made any lasting relationships in her life.
This reminds me of Proverbs 31:30 Charm is deceitful and beauty is vain, But a woman who fears the LORD, she shall be praised.
(http://www.iliketoquote.com/img/2348.jpg)
(http://www.coolnsmart.com/images/cns/inner-beauty-can-be-seen-through-heart.jpg)
-
I love reading all your thoughts and take on these sonnets.
-
Bellamarie love the graphics but we have to make them smaller - I will adjust them for you and then you can see what I've done by modifying your message and seeing the addition I made to the instructions - we gotta stay below 400 pixels - if you hit with your left hand the button on the bottom of you computer typing area that say Ctrl and then with your right hand and without letting go of Ctrl move the wheel on the mouse you will see the letters enlarge - some of our posters as they age they need the larger letters - Joan usually makes her letters really large and if you notice by enlarging the letters, once adjusted all the posts show up with not only large letters but with very very large graphics that become so large it causes a problem since the width is larger than the posting area -
We just went though all this among those of us who prepare discussions as we attempted to figure it out - We finally figured out what was happening when I was trying to use a table and show the graphic next to the poem and why it was causing havoc - the solution - all you have to do is adjust any graphic to have a width smaller than 400 and the length will take care of itself in perfect relationship to the width chosen - so if you look at your post again by hitting modify you will see all the instructions you used and the change to the instructions for the two graphics. Thanks Bellamarie.
-
Yes, that was a good match wasn't it - to see beauty as more than the face but as inner beauty. So many bits of wisdom that can be seen in these Sonnets - no wonder the man is so revered for his work.
I like the bit where you say, "nature gives us beauty, it costs nothing, and all are able to enjoy it freely" - of course the poem is focused on a person but the concept of beauty in nature that costs nothing - how easily we take it for granted - We have gone all out this year celebrating the 4th because the ground is soaked and the lakes and river are full to the brim - it feels like all that was parched by the 4 year drought is full and chubby rolling - we even have fireflies back so the safety of fireworks display that had to be cancelled for two years in a row is a celebration that we are all enjoying.
It is nice to be reminded how beauty in nature is free that we can freely enjoy.
-
Shakespeare Sonnet V
(https://static.houselogic.com/content/images/winter-plants-camellia-japonica_ba677c1008a346e7857620423b275d7c.jpg)
Those Hours, that with gentle work did frame
The lovely gaze where every eye doth dwell,
Will play the tyrants to the very same
And that unfair which fairly doth excel:
For never-resting Time leads Summer on
To hideous Winter and confounds him there;
Sap check'd with frost and lusty leaves quite gone,
Beauty o'ersnow'd and bareness every where:
Then, were not summer's distillation left,
A liquid prisoner pent in walls of glass,
Beauty's effect with beauty were bereft,
Nor it, nor no remembrance what it was.
But flowers distill'd though they with winter meet,
Leese but their show; their substance still lives sweet.
|
William Shakespeare's Sonnet 5, read by Jamie Muffett.https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=ip-XmB8clCQ (https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=ip-XmB8clCQ)
-
Barb, Thank you for modifying the pic. I was trying to make them smaller but was not sure how to do it. Just when I think I have mastered it, poof, NOT so!. :)
-
To hideous Winter and confounds him there
Hmmm.... seems our Mr. Shakespeare is not so fond of winter. In this sonnet for me Shakespeare is seeing the beauty of the different seasons and sees winter takes away the beauty of mother nature. I also see him showing us that time will undoubtedly march us into yet another season, wiping out the beauty of the prior, yet summer's beauty still remains like the bulbs waiting underground to spring up yet again.
I love watching seasons change, so for me I loved this sonnet. I love when winter's blanket of snow covers up everything for just a bit of time, knowing that Spring will bring new life, and with new life comes renewed faith and hope. Each season brings it own beauty for us who live in the Northern part of the country, we get to experience the beauty of the drastic changes that occur. I get so excited as one season leaves, and the next one comes.
-
Adding to Bellamarie's seasonal scope, I was pulled into the extended metaphor about aging, the sometimes subtle, yet relentless, slide from one human season to the next - with the reminder that like the flowers we may lose our "show", our physical self, yet our essence is what remains in memory just as the scent of the flowers can be pleasantlys recalled when they have been distilled into...perfume, I guess.
I really like Bellamarie's image of the "bulbs waiting underground waiting to spring up yet again."
I wondered about the capitalized reference to the "Hours", so I did a search for poetic references to that and found:"Greek Myth “The Horae”, the daughters of “Zeus” and “Themis” namely “Thallo (Spring), Auxo (Summer) and Carpo (Fall). “ That was kind of neat!
-
PAT was right, I was tied up with my family yesterday, and didn't get in, so am looking at two sonnets.
BARB: THANK YOU so much for changing the format! it makes the poems so much easier to read!
" Yes, good thought, Shakespeare does not seem as difficult as it was to us when we were younger - I wonder if part of that was not only our trying to measure up for a good grade as well as, not reading it for enjoyment "
I've often thought that the function of many poor English Lit teachers is to make us feel that we're too stupid to read English lit. Once we can get free of that, and realize that these are OUR poems, given to US, to make WHATEVER WE WANT TO out of them, then it becomes fun.
In defense of Shakespeare, going on and on with the same idea, I like to think of him: playing with this idea, trying to find the best way to express it. No. this way. No. that's better, etc.
-
I have thought a lot about teaching English literature as I did also teach high school lit. I don't think anyone ever taught me how to read literature. They just gave me The Scarlet Letter and said, "Read the first five chapters and be ready for a quiz." I generally had the big picture when I read, but I had a terrible time remembering details. I never took notes over any book I read in high school or college. I just didn't know how. The same is true with poetry. I would read all the poetry in my anthology for pleasure and did develop a love of Robert Frost, but I loved the sound of the poem or the story. My experience with Sonnet 73 and my essay. No one ever told me, Barbara, to just enjoy the poem. Or analyzed a poem with me. I learned to be a decent English teacher. I could have been better if I knew then what I have learned reading Great Books.
-
You have no idea how much I have been enjoying this - letting ourselves be expressed through what we read - fabulous - more so because, reading how y'all are enjoying each Sonnet has me looking at the phrases with a new eye - I tend to philosophize everything I read and dwell on the metaphor to our life or various aspects of life today - but reading how each of you share something different is just wonderful.
Somewhere, and I have shared it in the past - there is a bit that says that once an author releases their work it is no longer their work - each reader brings to the read their personal history and life experiences so, each viewpoint comes from what the reader brings to the read - some readers are married some not, some have lived in one section of the country and others experience the unique differences within several areas of the country - some of us come from a large family others small, some from a close or gregarious family and others experience a distance from family members - Our religion or moral values are different and our ages allowed us different historical memories and so, of course, we see the same words but shaded differently based on all we bring to our read.
Yes, there are books teaching the various components of a poem that helps us better understand what the poet is stressing - for instance, if several words in a row start with the same letter of the alphabet or, several words follow each other with the word endings sounding the same regardless if they are spelled the same - sure, that is a clue that says 'this is important' - but this discussion is not about uncovering what Shakespeare decided was important -
As an earlier post - there are a ton of books that do analyze and tear into the poem but, we do not have to repeat what authors have deduced in their many books - part of enjoying poetry is hearing its song - seeing the mind pictures a poem creates for us. If some words hit a button - great - share - we can all enjoy where our minds wander because of the poem.
It helps to say the poem aloud just as listening to leaves rustle in Autumn - Adds a memory moment, a connection with trees that allows us to sink into autumn and so too, reading a poem aloud - if there is a reading of the Sonnet on youtube available then it is added at the bottom of the post.
This is our time to relax and float in words - to catch the ideas that Shakespeare shares - Feel the joy of words that are placed one after another but not strung along as we carry on a conversation, there is an other worldliness about them.
To repeat from an earlier post - Tell us about your first reaction – After your second read were you moved – Did you catch something you did not catch in the first reading - was there a particular phrase that caught you as you read - Then after your third read, what emotions within yourself did the poem touch. Did Shakespeare pull you in? What did you find appealing about the 14 lines declaring an aspect of love - - -
-
Ah Bellamarie the seasons - when I was young we lived for many years with all four seasons - but soon after my first babies were born we moved back to the south and then when they were a little older we moved here to the deep south were Winter is some years a weekend or a month or maybe two months but the summer is long and hot, usually from May to October. The only quickening of the breath around here is when the first norther blows in and we all sigh with relief and then a couple of weeks later a colder norther has us all scramble for firewood. There are so few times we can enjoy our fireplaces - many turn on the AC to have a fire during the holidays. And so, it was a special treat to hear how you enjoy a blanket of snow and could share a mental picture of bulbs growing in frozen earth beneath the snow that contain the memory of summer.
Leah what a treat - to pick up on "Hours" written with a capitol H and find it relates to "The Horae" - we know from our other discussions about the work of Shakespeare that he did read Ovid and other Greek writers - that was a great bit of sleuthing that gave us all a perk - so "The Horae" is about three seasons, daughters of Zeus and Themis, and sisters of the Fates - here they are...
(http://www.theoi.com/image/K17.1Horai.jpg)
Here is a link to their story...
http://www.mlahanas.de/Greeks/Mythology/Horae.html
And then you further share the metaphor of aging - we hear so often, the winter of our lives - as well as, white hair is referenced as snow - Oh and Steinbeck's "The Winter of Our Discontent" which is from Shakespeare's Richard III, Gloucester: Now is the winter of our discontent. Made glorious summer by this sun of York;
I wonder when this Sonnet was written - I wonder if Shakespeare wrote Richard III before or after he wrote this Sonnet since there is this similarity.
Don't you just love all of this and then Joan you can read the work - how great is that - we are glad you can add to our enjoyment of these Sonnets.
Yes, that is so true Joan - we will see many ways that the same theme will be worked into a poem - reminds me of classical music - a symphony is the same theme in variations - somewhere there is the information that there really is only three main themes in all these 154 Sonnets and so it appears we will see 154 ways to put in poetic format these themes. Now that is exciting - really - think how often the various gurus tell us to keep on asking - to repeat yourself feels foolish - now, from the master, we will learn how to say the same thing in 154 different ways - wow...
Ah ha we have a retired teacher among us - a lit teacher at that - fabulous Karen - I bet you have enough stories of how various students learn and what they brought to the classroom to write a book.
Yep Karen, close the books of 'How" and just read the poem - read it over and over a few times - read it outloud - hear the words and note the images that come to mind - better than mediating - we are aiming here for a relaxed murmur of our sub memory to float to the surface and fill you with the scent if you will - the scent of the poem.
I just know we are going to have to throw each other a safety line to keep us anchored to the earth ;) - yep, a fun image of us reading and enjoying these Sonnets.
-
The first couple of lines is where I had so much trouble - then it hit me - I am so used to seeing a line ending as if it were a whole thought and no, this is not exactly a sentence since it ends with a comma but the comma ends the thought.
Those Hours,
that with gentle work did frame The lovely gaze where every eye doth dwell,
At first the image of being a young homemaker when the hours were filled with dusting and hanging out laundry and cooking meals - that was my measurement of time - the daily tasks repeated that working Real Estate there is NO repetition of anything. It is like a speeding locomotive navigating the twists and turns of tracks that lead to a closing. Days and weeks and months of new problems every day. I like helping people but I must say I had far more joy in the regular tasks that I took such pride in as a homemaker.
Off the track of the poem which appears to tell me, lovely hours that will also excel in playing the tyrant - oh do I know that feeling when there is a special occasion coming and I have so much crowded into the hours that time seems a tyrant scolding me to hurry up - just as (a glorious summer of) creative plans leads to my winter of discontent so that, my glorious ideas for celebrating the special occasion become a burden that I cannot abandon - Oh, I bemoan, how did I ever think it was a good idea or that I could do what was needed to pull it off.
And yes, what keeps me going, after the first couple of excursions into preparing special occasions taught me that after all the pressure and stress and hard work it will be glorious and it will be all I imagined, in fact more than I imagined - It always is.
So I tell myself, I best not focus on the end product and just enjoy the winter with all the work, pressure and forget the stress knowing, I've handled many a catastrophe and pulled it off and I will again and again - hmm I wonder how I will handle the catastrophe of my death - maybe it won't be a catastrophe but another celebration of a special occasion - yep, that is how I will look upon it - just decided - never thought of that before - thanks Shakespeare.
-
Shakespeare Sonnet VI
(http://www.historicalportraits.com/ArtWorkImages/Van%20Dyck%20follower%20Charles%20I%20Chlildren%20l.jpg)
Then let not Winter's ragged hand deface
In thee thy summer, ere thou be distill'd:
Make sweet some vial; treasure thou some place
With beauty's treasure, ere it be self-kill'd.
That use is not forbidden usury,
Which happies those that pay the willing loan;
That's for thyself to breed another thee,
Or ten times happier, be it ten for one;
Ten times thyself were happier than thou art,
If ten of thine ten times refigur'd thee:
Then what could Death do, if thou shouldst depart,
Leaving thee living in posterity?
Be not self-will'd, for thou art much too fair,
To be Death's conquest and make worms thine heir. |
William Shakespeare's Sonnet 6https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=KVm0i8eLLmA
-
I taught at a small high school in Maine (I know winter well!) Autumn began the process every year of taking summer from me. I grew paler and paler and ever more tired as Fall became winter - -long winter. Winter frequently began with a snowstorm in late October or early November and often continued through April.
My major teaching assignment was all levels of World and US History, but when they had an extra English class, I was their woman. So I was thinking about why Shakespeare was so insistent that the only way to live on was to have a child. Otherwise Death conquers you and worms become your hair. The focus in the Renaissance was on the individual rather than society. The goal of life was to "be all you could be," become a person who excels in everything. Perfecting oneself in all areas became a life goal. So, it follows that one would want his perfect self to live on forever. It also follows that one might become selfish, proud, arrogant with no regard for others. Shakespeare reminds "him" that in this Sonnet and Sonnets 1-5 that to live on one must
Make sweet some vial; treasure thou some place
With beauty's treasure, ere it be self-kill'd.
This is an interesting contrast to the Middle Ages where one lived to die because that was the only way to get your "reward" - - being in heaven with God.
-
Then let not Winter's ragged hand deface
In the first line, once again Shakespeare seems to look at winter in a harsh way. Myself, I love winter even when the snow is in blizzard form and ice is hanging off the trees. Living in Michigan/Ohio I look forward to winter, as soon as Halloween and Thanksgiving roll around I begin getting excited because I know the cold, snow, ice and freeze is coming. I look forward to months of wrapping up in sweatshirts, flannel pjs, wooly sweaters, and my dog lying beside my feet. I love the feel of cold days just sitting in the house, with my afghan, hot drink, fireplace going and reading a book, or watching marathons of dvr I need to catch up on. Winter is my time that tells me to slow down and really appreciate life, especially when we get hit with a foot of snow and the world has to come to a stop! We had the best times being snowed in with the kids home playing board games all day long...... I'm thinking Shakespeare needed to experience winter from my point of view. :)
I'm seeing the importance Shakespeare is putting on leaving behind generations, of thyself in these lines.
That's for thyself to breed another thee,
Or ten times happier, be it ten for one;
Ten times thyself were happier than thou art,
If ten of thine ten times refigur'd thee:
He seems to be saying if you have offspring to share life with, and to leave after you die, it will bring much happiness into your life and even in your death.
Be not self-will'd, for thou art much too fair,
To be Death's conquest and make worms thine heir.
When I read this it instantly made me think of how self-willed I can be, and I don't find it a very attractive trait in myself or others.
-
BARB: "I just know we are going to have to throw each other a safety line to keep us anchored to the earth ." It's one of those days with blue skies and puffy white clouds, do I think I'll lie on a cloud and read the poem.
Oh, the seasons! I live in Southern California, where the temperature is from 60 to 80 all year long, and flowers bloom all year. AND I MISS THE SEASONS SO MUCH!
When flowers are always there, you forget to look at them! it's almost like we need the winter to have the Spring. I miss the leaves in fall and the snow in winter (I watch every TV program I can find about Alaska).
When I moved here, a friend told me that people here complain about the weather just as much as in my old home (Washington D.C.) I didn't believe her, but it's true! If the temperature goes up to 85 or (heaven forbid) down to 55, or if a rainstorm lasts more than 5 minutes, everyone complains (including recently me).
I laugh at that, but maybe it's good! Maybe we NEED bad weather, so that we can appreciate the good! And if we're forced to redefine bad, we'll do it. it shows we're still paying attention: still appreciating the differences and variety, small or large.
-
Wow Karen the northern winter you experienced sounds longer then our hot summer in this part of the country. I would have had you for class because I love world history and geography even as a grade school student - when I remember High School English Lit I was in high cotton. I loved that we all read certain books each year. Freshman year it was Ivanhoe, Sophomore year it was Macbeth, Junior year it was Les Misérables and Senior Year it was Hamlet and of course in our required Latin class we read the Punic Wars.
Poetry I remember from grade school - each week we had to memorize a poem that was in our spelling book - each day there were a list of words to learn to spell and on Thursday there was a poem to learn that we each stood up and recited in class on Friday.
Much has changed in the curriculum since those days. As to "Perfecting oneself in all areas became a life goal." I think we are back at it or maybe it never went away with all the advise books on how to live and how to be successful. Yes, I can see how easily the poem suggests unless you procreate you are "selfish, proud, arrogant with no regard for others."
It takes reading something like these Sonnets to realize how fortunate we are to have more choices than to be alive just to assure the continuation of mankind.
Ah Bellamarie - sounds like you experience winter to its fullest - your description of a day at home between wooly sweaters, hot drinks next to the fireplace and board games with the children sounds idyllic. But I can give Shakespeare a break - we have seen many a movie with Bob Cratchit blowing on his finger tips wearing gloves as he pens the accounts and that was in the nineteenth century. I can barely imagine how difficult winter must have been in the sixteenth century.
My daughter lived in a cottage for a couple of year without any central heat and only fireplaces to keep them warm - not fun - it was only warm about 5 to 6 feet from the fireplace and these were small rooms, not a big drafty theater or, having been in Shakespeare's childhood home in Stratford-upon-Avon those rooms were larger and more open - and come to think of it - forgot till now - those beds were mighty small - talk about cuddling - OK when you are young but as we age - I like my space.
Back to the poem - All those 10s - 10 times and 10 for one and another 10 times and then a 10 of thine and finally another 10 times - me oh my - glad you made sense of it Bellamarie - I got tongue tied saying it. It seems to me he was promoting the idea of 10 children - sheesh... again I am glad we live today - I remember as a kid there were many families with 9,10 and 12 children - then when I was having my family it was still common for families to be 4 and 5 children. Now that the economy demands from most families 2 paychecks, having a passel of kids is almost child abuse. However, as the poem suggests, we would have a happier old age and death with a houseful of kids. I think with all those children their body heat would help warm up the room ;)
For me slipping and sliding over all those 10s about wore me out - had a difficult time getting into this Sonnet. It did not grab me as the others had - and the language did not flow for me either - I read the poem as more scoldy, telling me what to do, I felt annoyed -
The only bit that I did like was the first, "Then let not Winter's ragged hand deface In thee thy summer" - but like is probably not the word here - I instinctively retreated into some painful life experiences that I struggled through during a long time of spiritual winter - I felt ragged, I was not myself or the self I prefer that is hopeful and sees beauty all around - I was in a dark place trying not to infect others with my pox. A winter's ragged hand pops up on me as I experience unprepared, reminders. Winter is not my warm and happy time.
Instead of seeing death as worms in my hair I had decided it will be my special event and my spirit will plan on looking forward to a long summer. Not Spring - too windy and wet - not Autumn - too garish - and not for sure Winter with its spiritual pain and crippling cold - summer it is...
-
" Make sweet some vial; treasure thou some place
With beauty's treasure, ere it be self-kill'd."
Am I alone in thinking this is written to a man.
I can't stop thinking of Shakespeare's life in these poems. How much is he talking to himself? And how much is he referring to actual children versus (in spite of the sexual references) to his work?
-
Joan you could be on to something that this Sonnet is written to a man - and yes, that is another thought, what we are reading as obvious about seasons and children works as a metaphor to artistic production doesn't it - and all the 10 times fits so well if it were thought of as about the production of art - music, dance, theater, stories on paper, even including woodwork, needlework and handcrafts - yes, that is a great image to carry away from this poem - or at least I am thankful you brought it up - takes the feeling away from that Sonnet that puts me in a dark place to something that brings the joy of doing and the enjoyment of experiencing - the arts - thanks.
-
Barb,
had a difficult time getting into this Sonnet. It did not grab me as the others had - and the language did not flow for me either - I read the poem as more scoldy, telling me what to do, I felt annoyed -
Ahh.... nice to know I was not alone in feeling a bit frustrated with this sonnet. I read it several times and even listened to the audio on Youtube you provided and it did nothing for me. That's okay, I don't need everyone of them to stir something inside of me.
I love our Winter as much as I love the breaking of Spring with flowers popping through the ground, and the breathtaking beauty of Fall when football season begins and we rake piles of leaves and the grandkids jump in them and bury themselves, along with the annual trip to the pumpkin farm. I love the hot sunny summer days spent in our pool, and the lovely nights in the summer by our firepit, catching lighting bugs and roasting marshmallows and making Smores with the grandkids. I don't think I could ever live where the four seasons are not noticeable and enjoyable.
JoanK., Every day I wake up in the Spring and Summer I walk outside to see what flower is breaking through the ground, or is in bloom. I can't imagine living in a place where it is taken for granted having them. My hydrangeas and rose of sharon are just spectacular right now. My first flowers are the baby dahlias, crocus, hyacinths, lilacs and tulips, then come the Irises and azaleas and shasta daisies. Next comes the day lilies, roses, and asiatic lilies, and then the hydrangeas, rose of sharon and my balloon flowers. Each one I anticipate and take pictures of, I also always buy petunias and plant other misc. annuals. My 8 yr old grandson looked out my kitchen window and said, "Nonnie your backyard looks like the Garden of Eden." :)
-
JoanK, I'm often not able to puzzle out the gender ambiguity in these poems.
I can't stop thinking of Shakespeare's life in these poems. How much is he talking to himself? And how much is he referring to actual children versus (in spite of the sexual references) to his work?
I like the notion that he's referring to his work too.
This poem carries on a notion from the previous poem. In sonnet #5, he brings up the notion of the essence of flowers being distilled and concentrated, and here in #6, the person he's talking is urged to distill his/her essence (children, work, whatever) into a vial.
I had a lot of trouble with the language though. There are some plays on words that i was too lazy to puzzle out.
-
Bellamarie - the seasons - in all their glory - reminds me also of Leah's find yesterday on the word with a capitol H that opened another association with the seasons as the Greeks honored them
PatH you also found the language on this Sonnet a challenge - bringing to our attention there is in the poem a play on words opens us to another look at the poem - we could actually spend time on each of these Sonnets with so many viewpoints that are brought to our attention. However we are going for the arch of the entire collection - never read them in order, have you?
Connecting the two poems, as you PatH brought to our attention, is the distillation of liquid as a metaphor for her youthful sweetness Make sweet some vial; where as in Sonnet 5 her youth and beauty is also liquid within a glass container A liquid prisoner pent in walls of glass Both Sonnets describe her summer youthful beauty, held within a container of glass in such lovely and gentle language.
Maybe that is the trick to this Sonnet 6 - look for the loveliness in a phrase rather than attempt to make a memorable story out of the 14 lines.
Wouldn't that be a 'stop-for-moment-and-smell-the-roses' way to admire a glass of water or ice tea - A liquid prisoner pent in walls of glass without even thinking a metaphor, just for the loveliness of the words.
-
Shakespeare Sonnet VII
(https://s-media-cache-ak0.pinimg.com/736x/c1/c9/70/c1c970a0e882d4c99b88c98e2cd297bf.jpg)
Lo, in the orient when the gracious light
Lifts up his burning head, each under eye
Doth homage to his new-appearing sight,
Serving with looks his sacred majesty;
And having climb'd the steep-up heavenly hill,
Resembling strong youth in his middle age,
yet mortal looks adore his beauty still,
Attending on his golden pilgrimage;
But when from high-most pitch, with weary car,
Like feeble age, he reeleth from the day,
The eyes, 'fore duteous, now converted are
From his low tract and look another way:
So thou, thyself outgoing in thy noon,
Unlook'd on diest, unless thou get a son. |
William Shakespeare's Sonnet 7https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=EblaS2U2bxA
-
orient: the east.
the gracious light: the sun.
his burning head: Helios, the sun god
each under eye: the eyes of all those beneath him.
the steep-up heavenly hill: Phoebus climbs up the steep slope of the sky.
high-most pitch: highest elevation.
car: chariot.
reeleth from the day: plunges downward.
converted: turned away.
out-going...noon: passing beyond your prime.
diest: act of sex
Tell us about your first reaction
After your second read were you moved – Did you catch something you did not catch in the first reading - was there a particular phrase that caught you as you read
Then after your third read, what emotions within yourself did the poem touch. Did Shakespeare pull you in? What did you find appealing about the 14 lines declaring an aspect of love - - -
-
The first reading, I was following the sun image, thinking in my literal way that it doesn't really fit (since here, we often go to the beach in the evening to admire the sun setting over the ocean).
Then I read your definitions: "diest: act of sex". Hmmm, THAT'S what he's talking about! Rereading it (from a man's point of view) it makes sense.
-
I had a similar reaction. The sun isn't anything like waning from noon on; it's often hottest in the afternoon, and as Joank points out, is much admired at sunset. But it does die after that, so he isn't totally off-base with his comparison, just in his symmetry. And even without Barb's illuminating definition, it's still the same message. If I were the man/woman Shakespeare was writing to, by now I'd be thinking "for Pete's sake, you've made your point--enough already". That said, he does find a lot of elegant ways to say the same thing.
-
I was tired when I first read this and nothing made sense. On second reading I saw the extended metaphor the daily journey of the sun. I was noticing last evening how high in the sky (Florida) the sun still is in the early evening. Of course, this is summer and I am south, but it draws my attention as I walk the dog. After "sunset" S. gets to the point. his call for the man this time is beyond have a child, he instructs, " get a son."
-
I also had a problem reading this and getting it - as Joan, you intimated the sun does not drop like a ton of bricks when it reaches its zenith - your key was the definition of Diest - Sorta knew that men refer to their act of sex as if they die for a minute -
The one that got me the first time I read the Sonnet with out the help of any definitions was, "each under eye" in "each under eye Doth homage to his new-appearing sight," I was thinking the literal under each eye - the place on our face as we age we are inclined to get 'bags' and so it was not making a whole lot of sense. What does this area of my face have to do with paying homage to the sight of someone newly appearing.
PatH what is funny - the timing on the sun setting is probably the only thing that is for today - during the sixteenth century with healthy life typically being much shorter the idea of the highest point of the sun being around noon similar to a man's strongest and most handsome time of his life fits. And yes, at noon the sun is straight up and would appear at the highest point as if at the top of a straight plumb line. Where as all of us, because of where we live, see the sun at its brightest and its longest span later in the afternoon before it reddens and starts its slide below the horizon.
Well the funny part is that up till about 15 years ago there were many books talking about the 7 phases of life or the 7 steps of life or the 7 stages of life - cannot remember the author any longer but can still see the cover of the book with the steps and the end of life that was charted in workbooks was age 65 - then another step was added - well Last I saw there is now 12 steps - and they see most of us living a full life till our late 80s which is considered the new zenith and then we quickly fall off that height with the majority meeting their end between 93 and 97.
And so both you PatH and Karen's view of the sun setting is probably closer to our reality today than either the reality of a life in the sixteenth century and even the mid to three quarters of the twentieth century.
PatH I love the way you see these Sonnets as all of a piece - as messages related to each other rather than individual and separate Sonnets - Love it... :) "you've made your point - enough already".
Karen you got it - all he is saying is - get a son - it is my instruction the sun is setting on your life and this is the answer to it all. :)
-
This was the last post space on the page and I did not realize it last night - it was a very long and very rough day working with a buyer - the Sonnet for today - Sonnet VIII is on the next page - Leah had posted before I caught the problem so she shared and her post is still at the bottom of the first post on the next page with the heading - sorry for the shuffle -
-
Our Poetry Page Reads
Shakespeare Sonnets
2016 the world commemorates
400 years since the death of William Shakespeare.
(http://d13a6ytc0s97c3.cloudfront.net/uploads/listing/image/67/event_RS556808_36980_ROY210915_010-lpr.jpg)
April, 1616. A man died, but a legacy was born; one which proved
so essential not only to the development of
drama and literature, but to language, to thoughts and ideas.
A Sonnet a Day
July 1, till December 1,
We read in order, from 1 to 154
A Shakespeare Sonnet each day.
Welcome
Please share your comments about the day's Sonnet.
Link: First Post of Our Discussion on July 1 (http://seniorlearn.org/forum/index.php?topic=176.msg283685#msg283685)
Shakespeare Anniversary Links
- Shakespeare400 (http://www.shakespeare400.org/)
- Shakespeare 400 at The Globe (http://www.shakespearesglobe.com/400)
- Shakespeare 400 Chicago (http://www.shakespeare400chicago.com/)
- Dame Judi leads Shakespeare Day gala finale (http://www.bbc.com/news/entertainment-arts-36111591)
- Turning Shakespeare’s sonnets into short films (http://[url=http://www.pbs.org/newshour/bb/turning-shakespeares-sonnets-short-films/)
Discussion Leaders: Barb (augere@ix.netcom.com)
-
Shakespeare Sonnet VIII
(https://upload.wikimedia.org/wikipedia/commons/c/c2/Jean-Antoine_Watteau_-_The_Country_Dance_-_Google_Art_Project.jpg)
Music to hear, why hear'st thou music sadly?
Sweets with sweets war not, joy delights in joy.
Why lov'st thou that which thou receiv'st not gladly,
Or else receiv'st with pleasure thine annoy?
If the true concord of well-tuned sounds,
By unions married, do offend thine ear,
They do but sweetly chide thee, who confounds
In singleness the parts that thou shouldst bear.
Mark how one string, sweet husband to another,
Strikes each in each by mutual ordering,
Resembling sire and child and happy mother
Who all in one, one pleasing note do sing:
Whose speechless song, being many, seeming one,
Sings this to thee: 'Thou single wilt prove none.' |
William Shakespeare's Sonnet 8https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=pZrk0Mldbzk
English Country Dances - 17Th Century Music https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=YkQzq5fOEK4
-
Leah's post is at the bottom of the heading - long rough day yesterday and had to shuffle things around today
Leah the songs are lovely - I do not think I have ever actually heard Mollie Cyrus so that was a treat and a lovely song she offered. thanks.
Be back much later today - I have monster problems trying to get these people their home...
-
LEAH: wonderful songs!
I can't say I understood the Joan of Arc one, (the third) but it brought tears to my eyes. My mother had promised as a child that she would name her oldest daughter after Joan of Arc: naturally, I've always been fascinated by her.
I can't say I understand the sonnet either: it seems to change in the middle. I love the image of the harmony of music being like the harmony of husband, wife, and child.
-
JoanK, I do not really "get it" either, but just like you, I always cry when I hear it. We must be getting it on some level, eh? ❤️
-
I really do not get this one at all, but I love Leah's music. I am really glad I don't have to write an essay on this one. I think we are still being encouraged to marry and produce that child.
-
Here's my attempt at what sonnet 8 is saying:
Why aren't you enjoying this sweet, joyful music? It's scolding you, but gently, showing, to your single voice, the order and harmony of well-matched voices singing together, like the members of a family, melding together to make one rich tapestry. You, being single, with your single voice, won't have this richness.
A rather idealized notion of family life.
-
I've peeked ahead. This argument doesn't go on forever, though it does for a little while yet.
-
Thanks for the spoiler, Pat!!! 😉
-
PatH: I should clarify: I am grateful!
After reading these few sonnets, I re-recognzed that having children was never been on my bucket list. From the beginning of this venture into S's sonnets, I must confess(?) a lack of - hmmm, empathy(?) with what registers in my 21st century mindset as his annoyingly persistent, seemingly overwrought concern about procreation.
That said, reading these few long-lived sonnets has made me aware of the vast historical evolution of the levels, layers & intensities of concerns shaping the social self in all its expressions. And I do feel more abundant for it. Ooo-la-wee!🙏
Namaste!
-
Are these getting more confusing to only me, or do others find them a bit difficult to "feel" what he is saying?
This for me is saying live life with happiness, enjoy the music like life, pleasing and accepting the things in life that brings you joy. He then seems to say that a string of music comes together, much like the union of family.
PatH., I read everyone else's post after I posted so I can see they were as confused, but it seems you and I were on the same wavelength with seeing the family unit in this Sonnett.
Leah, I think Shakespeare is very much about family, procreating being of much importance in life. Generations can only continue with having children to carry on the lineage. Those songs were very sad, I did not feel sadness in this sonnet for some reason, I felt hope and encouragement to live life and carry life on.
JoanK., Wow! Named for St. Joan of Arc. That sure sets a high standard to live up to for such a little girl growing up.
-
Well let's hope three is my lucky charm - what a day - I've written two other posts trying to remember what was in the fist and this is my third - the phone would ring and I would be searching for information and when finally over an hour later I could return to my post of course it was gone - maybe just as well I can start fresh.
This poem with the placement of words reminds me of high school attempting to translate Latin and having the Prepositions, adjectives and adverbs after the noun or verb.
He still seems to be speaking of the reasons to have children. But what struck me is the first sentence
Music to hear, why hear'st thou music sadly? there is so many inflections that can change the meaning of this question - one way it sounds almost plaintive another it sounds challenging 'Why' still another as if asking curiously and still one more as if challenging the very idea of even wasting time hearing music sadly.
The next phrase is no help at all - within just a few words he has sweet and war quite a dichotomy. Nothing harmonious about sweets with war
I too get the harmony with mother, father, child and further that the child resembles the parents.
The sentence that had me light up is, "Whose speechless song, being many, seeming one," oh oh oh how much fun - this is a time in history when music is no longer Plainchant or what is called Monophony, a melody most often sung by one voice or if more than one voice than they sing not in harmony but as one, in unison while the background singers sing a sorta drone sound - almost sounds as if imitating an organ or something.
This followed Polyphony where there were usually two voices with independent musical lines in harmony or two voices an octave apart singing the same music still in both instances with the drone type singers in the background holding it all together.
Well it was just around the time of Shakespeare's birth that Baroque music with the Fugue called Polyphonic became 'the' music - Harmony among voices and we hear less of the drone backing. Bach wasn't born till 1685 and the English composer Henry Purcell not till 1659 - any Baroque music Shakespeare could have heard would have been Monteverdi, born in Italy 1567, a revolutionary, marking the change from polyphony to the Baroque harmonies.
And so it was for me a delight to read the description of music as, "speechless song, being many, seeming one," which is a perfect description of Plainchant. Love it...
-
Oh I forgot the post never showed up where I talked to Joan - so glad in this discussion we have become like a kaffeeklatch group so that we can see the wonders we are all brining - yes, Joan, I too remember the stories of Joan of Arc - wow, that was a lot to live up to - just imagine a young girl the head of an army and they followed her into battle - amazing.
Looks like if nothing else we really had an opportunity to enjoy music prompted by this Sonnet - Leah your links were a stroke of genius - nice background while writing our posts.
PatH you saw that first question type sentence as if scolding - that is some sentence - it can have so many meanings can't it based on how you use your voice saying it - a whole play could be written differently with a different ending based on that one sentence alone.
Seems like it Karen that all the sonnet really says is get married and have children and then Leah says having children was never high on her list of life time achievements - Bellamarie sees the joy and has experienced the personal happiness of a family and sees the unity of family in the sonnet. My do we have a great group of diverse life experiences - don't y'all just love it. Really how often today do we get a group with so much diversity enjoying the conversation we are sharing.
Trying to think of what we know about women in the sixteenth and early seventeenth century I am thinking it may be more than having a look alike as a mirror to our youth but a women's entire economic future is in the hands of the children as well as, marriage was more of a legal arrangement with few the culmination of a love story between two people.
I guess it would be a good thing to look at what a women's life was about in the sixteenth century but frankly I would rather just enjoy the words, the associations that these Sonnets bring up, listen to the rhythm in the poem and see the underlying love, concern for our time here on earth and how we can add our influence to a not only our old age but into the future that is suggested in these Sonnets.
Well tomorrow my son and his wife come up and we spend the day - because of his surgery and then Sally burned herself bad enough to be in the hospital and then one of the twins graduated from Tech and that is a 9 hour trip to Lubbock - it was one thing after the other - so I'm really looking forward to their visit tomorrow.
-
Shakespeare Sonnet IX
(https://upload.wikimedia.org/wikipedia/commons/9/9f/Catherine_de_Medicis.jpg)
Is it for fear to wet a widow's eye
That thou consumest thyself in single life?
Ah! if thou issueless shalt hap to die,
The world will wail thee, like a makeless wife;
The world will be thy widow and still weep
That thou no form of thee hast left behind,
When every private widow well may keep
By children's eyes her husband's shape in mind.
Look what an unthrift in the world doth spend
Shifts but his place, for still the world enjoys it;
But beauty's waste hath in the world an end,
And kept unused, the user so destroys it.
No love toward others in that bosom sits
That on himself such murderous shame commits. |
William Shakespeare's Sonnet 9https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=9oRdDhFDv_M
Thomas Tallis 16c. Lamentationshttps://www.youtube.com/watch?v=yNAFeCLDSgE
-
In this sonnet I hear Shakespeare telling the widow, do not stay a widow especially if she has not yet had children. He seems to say to not waste beauty by not procreating. He is telling the widow she should not waste her ability to birth, to not use that given ability is to be a murderer to oneself.
After reading this a few times it reminded me of the scripture:
Jesus' Sermon on the Mount : Chapter 5: 13-16
13 ¶Ye are the salt of the earth: but if the salt have lost his savour, wherewith shall it be salted? it is thenceforth good for nothing, but to be cast out, and to be trodden under foot of men.
14 Ye are the light of the world. A city that is set on an hill cannot be hid.
15 Neither do men light a candle, and put it under a bushel, but on a candlestick; and it giveth light unto all that are in the house.
16 Let your light so shine before men, that they may see your good works, and glorify your Father which is in heaven.
Barb, Thank you for your insight and kind words, sees the joy and has experienced the personal happiness of a family
As I sense many of us in this book club has experienced personal happiness of family. I'm happy to hear your family will be coming for a much needed visit. Enjoy your time together!
-
BARB: you're great to keep this going amongst (Shakespeare is influencing me) all that stuff: good and bad! Hope it lightens up.
I'm still stuck on the last poem, and it's image of music. I love classical music, but my hold on dates is dim, but you're right; this could have been a time when polyphonic music was new and strange to people in the same way that the "modern" classical music of the twentieth century with it's "dissonance" seemed new and strange. And counterpoint might have seemed like discord. like the idea of counterpoint: three instruments, each doing it's own thing, but blending together as a whole.
-
In spite of the fact that many of these poems are addressed to a man, it has occurred to me that some of these poems might be talking to Queen Elizabeth! The fact that she didn't have an heir must have been of great concern to Englishmen, afraid that at her death, a bloody war of succession would break out.
I've just finished reading a book "The Year of Lear" by James Shapiro which points out how much of Shakespeare's writing in the year he wrote the play "King Lear" (1605-6) refers to the political issues of the day. I admit, that point of view is getting in the way of just enjoying the poems as poems.
-
JoanK: The mention of Lear jumped out at me. A couple of my friends are from Boston and New Jersey - their accents always transform 'Leah' into 'Lear' which became a nickname that I always liked (never having had a nickname before.) Don't know the story of King Lear, though.
-
Leah, you definitely don't want to end up like King Lear. Remember, it's a tragedy.
JoanK, I like your notion of the poems talking to Queen Elizabeth. I can just imagine her reaction to being nagged for an heir to the throne, though. She used her unmarried state as a powerful political tool, threatening to make alliances by marriage, but never doing so.
-
This sonnet definitely seems to be addressed to a man; he's accused of not wanting to marry because, if he dies first, he'll leave a grieving widow. But a widow has her children for consolation, and if he never marries, the world will be like a barren widow, with no consolation.
Why is Shakespeare urging a man to marry and have children?
-
I wrote this about another sonnet, but it's what I think:
So I was thinking about why Shakespeare was so insistent that the only way to live on was to have a child. Otherwise Death conquers you and worms become your hair. The focus in the Renaissance was on the individual rather than society. The goal of life was to "be all you could be," become a person who excels in everything. Perfecting oneself in all areas became a life goal. So, it follows that one would want his perfect self to live on forever. It also follows that one might become selfish, proud, arrogant with no regard for others. Shakespeare reminds "him" that in this Sonnet and Sonnets 1-5 that to live on one must
Make sweet some vial; treasure thou some place
With beauty's treasure, ere it be self-kill'd.
This is an interesting contrast to the Middle Ages where one lived to die because that was the only way to get your "reward" - - being in heaven with God.
-
JoanK.
In spite of the fact that many of these poems are addressed to a man, it has occurred to me that some of these poems might be talking to Queen Elizabeth! The fact that she didn't have an heir must have been of great concern to Englishmen, afraid that at her death, a bloody war of succession would break out.
Heavens forbid, am I the only one that sees Shakespeare addressing a woman? I sure am glad Joan commented about it might be him talking to Queen Elizabeth who had no heir. It's okay if I am the only one seeing him speaking of a woman, I rather like seeing it that way. ;)
-
Even though S. seems to address many/most of the sonnets to a male, anyone (man or woman) reading them (now or back in the day...) would ALL still hear the same urging to have children,etc. His message is clear, no matter the technicality of who it might be addressed to.
-
PatH: you have my attention - I will need to look into King Lear one of these days. (It will be awile though as I am reviewing all the posts from the OVID group. The translation I have is by Rolfe Humphries.)
-
aaaahhh I'm exhausted - great family visit and filled with all sorts of help - A power spray for the patio - A trimmed and manicured yard and dead branches removed - then cut up all the branches for pickup next week. We spread 7 bags of compost over the areas the sun parched - hand watered the herb garden and pulled weeds - hung curtains, did my cooked lemon trick with 3 pots, laundry caught up and clean sheets on the bed. Paul had a good visit with a neighbor that keeps his eye on me.
I remember doing all this on my own and thought nothing of it. Immediately after they left I took a hot shower and hit the bed for a 'short' nap - oh dear - here it is 9:30 at night after having slept since 5:30 Well for sure no more, 'I don't feel like it' - I just have to take a daily walk and get some strength back - this is ridiculous.
One piece of drama - the backyard had not been mowed in at least 4 or 5 weeks - since the fawns were born - oh oh oh were they frightened - flying around trying to figure out where to go - they had not been out of the backyard since they were born and of course moms was not around - the one was so beside itself it came crashing into the sliding glass door to the patio not once but twice till we opened the door and that did more to frightened the poor thing but all three left the yard - not only were humans back there but the loud sounds of mower, trimmer, blower, power washer. Well we shall see how long before they return - there are still some hidyhoe's for them under various bushes and vines but the grass is no longer thick and long to plop down and hide in where ever the mood struck them.
Hadn't thought of that Karen but yes, the medieval was about living for you place in the here after while the Renaissance was about self and self expression.
Says to me the medieval was a lot of grinding work to carve out a life with no time for anything but the basics so there has to be a reward someplace where as comparatively life was fuller with villages, roads, no traipsing across Europe and North Africa to rescue pilgrims and find the Holy Grail battling one group after the other and the Black Plague was no longer decimating the population and most of all governing systems were in place, within land boundaries and the church. There was so much order that folks were now taking on in ships the great seas to see what else was on this earth. What a contrast...
Leah interesting how when we simply read the Sonnet for enjoyment, some of us daydream the speaking is addressing a woman and others a man. I bet psychiatrists could have a field day with that difference. And yes, it is all about compelling the subject of the poem to have children.
Bellamarie noted the message as, "...to not waste beauty by not procreating." Like Bellamarie, I too like Joan's suggestion that it was really a message to the Queen - that really fits doesn't it - because for most folks there did not seem to be much urging required - unless Hollywood is completely depraved along with those writing about the era men seemed to plant their seeds willy nilly when ever and where ever desire struck - maybe it was cupid busy shooting his arrows while hidden in the clouds ;) - so that PatH asks the perfect question - "Why is Shakespeare urging a man to marry and have children?"
With all this prolific seed planting, lots of the seeds produced a harvest of children and the only ones whose gardens were behind high walls were upper class women whose family could contain her within their protective walls so that some women seemed to erect their own walls or barriers - and so to hear urging spoken to a man unless he is the kind that plants his seed than disappears and this is really about taking on the obligation of actually marrying - I thought this line was a wow-strong-over the top statement - "The world will be thy widow and still weep" - the WORLD mind you - wow... come to think on it with all the conflict in the world today what an apt saying, "The world will be thy widow and still weep" - if the world is not weeping I sure am...
Hmm I wonder if the rebut on the Sonnet is saying just that - settle down man and get with the married family-centered program. In other words, his seed planting is loveless - he is simply letting his body rule which is not being responsible to the ensuing child therefore, he is acting murderously shameful.
No love toward others in that bosom sits
That on himself such murderous shame commits.
Ah and we cannot forget the glorious tragedy, King Lear - have to wonder if that dichotomy is in our soul that we continue to create dualities and there difficulties as King Lear's dilemma rather than easily create harmonious unity.
Gosh a lot to think about in this days discussion - bits and pieces added that really has the wonderment mill going for us. I wonder this and I wonder that... no unity today but then we are not combining the sweetness of wondering with war either, are we... it is almost easier to wonder rather than have a settled conclusion. Ah so...
-
Shakespeare Sonnet X
(http://www.alexanderpalace.org/valse/p/empressmarie.jpg)
For shame deny that thou bear'st love to any,
Who for thyself art so unprovident.
Grant, if thou wilt, thou art beloved of many,
But that thou none lovest is most evident;
For thou art so possess'd with murderous hate
That 'gainst thyself thou stick'st not to conspire.
Seeking that beauteous roof to ruinate
Which to repair should be thy chief desire.
O, change thy thought, that I may change my mind!
Shall hate be fairer lodged than gentle love?
Be, as thy presence is, gracious and kind,
Or to thyself at least kind-hearted prove:
Make thee another self, for love of me,
That beauty still may live in thine or thee. |
William Shakespeare's Sonnet 10https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=4RGX5Yh_VbU
-
WOW! It seems Shakespeare is chastising this person about being self indulgent and self loathing. It appears the person is filled with hatred and Shakespeare is trying to encourage him or inspire him to choose love over hate, or at least be kind hearted. He then ends with saying to have a child that could live on in love of thine or thee.
It seems all of Shakespeare's sonnets so far really put the importance of procreating.
I have a friend who was an only son, who could carry on the family name. All his generations of uncles, grandfathers and father has passed on. He himself never had a son, only two daughters. So, when he dies the family name will no longer be carried on. Seems a bit sad, and I can see why Shakespeare would feel the importance of especially men, to have children hopefully sons, to carry on the family name. I do know my husband and I were very happy to have our two sons to carry on the Reinhart name, and now our oldest son had a son who will carry it on, hopefully generations to come.
-
First read and I had much trouble making sense out of "That 'gainst thyself thou stick'st not to conspire." Once I finally figured that out I could get the point being made. In other words I think the sentence means that the person is trying not to hate themselves.
Reading it out-loud and using various words to emphasis is neat - the first two lines sounds as if the speaker is exasperated that the man or woman (can't tell ) is actually loved by many and he, not only, does not love even one other but, has this murderous hate. Wow. Goes on to ask if hate should more important than gentle love. The speaker beseeches, almost to the point of begging that a change is made to love so that beauty can live in both the speaker and the one this Sonnet addresses.
I sure like the look of the snake eyes in the artwork - ha the kind of eyes we see often during evening traffic where there is a turn lane and those trying to jump the line going straight, use the turn lane and when it is our turn to move forward they snake eye you, wanting you to be the one to slow down so they can zoom ahead through the interchange where on the other side we are back to a one lane street. Or some parents use their snake eyes when they see one of their pre teen children about to do something unacceptable.
This sonnet as I read it (just my impression, not right or wrong) does not seem to be as heavy a hand hammering as you say Bellamarie "...the importance of procreating" it does seem to be more about again, as you say Bellamarie "...encourage him or inspire him to choose love over hate, or at least be kind hearted."
-
Sometimes Shakespeare's language gets in the way. The two footnotes in my book help a bit. "Stick'st" means "hesitatatest", and "roof"means "body". I think that Shakespeare is indeed arguing against hate, but it's tied in to procreating. He's saying that yes, people love you, but obviously you can't love them back, since you don't even love yourself enough to perpetuate yourself in children.
I bet that as we go along, we'll get very skilled at working through the language barrier. It's not trivial. The conventions of language were different then, and English was rapidly evolving as a language, so that words changed in meaning even during Shakespeare's life and certainly many have changed meaning since then. Barb, your suggestion to read the sonnet aloud was very helpful.
I'm eager for him to get on to whatever message is next.
-
For heaven's sake I would never have guessed roof meant body - interesting. Who is the publisher PatH on the copy of the Sonnets you own?
Interesting about reading these Sonnets aloud - looking on Youtube to find a link there are all manner's of folks who read these Sonnets - some with heavy British or Scottish accents and so many reading with this exaggerated drama - to me they sound rather silly - reminds me of kids in the 8th grade who have yet to see poetry as a comfortable read using words in a way to admire rather than, using words to tell a story so the words are secondary.
I think it is fun to see how these sentences change meaning by emphasizing certain words or with various inflections of the voice... the more I read this way the more I am amazed at the assumptions we all make reading the written word - I wonder if there are more words used to explain how a word in the sentence is said or what is means than is necessary rather than used less words to just share the bones of the story.
-
Shakespeare Sonnet XI
(https://remedianetwork.files.wordpress.com/2015/10/1-a-physician-and-a-surgeon-attending-to-a-woman-patient-oil-painting-by-mathijs-naiveu.jpg?w=710)
As fast as thou shalt wane, so fast thou growest
In one of thine, from that which thou departest;
And that fresh blood which youngly thou bestow'st
Thou mayst call thine when thou from youth convertest.
Herein lives wisdom, beauty and increase:
Without this, folly, age and cold decay:
If all were minded so, the times should cease
And threescore year would make the world away.
Let those whom Nature hath not made for store,
Harsh featureless and rude, barrenly perish:
Look, whom she best endow'd she gave the more;
Which bounteous gift thou shouldst in bounty cherish:
She carved thee for her seal, and meant thereby
Thou shouldst print more, not let that copy die. |
William Shakespeare's Sonnet 11https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=GMgvrG-OSGk
-
I had to look up the puzzling phrase "made for store" - it means 'made for breeding.'
Let those whom Nature hath not made for store,
Harsh featureless and rude, barrenly perish:
S's use of the word 'Nature' as that which "hath not made" or "best endow'd" is thought-provoking. Post-Darwinian times might color these lines as suggestive of 'survival of the fittest'. And depending on emphasis, the words: "Let those whom..." could come across as declaration or condemnation of those perceived as the "harsh featureless and rude." In certain periods of history this would be thought a dangerous point of view.
Apparently even Nature sometimes falls short of Shakespeare's mark & measure by bestowing less bountious breeding characteristics on some of her "copies."
-
LEAH: " In certain periods of history this would be thought a dangerous point of view." Absolutely. The Eugenics movement in this country caused a lot of needless suffering at the turn of the century. But I'm suspecting that Shakespeare hadn't given it that much thought.
-
Right, JoanK - perhaps I would have been clearer if I had said that in later historical periods it became a dangerous POV. Hope it did not sound like I was pointing the Eugenics finger at the Bard!
-
You have to wonder though - it may not have been out and out a knowledge of and practice of Eugenics but for sure you had to be among a certain class in order the marry 'well' - there are many cousins marrying each other and the good will between nations was more about the marriage between representatives of the two nations. So that is keeping pure a certain line of heritage that is also preserving a certain smarts so to speak - dumb people are not typical of the ruling class - even the successful knights who became land barons and who built castles were not the average run of the mill archer or one of the throng that ran and threw spears or rocks or carried swords in battle.
Also to ponder how this value on reproducing is an unconscious value today that is at the core of many of our attitudes and social issues around women and abortion and child care and the feminist issues -
I've a friend who wrote a book that is receiving a lot of attention about aging women who chose not to have children - recently was published in Japan as well as a bunch of European nations and of course here in the states. http://aralyn.com/ and this site as well http://aralyn.com/love-in-the-sixties/ and this really fun article in our local newspaper http://www.mystatesman.com/news/news/local/kelso-aralyn-hughes-is-austins-queen-of-weird/nh3fk/
-
PatH., I see you and I tend to agree on what we see Shakespeare aiming at. I have truly never read any of his works until now so it gives me a sigh of relief to see I'm not too far off on trying to understand him. This one (Sonnet X) actually seemed a bit simple, he is telling him to love thyself, and if you can't love others at least be kind to them.
Sometimes Shakespeare's language gets in the way.
I could not have said it any better!
-
the words are a challenge aren't they Bellamarie - but together we seem to be muddling through - nice to have folks look up some of these words for us - the definition in today's language gives a slightly different slant to the poem doesn't it.
I particularly like the idea stated in Sonnet XI -
Herein lives wisdom, beauty and increase:
Without this, folly, age and cold decay:
I like that within us there is wisdom, beauty and increase - and yes, I can see how without those ingrained aspects of our spirit, life would be nothing but folly, aging and finally the cold grave.
-
Shakespeare Sonnet XII
(http://www.artrenewal.org/artwork/943/5943/30007/mourning_their_loss-large.jpg)
When I do count the clock that tells the time,
And see the brave day sunk in hideous night;
When I behold the violet past prime,
And sable curls all silver'd o'er with white;
When lofty trees I see barren of leaves
Which erst from heat did canopy the herd,
And summer's green all girded up in sheaves
Borne on the bier with white and bristly beard,
Then of thy beauty do I question make,
That thou among the wastes of time must go,
Since sweets and beauties do themselves forsake
And die as fast as they see others grow;
And nothing 'gainst Time's scythe can make defence
Save breed, to brave him when he takes thee hence. |
William Shakespeare's Sonnet 12https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=fJ3iEUKlW-Y
Traditional 17th C. Over the Hills and Far Away]/b]https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=0MR7VihPm2E&list=PL5E34C92D6498E16C&index=18
-
Whoa....in Sonnet Xl Shakespeare seems to really be saying if you don't marry and have children you simply decay and die. He seems to think that the world would eventually die off if everyone decided to not have children, which of course I suppose makes sense. Generations would die off. But then he goes on to say that the ugly and poor should die, and that nature gave beauty to some so they would carry on the beauty and wisdom through their children.
A rather harsh sentiment if I do say so myself. Feels like our Shakespeare may feel only certain classes should reproduce and let the less fortunate decay and die. Gives me chills to think he could mean this.
-
Sonnet XII
Having grown up believing that when I die, my soul will live on, I have been trying to put myself in a place where I believe who I am will die. Knowing my body will decay in the ground, I can see how, if I lived my life believing that all that I am will be gone, I can see how I might see having children in a different light. The images of death in the poem are so strong : day passing into night, barren trees, sheaves of dead grass placed on a bier. My life will not end if "live" on through my children. Since "nothing 'gainst Time's scythe can make defence," without children, my life will have been wasted. Shakespeare, according to tradition was born in 1564, which would make him about in his early thirties when he wrote this sonnet. I wonder if he is the young man in Sonnets 1-17?
-
Our Poetry Page Reads
Shakespeare Sonnets
2016 the world commemorates
400 years since the death of William Shakespeare.
(http://d13a6ytc0s97c3.cloudfront.net/uploads/listing/image/67/event_RS556808_36980_ROY210915_010-lpr.jpg)
April, 1616. A man died, but a legacy was born; one which proved
so essential not only to the development of
drama and literature, but to language, to thoughts and ideas.
A Sonnet a Day
July 1, till December 1,
We read in order, from 1 to 154
A Shakespeare Sonnet each day.
Welcome
Please share your comments about the day's Sonnet.
Link: First Post of Our Discussion on July 1 (http://seniorlearn.org/forum/index.php?topic=176.msg283685#msg283685)
Shakespeare Anniversary Links
- Shakespeare400 (http://www.shakespeare400.org/)
- Shakespeare 400 at The Globe (http://www.shakespearesglobe.com/400)
- Shakespeare 400 Chicago (http://www.shakespeare400chicago.com/)
- Dame Judi leads Shakespeare Day gala finale (http://www.bbc.com/news/entertainment-arts-36111591)
- Turning Shakespeare’s sonnets into short films (http://[url=http://www.pbs.org/newshour/bb/turning-shakespeares-sonnets-short-films/)
Discussion Leaders: Barb (augere@ix.netcom.com)
It may not fit with anyone else's response to Sonnet VIII, but these 3 songs came immediately to mind. For me, it is a powerful undercurrent of a barren aloneness and a sense of despair that fuels them all. I won't give the titles to keep you in suspense. (They may start with annoying "Skip ads", so please do - skip the ads, that is.)
If nothing else, they are a good listen.
https://youtu.be/d5ab8BOu4LE (https://youtu.be/d5ab8BOu4LE)
https://youtu.be/GX9A5vv-jOM (https://youtu.be/GX9A5vv-jOM)
https://youtu.be/gtwUyDPXROQ (https://youtu.be/gtwUyDPXROQ)
The lyrics of this one may be almost as challenging as those of Shakespeare.
-
I wonder now that you say this Karen - except by this time in his life he already had a family.
Here is a nice explanation of his early in life marriage and start of his family
http://www.william-shakespeare.info/william-shakespeare-biography-marriage-wife-anne-hathaway.htm
thought - maybe he was writing from experience that he was attempting to share with others his wisdom???
-
Sonnet Xll
I see Shakespeare saying we can not defy time nor death. We all will eventually die, beauty does not last forever, just as the seasons change....the leaves die off, the grass dies off, the flowers die off, Winter's beauty is lost to Spring, and Summer's beauty is lost to Fall, etc., we all will die, and only in having children can your individual beauty carry on.
As a Christian, my belief is in life everlasting, so although I know my body will decay once I have died, my soul will live on, and through the memories and children/grandchildren, and generations to come, I too live on through them, even though future generations will have never known me. I imagine in the hereafter, I will be able to get a glance at all those who come from my lineage, and they too shall know me in the ever after. I'm suspecting Shakespeare was not much of a spiritual person, because so far he speaks nothing of life after death. I could be wrong since we are only in the earlier Sonnets, and as someone pointed out he would only be in his early 30's. Maybe as he ages he will come closer to believing in an afterlife. Or maybe it's just my wishful thinking, since I know nothing of him or his writings except for what I am learning now in his Sonnets.
-
Barb: The painting - is that a marker with a nymph-like figure next to it and a green wreath in front of their feet. First impression is that they are sitting before a small grave - I am imagining an aging childless couple visiting with a child that was lost to them. Guess S. Is getting to me!😔
-
The Fair Youth of the
Shakespeare Sonnets
Southampton (Hilliard portrait)Henry Wriothesley, the third Earl of Southampton is the Fair Youth of the Sonnets by William Shakespeare. Here are the most basic reasons for coming to this conclusion beyond any reasonable doubt:
“Shakespeare” dedicated his first two published books to Southampton, Venus and Adonis (1593) and Lucrece (1594), pledging: “The love I dedicate to your Lordship is without end … What I have done is yours, what I have to do is yours, being part in all I have, devoted yours.” This is the only evidence of any link between “Shakespeare” and any younger man.
In Sonnet 26 the author addresses the younger man in terms and sentiments virtually the same as those he used in the Lucrece dedication to Southampton: “Lord of my love,” he begins the sonnet, “to whom in vassalage thy merit hath my duty knit, to thee I send this written ambassage, to witness duty, not to show my wit. Duty so great…” [The word “duty” appears three times in the course of the two public dedications; the author also uses it three times in Sonnet 26.]
Thirty-six lines spoken by the goddess Venus in Venus and Adonis, dedicated to Southampton, are virtually carbon copies of lines in the first seventeen of Shakespeare’s sonnets, thereby linking the earl to those private verses.
Most commentators have agreed that Southampton is the subject of Sonnets 1-17, in which the author urges the younger man to marry and beget an heir of his bloodline. They have agreed that the context of these “marriage and procreation” sonnets was the active pressure that William Cecil Lord Burghley was putting upon Southampton to marry his granddaughter Lady Elizabeth Vere, daughter of Edward de Vere, the seventeenth Earl of Oxford [who had denied his paternity of her]. If Oxford was the author, then he was the prospective father-in-law – on the public record, if not biologically. On Shakespeares sonnets monument page
e
-
Bellamarie yes the Sonnets do not talk of a future for our souls - I am wondering though if it is because at the time he had to keep his religious point of view a secret or he would end up like his uncle - killed and quartered in London - I always heard the expression quartered and only in the past couple of years learned what the process really is - four horses each tied to one of you limbs pull till you are torn apart - and so Shakespeare I am sure wanted to live and he hid his Catholic faith.
With so many hidden political messages in his writings I think it was either PatH or maybe Karen or Leah or maybe it was Joan - anyhow, earlier the suggestion was made that these were actually messages in disguise for the Queen who never married and had children. Kinda think there is something to that idea.
By the time Shakespeare was 30 his eldest child would be 11 or 12 years old.
Another approach to reading these Sonnets is that unless you produce - which can be a metaphor to acting on your faith - unless you act on your faith it grows useless as the body does as it ages - to profess your faith is not enough - you must, while you can act on your faith because after death there is no more action.
-
ah so Karen - you found us some interesting information
"They have agreed that the context of these “marriage and procreation” sonnets was the active pressure that William Cecil Lord Burghley was putting upon Southampton to marry his granddaughter Lady Elizabeth Vere, daughter of Edward de Vere, the seventeenth Earl of Oxford [who had denied his paternity of her]. If Oxford was the author, then he was the prospective father-in-law – on the public record, if not biologically."
Good show - even a better explanation than a message to the Queen - but - however ;) there is always a however - :) A Sonnet would not continue to be read for 400 years if it only contained a message to one person - look at the other poets from that time, who also wrote Sonnets and we do not have reams of books sold year in and year out containing their Sonnets - and so with that I think the metaphors Shakespeare uses are strong enough to take the Sonnet beyond the obvious so that folks can see the advise work in many areas of life.
-
whow look at the heritage to the Vere family
http://www.houseofvere.com/
here is Wm Cecil Lord Burghley - who was the Lord High Treasurer
and next to him is the portrait of Edward de Vere the father of Elizabeth
(https://upload.wikimedia.org/wikipedia/commons/1/14/William_Cecil,_1st_Baron_Burghley_from_NPG_(2).jpg) (https://upload.wikimedia.org/wikipedia/commons/8/8f/Edward-de-Vere-1575.jpg)
-
Oh sorry Leah - missed your post - yes, it appears to be a grave doesn't it - to me that made the metaphor the more stronger of youth dying and we cannot count on reaching old age and also the idea of parenting what could be that was cut down before its fruition.
For me, especially after reading Bellamaries's post, these Sonnets are working best as a metaphor to other aspects of life - and if they have any direct meaning that is fine but they are really beautifully constructed and the use of words is a balm to my spirit - really I feel such a calm reading the day's Sonnet.
-
Barb, that is truly amazing because I felt agitated. All of the images remind me that all things die. "Not I" I always thought. When I read the about the sheaves on the bier, I really felt death. Shakespeare was jogging me out of denial and telling me to get ready. I guess it's time to make a will
-
You too Karen - only this week I finally realized I have to get something on paper - my possessions are what is valuable - a lot of art work and really good knives and cookware - so I need to inventory this house - I have art paper weights and original water colors - the house is easy, it is all the 'stuff' that does have value and NO granddaughter.
I've gradually been giving my daughter and daughter-in-law my jewelry for various events - and my daughter-in-law lost her engagement ring diamond so I gave her mine and she had it beautifully set - the diamond was larger than her original so they had to redesign the ring and it turned out beautiful - makes me so happy.
I got a book about writing directives for your health which my son really wants me to do - and I need to continue to clear out all the saved projects etc that I have to accept that I will never get to do them - wrapping it up as if cleaning up after a party - me oh my - but once done I am free than to enjoy and just be with no expectations to do more than take care of enjoying each day...
-
I read the biographical material about S and wife Anne.
And I ran across this several days ago and tagged it for future reading - it is a challenge for me to read it due to the sort of 'dated' ? form of expression in the writing; but it does seem to cover a lot of info about the relationships between Southampton and Wriothesley if anyone else is interested and wants some (en)LIGHT(ening) reading. 🔮 Sounds like everyone is just guessing about his life - no crystal balls!
http://www.oxquarry.co.uk/KlauseIntro.html (http://www.oxquarry.co.uk/KlauseIntro.html)
Shakespeare, the Earl, and the Jesuit, by John Klause
-
Weeeee I started to read the book Leah thinking it was all contained in the page you linked - ha - it goes on and on - more than just a 15 minute read - fun and yes, it appears to sort out much that has been only conjecture.
The series I thought also did a good job of actually visiting the places where Shakespeare could be most associated with a Catholic bent and a good biography without the psychoanalysis of attempting to show various aspects of his life as the basis for one of his plays or poems is the work of Michael Wood - The book is In Search of Shakespeare by Michael Wood. We read the book here on Senior Learn after which it became a PBS series - here is a link to the series that you can see in full.
http://www.pbs.org/shakespeare/theshow/index.html
Michael Wood is like the Ken Burns of Britain only Michael goes all over the world in his search for filming places we read about in history and literature where as Ken Burns is busy telling us the story of our own United States of America.
But like you Leah I will have to read the book you linked for us in sections - looks like there is a lot there and the way it is written it sure helps to know Shakespeare's plays.
-
Yeah, Barb, it is definitely retirement reading for those with more background in S. than I currently have! 😧
-
" if I lived my life believing that all that I am will be gone, I can see how I might see having children in a different light."
An interesting point. I believe there is a lot of speculation about Shakespeare's religious beliefs. he was born a catholic and may have even taught in an underground Catholic School (for which he could have been executed, if caught, in those horrible days of religious intolerance. Of course, he conformed to the religious edicts of the Protestant regime in his public life.
-
The German sociologist, Max Weber, in trying to understand society, said all peoples everywhere try to do two things. First, they try to stay alive: get the material things they need. But a life spent staying alive is meaningless, since it always fails. So the second thing people do is try to make life meaningful ion the face of death. If you can understand how people do these two things, you can understand the society.
When I taught, I would quote him to my into class, and ask the young people (most around 16-20) what are the ways people make life meaningful in the face of death. I expected them to say "religion", but they never did - I would always have to drag that answer out of them. The first thing they always said is "having children."
Perhaps it is a matter of age. I don't know. I've noticed men in their thirties often turn their thoughts to family, but most of my students were younger than that.
-
Joan your post reminds me of another poet - a simple story teller who wrote children's tails, Hans Christian Anderson, who said...
"Just living is not enough,“ said the butterfly, “one must have sunshine, freedom, and a little flower".
-
Barb,
Another approach to reading these Sonnets is that unless you produce - which can be a metaphor to acting on your faith - unless you act on your faith it grows useless as the body does as it ages - to profess your faith is not enough - you must, while you can act on your faith because after death there is no more action.
Ah ha!!! I think you could be onto something here. Much like PatH., mentioned Shakespeare could be speaking messages in disguise to the Queen, he could also be speaking hidden messages of faith. Now you have my attention!! Since I know nothing of Shakespeare I had NO idea he was a religious man, Catholic, and Christian. Now I really can see these Sonnets through a better light. I kept thinking I saw hidden scripture, but then I thought it was me injecting my own spiritual thoughts and beliefs. And now JoanK, mentions he could have taught in underground Catholic school. I have no doubt he found it much more productive to keep his faith under the Lamp table so to speak, than to be "quartered" what a horrible image after reading your description of what it entails.
With my hubby and I both being retired it seems everything we do, it has a bit of thought about getting rid of collected stuff we have accumulated over the years so our children will not have to do it. We have come to the conclusion our kids do not want or need our things we saved. I have collector dolls, Precious Moments, Angels, jewelry, and Dickens Village that has value. I have one daughter who is not really into any of these things, and 4 granddaughters who some I'm not so sure would care about them either. It was my enjoyment to collect them. My hubby loves his Dickens village and our 8 yr old grandson LOVES it, so I am pretty sure we will name it to him to have. My youngest granddaughter LOVES dolls so she would probably cherish them as I have. Oh, I just hate even thinking of this..... as Scarlett would say, "I'll think about that tomorrow."
-
Good choice Bellamarie "as Scarlett would say, "I'll think about that tomorrow." You do put it off until all of a sudden you realize the time is come - time is slipping away and there is barely time for a 10 year plan but for sure, no 20 year plan - after loosing a few friends, Father Time peeks in and says, 'you better start getting ready or you will have no say in what happens'.
-
Talk of butterflies always ALWAYS reminds me of Rabindranath Tagore who wrote:
"The butterfly counts not by months but moments,
And has time enough."
I've included some additional intel about him - After I read it, I felt a broadening effect on my view of Shakespeare., Probably just me.
The entire poem is:
"I touch God in my song"
by Rabindranath Tagore
English version by Rabindranath Tagore
I touch God in my song
as the hill touches the far-away sea
with its waterfall.
The butterfly counts not months but moments,
and has time enough.
Let my love, like sunlight, surround you
and yet give you illumined freedom.
Love remains a secret even when spoken,
for only a lover truly knows that he is loved.
Emancipation from the bondage of the soil
is no freedom for thee.
In love I pay my endless debt to thee
for what thou art
In this poem’s few short lines, Rabindranath Tagore marries the bhakti path of utter love for God with the heart of karma yoga’s union through service and action.
In traditional Indian metaphysics, the goal is usually understood to be enlightenment and freedom from the karmic tug that traps us in the cycle of earthly embodiment, “emancipation from the bondage of the soil.” But here Tagore challenges the otherworldliness that often engenders.
Even the spiritual idea of liberation can become a selfish goal. For one utterly in love with God, the paying of that “debt” is simply a labor of love. Every effort, every experience, even suffering, is simply an expression of one’s love for God. That is enough right there for the true lover of God.
Rather than seeking escape from “the soil,” the world is seen as a panorama that offers endless opportunities to worship and experience the Divine.
It is also the attitude that finally allows us to be at rest on our spiritual journey, rather than live as a convict on the run. What some see as the prison yard, becomes instead an exercise yard… or a playground! It is a courageous way of acknowledging that freedom is not escape, it is deep presence.
And we find that we live not in fleeting time, but in the ever expanding present moment.
The butterfly counts not months but moments,
and has time enough.
Rabindranath Tagore (sometimes rendered in a more modern transliteration as Thakur or Thakura) was one of the great writers of the early 20th century.
Rabindranath Tagore was born to a wealthy Brahmin family in Calcutta (Kolkata) in West Bengal during the British occupation of India.
His mother died when “Rabi” was a young child and his father’s responsibilities often required travel, leaving Rabindranath to be raised by elder siblings and family servants. His family was central to regional political, intellectual, and artistic social circles, however, ensuring that the young Tagore was exposed to great art and learning from an early age.
Tagore began composing poetry by the age of six and showed such a natural gift that he, at the age of sixteen, published a set of poems under a pseudonym that was mistakenly received by critics as a long-lost masterpiece. Only later was it revealed that the author was the adolescent Tagore.
As an older teenager, Tagore was sent to study in England, but soon left school to more actively feed his wide-ranging interests through self-study.
At the beginning of the 20th century, Tagore established an ashram as a place for learning, teaching, and agricultural experimentation.
Tagore was a strong advocate for Indian nationalism in opposition to British imperial rule, while criticizing the most violent expressions of revolution.
During his lifetime, Tagore traveled extensively, meeting the world’s great writers, scientists, political leaders, and social reformers.
Rabindranath Tagore was also an accomplished painter, as well as a musician and prolific composer, with more than 2,000 songs to his credit.
Tagore’s poetry draws from the rich devotional poetic traditions of India, but rendered in a highly fluid, contemporary style. His impact on world poetry and literature is immense, especially writing that explores the modern mind through the mystic’s lens. Countless literary figures of the 20th century cite Tagore as an important influence and source of inspiration. Although his library of poetry is extensive, his most widely read and loved collection is The Gitanjali.
In 1913, he became the first non-European to with the Nobel Prize in Literature.
-
Barb, I find it interesting how you said,
Father Time peeks in and says, 'you better start getting ready or you will have no say in what happens'.
My mother left a book that almost listed everything she owned, and had one of us seven siblings name along each item. Or she actually wrote one of our names under or behind an item. It sure made my sister's job of executive power easy. No way was anyone of us going to dispute our Mom's very handwriting. I'm just not sure how much say I really want. I will turn sixty-four on the twenty-sixth of this month, so far I am in good health, so I think I will hope to have another twenty years God willing to figure it all out. In the meantime, we are getting rid of the clutter. I love Scarlett O'Hara, her quote taught me to slow down, don't make decisions in haste, take a day or two to think about it.
-
Thanks Leah for the background on the life of Rabindranath Tagore - his poetry seems to enlarge on the Max Weber question that Joan brought to our attention - the question, How do "people make life meaningful in the face of death," that her students answered with "having children"
I am thinking what they are really saying is life is meaningful when we live for more than ourselves - raising children is the closest and easiest idea/example that comes to mind, that is to our deepest core, living for more than ourselves. Where as Rabindranath's poetry says to me that it is not the return of affection from others that matters or the acknowledgement of the affect of our love to others - it is as if the process of love is self contained - that by acting from love and believing in love we become love, regardless if another responds because real love is not about expectation, real love is a precious giving and caring.
Bellamarie your mother's notebook sounds like a perfect solution - and yep, you've got lots of vim and vinegar to live out - you are only a year and a half older than my daughter :)
-
Shakespeare Sonnet XIII
(http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-mMjvZGdicNE/UP2Fln0pXFI/AAAAAAAAArc/dho5n7SJ2fE/s1600/125%2BFr%2BGarden.jpg)
O, that you were yourself! but, love, you are
No longer yours than you yourself here live:
Against this coming end you should prepare,
And your sweet semblance to some other give.
So should that beauty which you hold in lease
Find no determination: then you were
Yourself again after yourself's decease,
When your sweet issue your sweet form should bear.
Who lets so fair a house fall to decay,
Which husbandry in honour might uphold
Against the stormy gusts of winter's day
And barren rage of death's eternal cold?
O, none but unthrifts: -- Dear my love, you know
You had a father; let your son say so. |
William Shakespeare's Sonnet 13https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=OIkonjnRfK8
Medieval Music https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=3PopJfFLyvM&index=11&list=PL5E34C92D6498E16C
-
Hmm.... when I first looked at the picture I got excited because I just love the look of new fallen snow, but then reading the sonnet and looking again at the picture I felt a bit sad, depressed to see it looking more like a gravesite. Shakespeare is saying ultimately the beauty you hold in life will eventually die, so allow it to continue in your child. The last line kinda struck me,
"You had a father; let your son say so."
He is saying, your father had you to carry on and care for his lot after he is gone, so in essence, so should you do the same. A bit like it is your obligation as being a part of a family, to continue it.
-
LEAH: I love Tagore also, but didn't know that poem. It's wonderful!
Who wrote that summary of his work and life? Did you?
-
Leah, I have never heard of Rabindranath Tagore, thank you for the lovely butterfly poem, and the info on him.
I especially love this: For one utterly in love with God, the paying of that “debt” is simply a labor of love. Every effort, every experience, even suffering, is simply an expression of one’s love for God. That is enough right there for the true lover of God.
-
Oh, I get so frustrated when a post is almost ready and then it disappears!!!! GRRR!
OK, here it is - I forgot to credit the link for the Tagore summary. I surely did not write it, JoanK!
http://www.poetry-chaikhana.com/blog/2014/10/17/rabindranath-tagore-i-touch-god-in-my-song-2/ (http://www.poetry-chaikhana.com/blog/2014/10/17/rabindranath-tagore-i-touch-god-in-my-song-2/). There is a lovely photo of him if you scroll down a bit.
-
About the photo posted with the sonnet - did anyone notice the duck mother and duckling in the center of the circular ring? - the whole image suggests a maze to me, and the duck statues (if that is what they are) made me smile. If it weren't for that imagery, I, too, would have thought it made a rather dark impression.
I have nothing to say about the sonnet - I am kind of looking forward to his next theme - surely he won't go on about this for all 154 sonnets - eh?
-
Oh yes, Leah - especially when you spilled out all that is you in a post - oh oh oh - the loss is beyond annoying bordering on devastating. Ha I had not noticed the duck statues till you mentioned them - wonderful.
We only have 4 more of these that are focused on reproducing for posterity - an advantage we never guessed when we started to read Sonnet a Day - who knew until we actually read them - amazing is that he can write a Sonnet on the same theme 17 times - now that is an accomplishment that helps to see how a topic can have many views and 17 all from one author - I must say a few of these viewpoints that Shakespeare uses never occurred to me - which of the sonnets did you find a new way of challenging a viewpoint?
Came on this by accident last night and thought maybe y'all would enjoy it - it is some quotes from a few Shakespeare's plays spoken in the Globe Theater using the old English spoken during the time of Shakespeare - just seeing the inside of the Globe is a treat in itself - but fun is one example that is directly tied to the Sonnet's message we have been reading.
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=gPlpphT7n9s
Lovely isn't it Bellamarie and Joan to read the gentle poetry of Rabindranath Tagore. Do you have any books of his poetry? So many wonderful poets - I keep thinking I should stop reading novels etc. for a month and just read poems - amerce myself in words and rhythms
My plan for the next 4 days of this similar theme is to find the line that I admire and like to hear the sound of it when I say it aloud.
This is the line I enjoy - Against the stormy gusts of winter's day
Saying it aloud I was tempted to say 'a' winter's day and had to re-read and catch myself that there was no preposition 'a' - That was when I found the majesty in the sentence - hear the difference - putting the 'a' in makes it ordinary and almost dull - where as without the 'a' the sentence moves and I want to hear more - as I read it, 'stormy' took on some energy where as when I stuck that 'a' into the sentence it sounds almost singsong and the phrase dies because winter's day gets the energy and also, 'a' winter's day slows down the phrase.
Yep, this is the sentence I like most in this Sonnet. ;D
-
Shakespeare Sonnet XIV
(http://www.didatticarte.it/public/cielo-stellato-hampton-court.jpg)
Not from the stars do I my judgment pluck;
And yet methinks I have astronomy,
But not to tell of good or evil luck,
Of plagues, of dearths, or seasons' quality;
Nor can I fortune to brief minutes tell,
Pointing to each his thunder, rain and wind,
Or say with princes if it shall go well,
By oft predict that I in heaven find:
But from thine eyes my knowledge I derive,
And, constant stars, in them I read such art
As truth and beauty shall together thrive,
If from thyself to store thou wouldst convert;
Or else of thee this I prognosticate:
Thy end is truth's and beauty's doom and date. |
William Shakespeare's Sonnet 14https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=DhxMoimmi4k
-
Barb, I enjoyed the youtube video. Phonology especially when reading sonnets/poems is important, since one can change a meaning or feeling of a word by the pronunciation of it. Emphasizing on either the first, or last syllable of a word can actually give a different type of feeling to the sentence, or as you pointed out, leaving out the "a" makes a difference.
-
Leah, I am with you, there almost is very little to say anymore reading the same theme in all these sonnets.
Barb, Good to know there are only four more of these dealing with procreation and the importance of it. He has made his point that you don't seem to count for much if you do not add to the population and lineage. It makes me wonder how women felt who were not able to get impregnated. They certainly didn't have the medical technology and methods back then as they do today to rectify it. And then not always does that even work. It's difficult enough for a woman to realize who wants to have a child that there is never going to be that possibility, but egads, to read Shakespeare and hear him say you are almost worthless if you don't sure makes things even more sad and bleak for them. My daughter has never been able to conceive, after tests and examinations it appears her husband had a botched surgery before they married preventing him from producing viable sperm. They have not had the income to try any other procedures. She is going to be forty-four years old and still longs to have a baby. Imagine if she lived in Shakespeare's time dealing with his attitude, which I am sure many others shared, her pain and struggle to be childless would be even greater than it is today.
Sonnet XlV Is pretty much repeating all the others about procreation, he just puts in that he can not predict the happenings by looking at the stars etc., but he can forecast the beauty to live on, if you pass it on to your child.
-
well, we do have a new ides here: his knowledge comes, "not from the stars" but "from your eyes":
"And, constant stars, in them I read such art
As truth and beauty shall together thrive,"
It's almost as if the last part, about having children, is stuck on. Maybe he had some reason for writing about having children, but he's getting tired of it too, and looking for new ideas.
-
My favorite line is "Pointing to each his thunder, rain and wind," (although it's not clear out of context.
-
Hey! I have an idea! Let's go back to #1 and read them all in the Old English just to make sure we haven't missed any puns or word plays!! Waddya say? 🤓
It is intriguing to learn that Shakespeare's plays performed in the Old English would reveal new meanings, rhymes, and - who knows - maybe a trapdoor or three! Cool video of the Globe Theatre, thanks, Barb!
The phrase "constant stars" reminded me of this little interchange in Joni Mitchell's song called "A Case of You":
Just before our love got lost you said
"I am as constant as a northern star" and I said
Constantly in the darkness
Where's that at
If you want me I'll be in the bar.
The other totally unrelated association that surfaced was from the phrase "truth and beauty."
There used to be a snack food called Bugles, I think it was, and part of the tv jingle used the words: "love, truth, beauty, corn, and a little salt."
The other day I ran across a humongous list of phrases coined by Shakespeare that are part of the 'common vernacular.' So, keep your eyes and ears open during those annoying tv commercials; there might be some culture that has seeped in - ya never can tell! 😃
-
It seems that the term 'astrology' had not yet been born as he uses "astronomy" with the same meaning. I like the sound of the initial line when read aloud - especially the last word "pluck." There is a satisfying snap to it.
To those who are in the know about Latin: does his word order sometimes follow Latin rules? (Won't know about things like that until Ginny's Latin course revs up in September.)
-
JoanK.,
It's almost as if the last part, about having children, is stuck on. Maybe he had some reason for writing about having children, but he's getting tired of it too, and looking for new ideas.
OMG, I laughed out loud when I read this!! Yes, there are only so many ways to say...Have children!! Now he is searching the universe for comparisons and other ways to say it.
I especially liked this line:
But from thine eyes my knowledge I derive,
I love how looking into her eyes he sees truth and beauty.
Leah, I'm not sure I can go back again 1 - 14 and decipher in Old English if we missed anything. Have at it!! ;)
-
Just kidding, Bellamaire! But you knew that, right?
-
Leah, I hope you know I was just kidding as well. It's hard to tell when it's texting. :) :) :)
-
OH lordy - today was a day - an out-of-town client having difficulty understanding he must get to the lender any and all financial information and employment information the underwriter needs - his response to everyone is one of Joan's favorite phrases -"Pointing to each his thunder, rain and wind," How his wife puts up with it I have no idea - cannot go there - been trying to climb out of his rain tank or better yet, his wind tunnel - sheesh.
Such a lovely conversation y'all are having - yes, my dream would be to spend time here today and not with Mr. Thunder, rain and wind.
Haha that would be fun though, to read the Sonnets in Old English Leah but the thought just now of Sonnet 1 through 10 - oh oh oh - the more you think on it - I wonder if the rhythm of the sounds would be that different. As to the sound of jingles could not find the Bugle song but found this interesting website about famous jingle songs - https://coolrain44.wordpress.com/2009/08/08/tv-commercial-greatest-slogans-jingles-taglines-catchphrases/
Bellamarie thank goodness for those faces - words said as tersely as needed using today's media sure allows for teasing to sound serious or non-compassionate doesn't it - ah so...
Pluck - a lively word isn't it - pluck strings - have some pluck - and in this case it appears pluck meaning to take. - hmm come to think on it, plucking strings could be taking sound from a string - yes, Leah nice crisp sound.
Have you looked at the moon tonight - it is not full but my goodness how bright - and surprising a few stars nearby are really bright as well - been trying to water the backyard at night so the sun does not drink up the water immediately as it leaves the hose - just one week of triple digits and we already have parched lawns - I wonder if the clear air that comes with these high temps is why we see the moon and stars so bright.
Stars, stars - "Not from the stars do I my judgment pluck;" - "And, constant stars, in them I read such art As truth and beauty shall together thrive," I like the idea of those two separate thoughts as an extension of each other.
Truth and beauty - "Obsessed by a fairy tale, we spend our lives searching for a magic door and a lost kingdom of truth and beauty." Remember a good friend saying that when we were bemoaning our experience expecting truth and justice. I'm thinking that kind of expectation is no different than being a child and thinking you could pluck the stars from the night sky - https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=q2qVTj5JQ_w
ha Bellamarie I too think it is a fun idea that he "stuck" the bit about having children on the end - that he too is growing weary with his thesis. 3 more folks, just 3 more... :-*
-
Our Poetry Page Reads
Shakespeare Sonnets
2016 the world commemorates
400 years since the death of William Shakespeare.
(http://d13a6ytc0s97c3.cloudfront.net/uploads/listing/image/67/event_RS556808_36980_ROY210915_010-lpr.jpg)
April, 1616. A man died, but a legacy was born; one which proved
so essential not only to the development of
drama and literature, but to language, to thoughts and ideas.
A Sonnet a Day
July 1, till December 1,
We read in order, from 1 to 154
A Shakespeare Sonnet each day.
Welcome
Please share your comments about the day's Sonnet.
Link: First Post of Our Discussion on July 1 (http://seniorlearn.org/forum/index.php?topic=176.msg283685#msg283685)
Shakespeare Anniversary Links
- Shakespeare400 (http://www.shakespeare400.org/)
- Shakespeare 400 at The Globe (http://www.shakespearesglobe.com/400)
- Shakespeare 400 Chicago (http://www.shakespeare400chicago.com/)
- Dame Judi leads Shakespeare Day gala finale (http://www.bbc.com/news/entertainment-arts-36111591)
- Turning Shakespeare’s sonnets into short films (http://[url=http://www.pbs.org/newshour/bb/turning-shakespeares-sonnets-short-films/)
Discussion Leaders: Barb (augere@ix.netcom.com)
-
Shakespeare Sonnet XV
(http://66.media.tumblr.com/145396ec95b634f890ac82b8bfe6e0e7/tumblr_oa1zlnCBa11ro4v2no1_1280.jpg)
When I consider every thing that grows
Holds in perfection but a little moment,
That this huge stage presenteth nought but shows
Whereon the stars in secret influence comment;
When I perceive that men as plants increase,
Cheered and cheque'd even by the self-same sky,
Vaunt in their youthful sap, at height decrease,
And wear their brave state out of memory;
Then the conceit of this inconstant stay
Sets you most rich in youth before my sight,
Where wasteful Time debateth with Decay,
To change your day of youth to sullied night;
And all in war with Time for love of you,
As he takes from you, I engraft you new. |
William Shakespeare's Sonnet 15https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=VQ6xILixWWs
-
BARB: I love the pictures you find.
I'm going to have to think about this one.
-
Whew talk about a convoluted sentence - no wonder some folks give poetry a bad rap.
That this huge stage presenteth nought but shows
Whereon the stars in secret influence comment;
Seems to me he is saying as he does in one of his plays that all the world is a stage and what happens or that stage or what we say on the stage is influenced more by the stars in secret then by the stage itself.
Interesting concept - so what are the secrets of the stars during the 16th century would be my next question.
Here is a map of the heavens done in 1600 attempting to show the heavens not as filled with Greek Mythology but rather as a map of Christian images
(https://www.finebooksmagazine.com/issue/200909/graphics/celestial_1.jpg)
And so that is the key then isn't it - the secret of the stars are still wrapped in mythology and the stories of the Greek gods would be the secrets to how man chooses to perform on life's stage. While Roman Catholics are attempting to elevate world stage behavior to emulate Christian saints.
At least that is the clue - that the stars represent figures of behavior rather than as today we are more inclined to think in terms of measuring the amount of hydrogen and the constant star-wide nuclear reaction or the distance or direction a group of stars represent for travel.
-
I see Shakespeare a bit addled at the fact beauty lasts only for a short time, because the same sky that helps grow beauty takes it away..... time is inevitable, death is inevitable, there is no denying either. He wants to wage war against time to save the beauty of youth, and because he can't stop either, he recreates them through his poems.
Barb, I like the picture of the flowers you placed above this Sonnet. I am so into flowers this Summer, I just went and purchased yet more perennials today. I feel a bit like Shakespeare wanting the beauty to last forever. As one of my perennials die off, because there time has come and gone for the season, one new flower blossoms for their time of season. I keep taking pictures after pictures of each new beginning of the blossom, and when it is in full bloom and posting and sharing on my Facebook. I will then have these pictures to look back at in the winter when everything is covered in a blanket of snow. My pictures are much like Shakespeare's poems, he can recreate and recapture the youth and beauty in his poems, I can enjoy and recapture those Spring/Summer feelings once again through my pictures.
So, with all this procreation talk, is he really only trying to keep the beauty of things/people alive in his mind? I think perhaps so. Hmmmm..... makes me think as if Shakespeare wants to cheat death. This is where the comfort of everlasting life comes in for me.
-
Barb, I love the Christian map!!! I see part of my church's name in the top left corner Coeli. (Regina Coeli)
-
Glad both you, Bellamaire and Joan like the photos - it is fun finding them - I never saw hanging flowers - that is new for me - from the write up they actually grow that way. Amazing.
We had so much rain this past Spring after 4 years of drought that I thought when I had more time this summer I would add some plants in the front yard - but only a week of our summer triple digit heat and already spots on the lawn are white - lost all sense of green - dry as a bone - water is so expensive but had to succumb and water for hours last night and this evening - grass spots are still white but the surrounding grass has some look of life - and now I realize there will be no adding to the garden till October - even the thyme I put in this Spring is challenged.
Between the deer and the searing sun there are not many blossoms however, the other end of the seasons in December and February there are lots of blooms with an overload the end of March and early April - just can't look for them in summer is all.
For sure Shakespeare says it perfectly when he says, "...every thing that grows Holds in perfection but a little moment," I like this Sonnet because there are several lines that satisfy - the message - as the other Sonnets, time passing and the capacity to love is tied to the physical - its OK, not as deeply moving as describing an interior love but the basis of so many love stories - and I do like finding out that 400 years ago the stars were associated with the myths we have named various star groups and that the myths, Christian or Greek were important to folks so they could better understand each other.
Two more procreation Sonnets and then another theme - Looks like the theme will change on Monday -
-
Shakespeare SonnetXVI
(http://65.media.tumblr.com/817768aaffb3a348e7f7a54e0583ce3d/tumblr_o9zg119mIn1uoyugzo1_1280.jpg)
But wherefore do not you a mightier way
Make war upon this bloody tyrant, Time?
And fortify yourself in your decay
With means more blessed than my barren rhyme?
Now stand you on the top of happy hours;
And many maiden gardens, yet unset
With virtuous wish would bear your living flowers,
Much liker than your painted counterfeit:
So should the lines of life that life repair,
Which this (Time's pencil, or my pupil pen),
Neither in inward worth nor outward fair,
Can make you live yourself in eyes of men.
To give away yourself keeps yourself still,
And you must live, drawn by your own sweet skill |
William Shakespeare's Sonnet 16https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=R4biAj3HqsM
-
Shakespeare seems to be saying that having a child of your own, one of your own creation, is far more lasting, and beautiful than any poem/sonnet he could write. By having your own child it renews your life and lives on after you have gone.
-
Bellamarie you are reminding us that magic exists. Shakespeare is telling us about flowers and time, the music of the wind and the silence of the stars and that those who love, can pass the magic on into the ages through their children. It is such a simple and extraordinary part of our life isn't it.
Of this group of Sonnets either I am tired of the message or it could be that I am just not enjoying this particular poem - For me this will not be a memorable Sonnet - One more within this series and then the theme changes.
-
Shakespeare Sonnet XVII
(http://i1.tribune.com.pk/wp-content/uploads/2012/10/458817-shutterstock_-1351681031-869-640x480.jpg)
Who will believe my verse in time to come,
If it were fill'd with your most high deserts?
Though yet Heaven knows it is but as a tomb
Which hides your life and shows not half your parts.
If I could write the beauty of your eyes,
And in fresh numbers number all your graces,
The age to come would say, 'This poet lies,
Such heavenly touches ne'er touch'd earthly faces.'
So should my papers yellow'd with their age,
Be scorn'd like old men of less truth than tongue,
And your true rights be term'd a poet's rage
And stretched metre of an antique song:
But were some child of yours alive that time,
You should live twice,-- in it and in my rhyme. |
William Shakespeare's Sonnet 17https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=5pt0V7EOCoQ
-
Shakespeare thinks more highly of poetry here than in the last sonnet. He admits that he can't adequately express his friend's beauty, and that even if he could, no one would believe that anyone could be that beautiful. But, he says if the friend had a child, then people would believe, and the poem would be a second immortality.
I too will be pleased to move on.
-
Yes, PatH he seems to be saying that creating a child to add beauty in the future has more value than creating a poem for posterity to admire.
The last few Sonnets sure have been a slog haven't they - I am proud though that we are staying with it - a Sonnet a day - and now we know the first 17 have a common theme. I'm wondering if it is the repetition of the same theme that bored us or our views about procreation not being the end all to a valued life.
-
I have read my daily sonnet and I too will be glad to move on. I have found that it helps my understanding to mark off the three quatrains and consider each by itself. I know we don't want to consider form, but I think that is part of Shakespeare's genius. He creates these beautiful poems within the strict form of the sonnet. Forgive me for dabbling in analysis. I love that eyes reveal so much to the person who looks into them. That seems to be a common image.
-
Was it Shakespeare who said "the eyes are the windows of the soul"?
-
Oh please Karen - no road blocks at all - we just want this daily read to be comfortable so that it did not become a how-to or this-is-the-way or the-experts-say kind of discussion - please share whatever makes the read meaningful to you. We all have our way to enjoy one of these Sonnets, so lets hear them - just remember this is a relaxed discussion where we enjoy hearing your impressions of the Sonnet - from meaning, to love of words and rhyme, to structure, to what it brings up from our memory, to just the sound of it, or how it hits our other senses.
Joan it appears to be a traditional English proverb and credit is given to quite a few including; Cicero, Shakespeare, Leonardo DaVinci, and more recently, Hamilton and Emerson - the saying appears to hit the nail on the head for so many - I just read it is supposed to be included in the Bible. Personally I remember hearing it in 7th or 8th grade and shook my head at the time thinking it was a crazy idea - and after living a full life I still shake my head - either that or I have a very poor idea of what someone's eyes are really telling me.
-
Oh JoanK., I love that quote, "The eyes are the windows to one's soul."
I agree wholeheartedly, I feel when I look into a person's eyes I can truly connect with them.
Barb you may be thinking of this scripture in the Bible, “The eye is the lamp of the body. If your eyes are good, your whole body will be full of light. But if your eyes are bad, your whole body will be full of darkness. If then the light within you is darkness, how great is that darkness!" - Matthew 6:22-23
Yes, I am a bit bored with the repetitive theme of procreation, but I did enjoy how the flowers brought so much joy to the sonnet.
Karen, I too sometimes find if I take his sonnet and break it into sections, or as you mentioned, "three quatrains" it does help me a bit. Even listening to it being read aloud sometimes gives me a clear perspective.
-
Sonnet XVll
I especially like this part of the poem:
If I could write the beauty of your eyes,
And in fresh numbers number all your graces,
The age to come would say, 'This poet lies,
Such heavenly touches ne'er touch'd earthly faces.'
Just reading this today, knowing it is hundreds of years old, shows how he was able to capture the depth of a person through the beauty of their eyes and graces, gave me such an insight into Shakespeare's soul.
-
Bellamarie it is a beautiful quote isn't it - he is telling us of his inadequacy in the face of attempting to describe the beauty of her eyes and her inner beauty which would be expressed through her graces.
Just lovely isn't it - make us relook at how easy it is to see fault in others without looking for the good in everyone because there really is a piece of good in the worst, most horrid, scariest since we are all children of God regardless how evil we become.
That said, during the time of Shakespeare and with his classic education the graces were usually referring to Greek mythology, the Charis or Grace. The three goddesses of charm, beauty, nature, human creativity, and fertility, known as the Charites or Graces. A wonderful combination of attributes to this day.
-
Thanks for reminding me to pay attention to the structure, Karen. It reminds me how nicely crafted the poems are.
-
Well here we go tra la - not only out of the series of Sonnets about how procreation is the core of our mirror into time but we go into one of the more famous - we have heard this Sonnet so often it will be tempting to read it through and be done - I bet a second and third read - one at least outloud - there will be phrases and words that have a deeper meaning and maybe a slant all of our own rather than the slant bequeathed to us by the hoards of past readers.
-
Shakespeare Sonnet XVIII
(http://allart.biz/up/photos/album/W-X-Y-Z/John%20William%20Waterhouse/john_william_waterhouse_5_gather_ye_rosebuds_while_ye_may_1909.jpg)
Shall I compare thee to a summer's day?
Thou art more lovely and more temperate:
Rough winds do shake the darling buds of May,
And summer's lease hath all too short a date:
Sometime too hot the eye of heaven shines,
And often is his gold complexion dimm'd;
And every fair from fair sometime declines,
By chance, or nature's changing course, untrimm'd;
But thy eternal summer shall not fade
Nor lose possession of that fair thou ow'st;
Nor shall Death brag thou wander'st in his shade,
When in eternal lines to time thou grow'st;
So long as men can breathe or eyes can see,
So long lives this, and this gives life to thee. |
William Shakespeare's Sonnet 18https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=FnMDj1K0gks
-
The paradox is that the implied immortality of the poet's/poem's "eternal lines" are dependent on mortals being around to read them, thus immortalizing the beloved.
-
Leah - yes, we hear this Sonnet quoted so often and the ending rebuttal never hit home till you bring it to our attention - yes and yes again.
What took several reads for me and I am so glad I did read more than once what I thought I knew like the back of my hand was the entire phrase known and quoted so often. Rough winds do shake the darling buds of May, followed by, And summer's lease hath all too short a date: - I wondered if in Britain, May was considered part of summer and also, rough winds in summer never fit my idea of summer. This re-read and it finally hit - they are buds, not full flowers - the darling buds are like an appetizer or prelude to a short summer - that clears up for me years and years of confusion.
-
I gather that calendars were in flux at various periods in history. I ran across that tidbit while reading an historical novel set during Roman times. And then I found this:
May was a summer month in Shakespeare's time, because the calendar in use lagged behind the true sidereal calendar by at least a fortnight.
So, that should cement your newfound clarity, Barb!
-
hahaha I love it - so it was part of summer - what do you know - of course here May is weather wise part of summer but not my vision of Britain - seems to me I was in London in May years ago and remember it was warm but never visited in March or April and so I did not have anything to compare - but what you are saying the calendar itself did not follow seasonal timing as we know it today... interesting... thanks.
-
LEAH: that's fascinating.
Ah, this sonnet reminds me of why we're doing this. A great poet, indeed.
I'm working over these lines:
"Nor shall Death brag thou wander'st in his shade,
When in eternal lines to time thou GROW'ST;
Couldn't understand "grow'st", thinking "why is she growing?" But of course, he's talking of her as if she was a flower. (although why a flower would wander...?)
think I'm being too literal. Actually, I like the image of wandering in death's shade.
-
Yes, this is one of the great ones.
There's a progression in sonnets 16-18. In 16, poetry is inadequate as a means if preserving beauty, compared to having children. In 17, poetry seems to be almost equal to having offspring. In 18, children aren't even mentioned, and the sonnet is the means of a sort of immortality. I wonder if this reflects a growing confidence in his powers?
-
Fun Joan you found a mixed metaphor in the work of Shakespeare - the great poet and here it is, out for all to see a mixed metaphor - how much fun is that...
I bet folks in the sixteenth century really understood what it was to wander in Death's shadow with the religious wars, mercenary armies and conscription an everyday occurrence and women not having available a secure childbirth plus no protection for children against what we today call childhood diseases. When you think there was no pasteurized milk and even water could be contaminated.
Interesting Pat about his possible growing confidence - we will have to keep that in mind and ask it again after we do read the three Sonnets - I wonder why, with all the wonderful phrases this man wrote, why bits of this poem are quoted so often. There sure is something arresting about that description of buds in May - but the opening line is a beauty - and not a Spring Day or Winter day but a Summer's day - lots of imagery for a Summer's day.
Pat from what you are saying it sounds like we are in for 3 days of great Sonnets. It is about time isn't it - we did our duty with the first 17... actually mostly the poetry was well worth the read with time to dwell on each Sonnet - it was the theme that felt overbearing don't you think.
-
No, that was the last three, ending with today's, #18, which seems very sure-footed.
-
So long as men can breathe or eyes can see,
So long lives this, and this gives life to thee.
Oh how interesting for Shakespeare to feel that his poem will keep her alive, how his words give life to her long after she is gone. He feels he can capture an endless summer and her beauty in his verses. I think he accomplished his goal!
This sonnet comes at the most perfect time to be reading it, considering the weather, it being summer, we are having some extreme temps, we had a thunderstorm last night, and the buds on my flowers are falling away. So very true, summer never seems to last long enough.
-
Oh I see Pat - I misread thinking of the first 17 as a group did not consider that the last couple could be associated with this Sonnet 18 - need to read them as a threesome - but in the morning - full evening over a lovely dinner and a couple of glasses of wine - we had a great time just the two of us. I will read all three in the morning and see what it is that you have shared with us... promise.
Bellamarie - yes, this is mid-summer - how perfect is this timing - as you point out this Sonnet makes you realize what we write has a life of its own and will last beyond our years on this earth - we have archived the posts of so many who read and shared in a book discussion who have since passed - so yes, the simplest of us leave a legacy of our thoughts - hmm interesting when we are thinking the future - just leaving our thoughts in words extends our place on this earth so that others will have the benefit of our thoughts as special gifts.
-
Shakespeare Sonnet XIX
(http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-dYv3IEmCsyM/TtUisG7j2gI/AAAAAAAAIwc/HTI_4f0jIqY/s1600/Parmigianino%252C+Pallas+Athene+1539.jpg)
Devouring Time, blunt thou the lion's paws,
And make the earth devour her own sweet brood;
Pluck the keen teeth from the fierce tiger's jaws,
And burn the long-lived phoenix in her blood;
Make glad and sorry seasons as thou fleet'st,
And do whate'er thou wilt, swift-footed Time,
To the wide world and all her fading sweets;
But I forbid thee one most heinous crime:
O, carve not with thy hours my love's fair brow,
Nor draw no lines there with thine antique pen;
Him in thy course untainted do allow
For beauty's pattern to succeeding men.
Yet, do thy worst, old Time: despite thy wrong,
My love shall in my verse ever live young. |
William Shakespeare's Sonnet 19https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=b51qP_ICYCg
-
Ah, is S. finally being crystal clear about the gender of the object of his poetic affections?:
Nor draw no lines there with thine antique pen;
Him in thy course untainted do allow
It seems possible that all along he has been addressing someone who, perhaps, is his junior for whom he has great affection or fondness; someone who is also a close friend.
-
I get that time is not kind, yet Shakespeare says:
Yet do thy worst, old Time; despite thy wrong,
My love shall in my verse ever live young.
-
Leah looks like you found the magic word "him" and so it had to be that he has been talking to another man all this time. Now I have to read them again and think of them as if he is talking to another man. Probably as you say, young man.
Haha I had a quick reaction Bellamarie to your pointing how writing about someone as Shakespeare does the person described forever stays the same in the written piece and what I see is so funny is in my mind's eye my children are barely out of their 20s and here my grands are all well in their 20s so not only on paper but in the conscious memory of Mom's children seem as if young and never grow old.
Well now back to read the Sonnets Pat tod us about yesterday...
-
aha - I see it Pat - do y'all see what Pat is seeing, how in words Shakespeare is suggesting a growing power in his use of words - "There's a progression in sonnets 16-18. In 16, poetry is inadequate as a means if preserving beauty, compared to having children. In 17, poetry seems to be almost equal to having offspring. In 18, children aren't even mentioned, and the sonnet is the means of a sort of immortality. I wonder if this reflects a growing confidence in his powers?"
-
AI do not think I ever dwelled on what many call the Ravages of Time - I have noticed over the years as people who smoked age they seem to have looser face skin and more wrinkles - I wonder what the connection is to smoking - my only thought is that anything we do to slow the oxygen in our systems shows itself when we age - so maybe it is not time that is to bewail over but just as a flower needs oxygen and in fact they even refer to writing as getting a shot of oxygen hmmm so maybe it is the lack of oxygen and not time at all... just a wandering thought...
I do like this line though - Nor draw no lines there with thine antique pen; I Like that referring to the lines on our forehead as if drawn by an 'antique' pen.
Actually I prefer instead of bemoaning about age this quote by Voltaire, "Life is a shipwreck, but we must not forget to sing in the lifeboats."
-
Or this one:
Life may not be the party we hoped for, but while we're here we should dance.
~ Author Unknown
(And this is totally off the subject, but it made me laugh out loud after the recent immersion in disturbing media reports from around the planet - laughter helps balance things out.
From Rita Mae Brown:
If the world were a logical place, men would ride side-saddle.)
-
Barb, I agree, I know my kids are all grown up and have kids of their own who are growing up everyday, but I'll be darned if I don't see them all so much younger in my mind than what they truly are.
No one can escape time, but Shakespeare seems to think he can capture it in his sonnets, and hold it's beauty and life suspended from the point he is writing these lines.
-
Our Poetry Page Reads
Shakespeare Sonnets
2016 the world commemorates
400 years since the death of William Shakespeare.
(http://d13a6ytc0s97c3.cloudfront.net/uploads/listing/image/67/event_RS556808_36980_ROY210915_010-lpr.jpg)
April, 1616. A man died, but a legacy was born; one which proved
so essential not only to the development of
drama and literature, but to language, to thoughts and ideas.
A Sonnet a Day
July 1, till December 1,
We read in order, from 1 to 154
A Shakespeare Sonnet each day.
Welcome
Please share your comments about the day's Sonnet.
Link: First Post of Our Discussion on July 1 (http://seniorlearn.org/forum/index.php?topic=176.msg283685#msg283685)
Shakespeare Anniversary Links
- Shakespeare400 (http://www.shakespeare400.org/)
- Shakespeare 400 at The Globe (http://www.shakespearesglobe.com/400)
- Shakespeare 400 Chicago (http://www.shakespeare400chicago.com/)
- Dame Judi leads Shakespeare Day gala finale (http://www.bbc.com/news/entertainment-arts-36111591)
- Turning Shakespeare’s sonnets into short films (http://[url=http://www.pbs.org/newshour/bb/turning-shakespeares-sonnets-short-films/)
Discussion Leaders: Barb (augere@ix.netcom.com)
-
Leah the laugh of the day - I too had to laugh aloud with your sidesaddle quip.
You too Bellamarie - if our kids only knew... oh dear...
-
Shakespeare Sonnet XX
(http://fashionstylesource.com/renaissance/pictures/1559_Gregory_Fiennes_Baron_Dacre.jpg)
A woman's face with Nature's own hand painted
Hast thou, the master-mistress of my passion;
A woman's gentle heart, but not acquainted
With shifting change, as is false women's fashion;
An eye more bright than theirs, less false in rolling,
Gilding the object whereupon it gazeth;
A man in hue, all hues in his controlling,
Much steals men's eyes and women's souls amazeth.
And for a woman wert thou first created;
Till Nature, as she wrought thee, fell a-doting,
And by addition me of thee defeated,
By adding one thing to my purpose nothing.
But since she prick'd thee out for women's pleasure,
Mine be thy love and thy love's use their treasure. |
William Shakespeare's Sonnet 20https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=-tUgF0RvO30
-
Not that it matters to me, but this sonnet gives me pause and has me wondering if Shakespeare was bisexual. Of course I had to go searching for an answer and it appears it's been a question scholars have asked over the centuries.
https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Sexuality_of_William_Shakespeare
Shakespeare's sonnets are cited as evidence of his bisexuality. The poems were initially published, perhaps without his approval, in 1609.[19] One hundred and twenty-six of them appear to be love poems addressed to a young man known as the 'Fair Lord' or 'Fair Youth'; this is often assumed to be the same person as the 'Mr W.H.' to whom the sonnets are dedicated.[20] The identity of this figure (if he is indeed based on a real person) is unclear; the most popular candidates are Shakespeare's patrons, Henry Wriothesley, 3rd Earl of Southampton and William Herbert, 3rd Earl of Pembroke, both of whom were considered handsome in their youth.[21]
From every link I visited it concurs these sonnets were written for a young man.
But since she prick'd thee out for women's pleasure,
Mine be thy love and thy love's use their treasure.
He seems to be conceding that this young man is meant for women's pleasure, but he will remain seeing him as his love.
-
ahh - Bellamarie having researched to find a suitable photo I learned much about men's fashion in the sixteenth and early seventeenth century - seems that a fashionably dressed man was called 'Beautiful' and wore clothes that were not sex specific - one article I read said, sex specific clothes were not set in stone till the nineteenth century. Early nineteenth century, fashionable men still wore embroidered flowered coats and embroidered silk vests, silk stockings with decorative garters, feminine ruffles and lace similar to women. In the Sixteenth century fashionable young man dressed with a feminine flair and his stance, the way he used his body was gentle and graceful. Male children were dressed as girls till they approached their teens.
The knight culture had been waning and now a man of breeding showed his feminine side. With the increased wealth and trade from newly discovered lands during the sixteenth century, gold and colorful silk thread was used to decorate cloth, imported Venetian sheet panes rather than bottled glass windows allowed more light to embroider and make lace. Successful men wanted the benefits of their new luxury and like many families the younger generation shows off the family wealth and status. During this time in history it showed status when the young men dressed and comported themselves as feminine rather than the strong warrior.
Here is one bit -- "Men wore jewelry off and on, and in the mid-16th century, they often wore a single dangling earring along with their wide, padded breeches that resembled puffy skirts. Whatever femininity this might have indicated was counter-balanced with hyper-masculine pointy beards and codpieces (which were not uncommonly erect, in case you had any lingering doubts of a man’s virility). The pointy beard mirrored the triangular waistline, and punctuated by the essential phallic sword accessory, further drawing the eye to the crotch:"
Poets into the early nineteenth century included in their poetry words like "beautiful young men" that a girl lamented or pined for and women admiring men who were described as seductive, wearing bracelets on their 'naked arms'. Women, often married, wanted to bed the more beautiful young men like these...
(https://upload.wikimedia.org/wikipedia/commons/thumb/f/f3/Agnolo_Bronzino_-_Portrait_of_a_Young_Man.jpg/134px-Agnolo_Bronzino_-_Portrait_of_a_Young_Man.jpg) (https://upload.wikimedia.org/wikipedia/commons/thumb/c/c8/Giorgione_011.jpg/280px-Giorgione_011.jpg) (https://upload.wikimedia.org/wikipedia/commons/thumb/1/15/Raffael_089.jpg/280px-Raffael_089.jpg) (https://upload.wikimedia.org/wikipedia/commons/thumb/2/22/Palma_il_Vecchio_002.jpg/264px-Palma_il_Vecchio_002.jpg) (http://world4.eu/wp-content/uploads/2015/02/gentlemen_16th_century_baroque_costumes.jpg)
And so what Shakespeare is saying is that a beautiful young man in false women's fashion were created for a women's sexual pleasure - "A man in hue, all hues in his controlling," meaning he dresses the peacock as we would call it today but, he is the one who is controlling his colorful dress and what it means and who he is.
-
Well, that is interesting Barb, and one way to see it. There are still scholars who have wondered about his sexuality for centuries and I don't think it had to do with fashion. But if it is a possibility, you can read these sonnets with a whole new perspective. I myself kept thinking he was speaking about a woman because they are so intimate, until someone pointed out he used "he" then I realized indeed he is speaking to a young man especially in sonnet 18.
From that particular article I posted I found this interesting:
The poems were initially published, perhaps without his approval, in 1609.
Imagine if these were Shakespeare personal writings, such as journals he wrote not expecting them to ever to be viewed to the public. I have many private journals that I intend to destroy because they were my personal private thoughts struggling and dealing with many different issues in my life throughout the years I was journaling.
Gosh I just knew my curiosity was going to get the better of me and send me on more searches. Since I have never taken the time to know anything at all about Shakespeare until now, I thought what better time than now, since we are reading his daily sonnets. Here are a couple of interesting links, one of his timeline, and one about the 154 sonnets. I personally enjoy knowing a bit more behind the great writer.
http://shakespeare.about.com/od/thesonnets/tp/Sonnet_Summary.htm
http://shakespeare.about.com/od/shakespeareslife/a/Shakespeare_Timeline.htm
1. The Fair Youth Sonnets (Sonnets 1 – 126)
The first 126 of Shakespeare’s sonnets are addressed to the fair youth with whom the poet has a deep and loving friendship. This sequence comprises many of Shakespeare’s most famous poems including ‘Shall I Compare Thee To A Summer's Day?’ (Sonnet 18).
2. The Dark Lady Sonnets (Sonnets 127 – 152)
The Dark Lady Sonnets are the second sequence in Shakespeare's sonnets in which a "dark lady" enters the narrative and instantly becomes the object of the poet's desire.
This helps me when reading these sonnets.
-
I believe that in Italy at that time, bisexuality (especially toward "youths") was common in the upper classes, and was taken for granted. I don't know if the same was true in England.
-
JoanK., I think throughout Europe and other countries it was. Makes me think of Lewis Carroll and how he was in love with young Alice Liddell, and how it was common for the elite to have him paint their youth in nude.
-
I think - didn't the Sonnet form originate in Italy - well onwards - this looking into interpretation is tricky - it is so easy for us to slip into using the 'expertise' of Shakespeare scholars to decipher the meaning of these Sonnets and we are back to assuming one expert is on target more than another - for some reason over the last 400 years Shakespeare has attracted more experts than most writer - even those who wrote his Biography do not agree on what are supposed to be facts - My personal take is they are fine until they attempt to interpret the facts of his life and then like all of us, our individual bias creeps in. We all have our favorite Shakespeare Biography but stacked one against the other the differences are many.
The earlier guidance for this discussion I think is our best bet to read these Sonnets for ourselves and not dip into understanding them from the experience and point of view of a Shakespeare expert - re-reading from an earlier post -
"There are a ton of books that analyze and tear into the poem but, we do not have to repeat what authors have deduced in their many books - part of enjoying poetry is hearing its song - seeing the mind pictures a poem creates for us.
It helps to say the poem aloud - like remembering the rustle of Autumn leaves adds a memory moment, a connection with trees that allows us to sink into autumn and so too, reading a poem aloud - if there is a reading of the Sonnet on youtube available then it is added at the bottom of the post.
This is our time to relax and float in words - to catch the ideas that Shakespeare shares - Feel the joy of words that are placed one after another but not strung along as we carry on a conversation, there is an other worldliness about them.
Tell us about your first reaction – After your second read were you moved – Did you catch something you did not catch in the first reading - was there a particular phrase that caught you as you read - Then after your third read, what emotions within yourself did the poem touch. Did Shakespeare pull you in? What did you find appealing about the 14 lines declaring an aspect of love - - - "
-
OK in light of the reminder to enjoy these Sonnets - the last line to me is magical
Had to read it several time to figure it out but once I did - oh oh oh
Mine be thy love and thy love's use their treasure.
That 'thy' in 'thy love's' took me awhile to figure out who the 'thy' belonged to.
I get the sentence saying - my love be yours my love - he is calling the person he is talking to 'thy love' and now my love is yours - added to his or her love as a something of an identity - like a precious stone or just a pile of love that is the mixture of both their love and to use that pile of love as the treasure of this other to whom he is talking.
We are so not used to men talking to each other using the expression love and as Joan points out it is common among Italian men - I've heard it among Frenchmen but they are usually related to each other and so I did not think it unusual -
However, regardless the fact of who is talking in the poem, taking that line as a thought for anyone you care about - in fact, all of use - we do care about each other - and so If I am adding my caring to the group caring and calling y'all loves and then, all that love and caring, mine and everyone's love and caring is put together it really is a treasure.
Hmm, that may be what is the core of those of us who post on Senior Learn and why we are concerned when one or the other of us goes through a difficult time or how we are happy for each other when someone is having a wonderful experience. Yep, I think we together are a treasure of caring and love. I like that...
-
Shakespeare Sonnet XXI
(https://s-media-cache-ak0.pinimg.com/736x/c6/2c/93/c62c935ecf4b2387900976ad29bf67fd.jpg)
So is it not with me as with that Muse,
Stirr'd by a painted beauty to his verse;
Who heaven itself for ornament doth use,
And every fair with his fair doth rehearse;
Making a couplement of proud compare,
With sun and moon, with earth and sea's rich gems,
With April's first-born flowers, and all things rare
That heaven's air in this huge rondure hems.
O' let me, true in love, but truly write,
And then believe me, my love is as fair
As any mother's child, though not so bright
As those gold candles fix'd in heaven's air:
Let them say more than like of hearsay well;
I will not praise, that purpose not to sell. |
Sonnet 21 (image of Original 1609 edition of the Sonnet)https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=8doUpbveQkQ
-
Had so much trouble making sense of this line "And every fair with his fair doth rehearse;" - picking it apart fair is beautiful - fair with his fair - that is comparison - aha rehearse means he celebrates. So this is all about an extravagant comparison.
Then I had to question what is, "huge rondure" - Roundness; rounded form or space. Formerly also as a count noun: a round form, space, or object ( obsolete ). Origin: Early 17th century; earliest use found in Thomas Dekker (c1572–1632), playwright and pamphleteer. From round + -ure.
OK so the "huge rondure hems" would be that the heavens hem in the roundness that represents earth - because by medieval times scholars accept the earth is a sphere.
-
In Sonnet XXl, it seems he is saying that his true love is as beautiful as any poet's words, and as beautiful as anything of the universe. It sort of reminds me of the saying, "Beauty is in the eye of the beholder."
Which for me, means we see what we see, and not necessarily anyone else sees it our way.
I didn't intend to get us off track, I really did need to learn a bit more about this great poet. It does help me to know if he is speaking to a male or female. For some crazy reason I kept seeing these intimate words being meant for a woman, it does give me personally a better perception in reading these sonnets now.
-
I think you nailed it on the head, Bellamarie! Eye of the beholder, yes!
And he is not praising the likes of his fair one for any other reason than to express his affection- he is not talking them up for the purpose of 'sell'ing or to convince others of their beauty and value to him.
-
ooowww Bellamarie yes, I never thought of that phrase and as Leah says, hits the nail on the head.
After reading it again that first line sorta splits the poem in half - he ignores himself - "So is it not with me" and then writes the next seven lines explaining away the Muse and does not pick up on himself till "O' let me, true in love, but truly write," and for the next few lines till the last two line rebuttal he explains himself in complete agreement with the Muse but using other metaphors to do it. Yep, just as you said Bellamarie - its all in the eye of the beholder
I sure do like this line describing the stars at night - "As those gold candles fix'd in heaven's air:" I am going to remember that line when I go out again tonight to look at the sky - did any of you go out last night and see the moon? Oh the moon was huge - full like a pale golden disk slowly came up from the eastern horizon - it was a night I would have liked staying up and watching the entire process as it rose and traveled across the sky - but things to do today so I had to get to bed. The moon put on such a show I never even looked for a star but tonight I need to look for some of those ;) gold candles
-
I didn't have time to talk yesterday, but I had stuff to say about sonnet 20, so I'll say it today, and anyone who's tired of #20 can just not read it.
It's a lovely poem, and it's also somewhat disconcerting because of the fuzzy gender identity. He's talking to a man, but loves the man's feminine qualities. Nature first made him a woman, then thought him so lovable that she (nature) equipped him as a man. Notice that the man is regarded as superior to a woman, having a woman's heart, but constant, not false as woman's is; having a woman's eyes, but brighter and not false in expression. This is meant as a compliment, you're better than any other human being, but I bet Shakespeare genuinely thought men were superior.
The poet talks as though their love can't have a physical side, but will still be there. "By addition" nature has defeated me of thee.
But since she pricked thee out for women's pleasure,
Mine be thy love, and thy love's use their treasure.
Since nature gave the beloved man what women need for pleasure, although he can still love the poet (mine be thy love) thy love's use (the physical side) belongs to women (their treasure).
-
Thanks for that, PAT. I really needed help with tht one.
-
Good show Pat - trying to be clear using 400 year old English does not help either - Onward ->
Today's link to the sonnet spoken shows a page from the original English - interesting how words have developed - glad they read it aloud because just looking at the printed page I would never have understood and here we have the Sonnet written using today's spelling and it still can be a challenge - but then the words are like music aren't they - what a treat we would miss not reading these - I am so proud of us - we have already read almost an eighth of these wonderful expressions of Shakespeare's thoughts on love, passing time, desire and beauty.
So far looking for beauty and love to be expressed romantically I am reading more how flowers are used as a description and metaphor for beauty - isn't it you Bellamarie that has the flower garden - I have read of herb gardens using all the herbs mentioned in the plays of Shakespeare - need to look more closely at flowers as the way beauty was described in the 16th and 17th century.
-
Shakespeare Sonnet XXII
(http://www.christies.com/lotfinderimages/d57017/jusepe_de_ribera_lo_spagnoletto_a_philosopher_holding_a_mirror_d5701788h.jpg)
My glass shall not persuade me I am old,
So long as youth and thou are of one date;
But when in thee time's furrows I behold,
Then look I death my days should expiate.
For all that beauty that doth cover thee
Is but the seemly raiment of my heart,
Which in thy breast doth live, as thine in me:
How can I then be elder than thou art?
O, therefore, love, be of thyself so wary
As I, not for myself, but for thee will;
Bearing thy heart, which I will keep so chary
As tender nurse her babe from faring ill.
Presume not on thy heart when mine is slain;
Thou gavest me thine, not to give back again. |
William Shakespeare Sonnet 22https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=5_Jx13_pdM4
-
Barb, Yes, I have been working tirelessly on my flower gardens since I retired a year ago April. It is a work in progress, I add new perennials almost daily since they are going on sale now. My goal is to have all perennials so I will only have to buy a few annuals each year. I plant so they will begin blooming in early Spring and continue all through the Summer and Fall. My sweet granddaughter five year old Zoey is a big helper, along with my hubby. Here is a short video I made of my yard, as you will see I am attracting many of mother nature's creatures.... Butterflies, bunnies, birds, etc. Enjoy!
https://www.facebook.com/marie.patterfritzreinhart/videos/10210298437040699/
-
Sonnet XXll
I especially like and can identify with these particular lines:
Which in thy breast doth live, as thine in me:
How can I then be elder than thou art?
I think of my grandchildren, especially the younger ones, and see myself not of my age, but much younger when being with them. I don't like to think of them growing up, because for some reason that makes me see myself growing old. As in the picture you added for this sonnet, I do feel like looking at my young grandchildren, is like looking into a mirror showing me my youth, and yet mortality.
-
As Bellamarie when I hit the url - which i have several times with a significant time lapse between tries - I get this message - Sorry, this content isn't available right now
-
Hmmm.... I just clicked the link and it was fine. Not sure what the problem could be.
-
Not sure either Bellamarie - just tried again - I've copied and pasted here the entire box which says...
Sorry, this content isn't available right now
The link you followed may have expired, or the page may only be visible to an audience you're not in.
Go back to the previous page · Go to News Feed · Visit our Help Center
-
As to today's Sonnet - did little for me - same old same old - where you enjoy seeing aspects of yourself in your grands - it just never occurred to me to look - I do see similarities but then I am such the individualist believing each has their particular individual gifts to add to the universe I am more excited when I see them thinking and acting differently than I would imagine as a response to life - but yes, I must say several of the grandboys look like me or my mother or my father and one even walks as my father did who was dead over 20 years before he was born - they all have some interest that is similar to mine but then they seem to also have interests and ways similar to their other parent's family.
The consistency I notice they all have the spunk that it would assign to my great grandparents who sailed to America before steam ships and before the Civil War. They all came alone with no other family. Knowing that my great Grandmother lied about her age when she arrived at Castle Gardens alone - she was only 16 that later census showed but, upon arrival she said she was 18 which meant those waiting on the docks to get workers would offer her an adult job rather than snatch her for child labor which was the common practice for kids on their own.
Also, she made friends with two other girls from Bavaria from different towns and only after research found why that was an important move - the ships were not yet segregated by gender - there were 3 to a hammock and so this kept her from having to share a hammock with a guy - lots of stories of rape aboard these sailing vessels and that was why the change to separating by gender came about a full 10 years after her arrival.
Those kind of smarts is what I see in my grandboys - not the smarts learned with formal education but the kind of smarts that allow you to see and take advantage of opportunity. All that to say I do see family traits continuing in these boys where I was not looking because I was too buys looking for how they were unique. Ah so - Shakespeare has taught me to be perceptive in another way.
-
Shakespeare Sonnet XXIII
(http://www.worldhistory.biz/uploads/posts/2015-11/484w-48.jpg)
As an unperfect actor on the stage,
Who with his fear is put besides his part,
Or some fierce thing replete with too much rage,
Whose strength's abundance weakens his own heart;
So I, for fear of trust, forget to say
The perfect ceremony of love's rite,
And in mine own love's strength seem to decay,
O'ercharg'd with burden of mine own love's might.
O let my books be then the eloquence
And dumb presagers of my speaking breast,
Who plead for love and look for recompense
More than that tongue that more hath more express'd.
O, learn to read what silent love hath writ:
To hear with eyes belongs to love's fine wit. |
William Shakespeare's Sonnet 23https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=WLI276Qm5X8
-
Barb, I think I figured it out.... when I posted it on my Facebook page I accidentally had it locked to where only I could see it. I changed the viewing to "Public" Give it another try and see if you can view it now. Thanks for letting me know it was not coming up.
I like to think we are all one of a kind also Barb, but I have spent so many days since each of my six grandkids were born daycaring them five days a week, and then family functions on the weekends that I can't help but see their similarities to myself, my hubby, their parents and other sides of the families. But yes, they each have that special uniqueness as well. As my youngest Zoey who is five years old will be going off to Kindergarten this August, grows each day and I measure her to me, as I have and still do measure my grandkids to my 5'2 height, and see how they have grown to my belly button, to my heart, to my shoulders, to my nose, to my eyes, to the top of my head and then taller than me, my heart skips a beat knowing our days together for day care are limited. The teens find other things to do rather than spend their summer days here, and oh how this shows me time is flying by......
-
I enjoy examples of synesthesia like this one in the last line: "To hear with eyes belongs to love's fine wit." I remember from somewhere that Cupid is sometimes portrayed as blind or perhaps blindfolded - which brings "love is blind" to mind.
Using one sense to describe another sense. Like "yellow cocktail music" (Great Gatsby) or "taste the rainbow."
-
Shakespeare seems to be relying more on his words written, to express his feelings, rather than words spoken. He seems to think he is not able to express all that he feels, so he wants his lover to read his words. For him being such a great poet, he seems to not be confident in speaking his feelings aloud.
O let my books be then the eloquence
And dumb presagers of my speaking breast
-
OH Wow Bellamarie the video works - wonderful garden - the azalia bush really puts on a show and all the daisies - they appear as if a hedge along that picket fence - I assume that is your husband and one of your grands helping in the garden - do you dry your hydrangeas? I love my white dryed hydrangeas that I picked years ago while visiting my daughter in the Summer - we do not have them here - too hot. Folks next door had a Rose of Sharon but the drought got it. What is the flower that has large stripes of pink and white in a circle on each of many flowerets?
"To hear with eyes..." Ah yes, to "taste the rainbow" We do that don't we Leah when we are reading - I think that is how I remember looking at a baby before they can talk - you sorta hear them tell you what they need - never did it with an adult though. hmm I wonder - come to think of it when a family member or good friend is upset you can tell and where you cannot actually know for sure what they are thinking you sorta get a gist of it.
What about you Leah do you have the ability to hear or taste what you see? Including that approach in art sure gives it a spark doesn't it.
I think the one I remember and sure have experienced is to taste fear - and smell danger, with no evidence that suggests that danger is nearby but boy can I tell - I used to ignore it but not anymore since my smell ended up proving me right - my Mom used to be able to feel when a family member was dying - as if someone was playing the scales up her vertebra - never thought though to say it aloud or write it as an acceptable thought - just thought my Mom was odd and so was I - ah so...
- And cupid being blindfolded is so perfect isn't it after reading some of Ovid we really understood how the ancients thought of cupid and the unlikely pairing cupid darted.
I wonder Bellamarie if Shakespeare is concerned for the progeny of his poems and plays but yes, he does want those he loves to read of his feelings - that is a gift isn't it - I'm not good at putting my feelings into words much less beautiful metaphors - well there is no sense feeling 'less than', after all we are talking Shakespeare here.
-
Bellamarie, your link worked for me now--I love it. I see bunnies around here too, mostly when I bring in the paper in the morning, unafraid, staring at me, with the early morning sunlight shining pinkly through their erect ears. They know perfectly well I'm not going to try to eat them. No more monarch butterflies though. I particularly like the little Mary looking down at those small yellow flowers.
-
Yesterday's and today's poems are kind of more the standard love sonnet, and very nice indeed. Yesterday, the notion of switching hearts with the beloved. Take care of yourself, as I have to take care of myself, because we are each guarding the heart of the loved other. And don't expect me to give your heart back, even if you hurt mine.
Today he's saying that love and nervousness make him tongue-tied, and his beloved must understand, reading the message in his looks instead. (Never mind how improbable it is that Shakespeare is at a loss for words.)
The final two lines are gorgeous:
O, learn to read what silent love hath writ:
To hear with eyes belongs to love's fine wit.
-
I am so glad you all are now able to see the video. Barb the pink and white flowers are called peppermint phlox. I tried drying hydrangeas and I must have done something wrong because it did not work. Care to share how you did it? PatH., I am amazed at how the wildlife are becoming more and more friendly with humans. I wonder why that is? The birds will come sit with us, the butterflies don't fly away when I am taking their pics, squirrels don't run away, and the bunnies come right up to our patio, not to mention the cardinal just sat there letting me take it's pic. I have friends who live in the city and deer come up their patio doors. Yesterday I was laying out by my pool and this beautiful butterfly came near and stayed for over 20 minutes. Never flew away while I clicked it's pic here he is:
https://www.facebook.com/photo.php?fbid=10210310332698083&set=ms.c.eJxVy0EOACEMQtEbTYBWae9~%3BMXUxiSasXviEiDhzto34~_EtojkLpkd7yfCIKzlu0K19Vki71WHGJFRg~-.bps.a.10210310317097693.1073742072.1334503729&type=3&theater
-
No, I can not imagine Shakespeare being at a loss for words, or being tongue- tied, although I can imagine someone in love having feelings so great they feel it is not possible to express it in words that will not do them justice, so instead he writes them down. Some people are just not good at expressing words openly. I did not grow up in a home where love was expressed openly. I had never been hugged or told "I love you" so when I did fall in love with my husband and he so openly could say those words and demonstrate with hugs I was very uncomfortable. But I could write him the best love letters ever! Now, I am a hugger and say, "I love you" all the time to him and my children and grandchildren. So I can relate to Shakespeare in this sonnet.
-
Pat thanks for the reminder to look again at the last two lines - they are lovely - "Love's fine wit" - just hearing that phrase aloud is lovely.
Gardens are a magical place aren't they Bellamarie nothing like planting a garden - learning what will grow best in a certain spot and then seeing the visiting animal, bird and insect life add to the show. You too, so many of us grew up in homes that putting it politely were reserved showing their affection. Now to put those affectionate words into beautiful prose - wow - hope to pick up some ideas as we read these Sonnets. I have tons of notepaper that I keep saying I am going to get back in the habit of sending weekly notes to family and friends - with email and messaging we no longer write notes and yet, receiving one is such a lift that I keep thinking I could be lifting others.
-
Shakespeare Sonnet XXIV
(http://www.naturalpigments.com/images/newsletter/van_hemessen_caterina.jpg)
Mine eye hath play'd the painter and hath stell'd
Thy beauty's form in table of my heart;
My body is the frame wherein 'tis held,
And perspective it is the painter's art.
For through the painter must you see his skill,
To find where your true image pictured lies;
Which in my bosom's shop is hanging still,
That hath his windows glazed with thine eyes.
Now see what good turns eyes for eyes have done:
Mine eyes have drawn thy shape, and thine for me
Are windows to my breast, where-through the sun
Delights to peep, to gaze therein on thee;
Yet eyes this cunning want to grace their art;
They draw but what they see, know not the heart. |
William Shakespeare's Sonnet 24https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=rv08LMoMsGs
-
Sonnet XX1V
This is truly an amazing expression of one's love captured through the eyes and the heart! I think this just may be my very favorite of all time poems!! I am going to make a copy of it and frame it and place it where I can see it often. Shakespeare has truly outdone himself here, this sonnet has been worth all the wait and the muddling through the procreation sonnets. I love every line of this sonnet!!!
I am a novice, but obsessive photographer. Everytime I see something beautiful, unique, touching to me I MUST capture it with my camera. (I drive everyone crazy!) If I don't have my camera with me, which is rare, I blink and say I'm taking a picture to last in my memory. As a painter who must capture that special feeling with the stroke of his brush and paints, so too must I capture them with the click of my camera. Shakespeare has done this with his ink and paper.
-
One of those days - not sure what I accomplished - it was hot - been taking care of some damage done to my front garden by my crazy mean-spirited neighbor and the poison he used made me so sick I got scared till I called and discussing it realized the easiest poison to use on Rosemary bushes is Sevin and the treatment is baking soda -
If it helped within a half hour we nailed it and it did - my arm no longer on fire and the bumps all went down - next was to shower in it, make a paste where I used my hands to hold the affected branches when I cut them and my feet since I seldom wear shoes working in the garden - drank it to take care of my swollen tongue and throat - it worked then diarrhea for the rest of the day and had to pull out all my help for breathing since it did a number on my lungs.
Looks like the soil is contaminated and the best recommendation is it will take 3 years to recoup. Heartsick - it was the garden I created in memory of my son who loved to garden - there really is no way to get even without a never ending war that I have now since this is the second Rosemary bush he took down - the last he actually cut it to the ground - I hate this - he is a bully and he wins - He does this in the middle of the night - Needless to say Shakespeare got short shrift today while I tried to repair my body and a broken heart.
-
before we leave this - the art work - what do you think is her jerkin made of sable or velvet - the sleeves are for sure velvet but the jerkin is so dark it is difficult to tell and I am thinking sable can be very refined without all that furry look of most furs - she appears to be by her cap someone from maybe the Netherlands rather than from London - during the 16th century I do not think there was another city in Britain that would have artists so I put her North where it would be cold and therefore wonder the material used to make the jerkin.
-
the line that grabbed me is - "Now see what good turns eyes for eyes have done:" - calm - no drama - and fragile.
-
Our Poetry Page Reads
Shakespeare Sonnets
2016 the world commemorates
400 years since the death of William Shakespeare.
(http://d13a6ytc0s97c3.cloudfront.net/uploads/listing/image/67/event_RS556808_36980_ROY210915_010-lpr.jpg)
April, 1616. A man died, but a legacy was born; one which proved
so essential not only to the development of
drama and literature, but to language, to thoughts and ideas.
A Sonnet a Day
July 1, till December 1,
We read in order, from 1 to 154
A Shakespeare Sonnet each day.
Welcome
Please share your comments about the day's Sonnet.
Link: First Post of Our Discussion on July 1 (http://seniorlearn.org/forum/index.php?topic=176.msg283685#msg283685)
Shakespeare Anniversary Links
- Shakespeare400 (http://www.shakespeare400.org/)
- Shakespeare 400 at The Globe (http://www.shakespearesglobe.com/400)
- Shakespeare 400 Chicago (http://www.shakespeare400chicago.com/)
- Dame Judi leads Shakespeare Day gala finale (http://www.bbc.com/news/entertainment-arts-36111591)
- Turning Shakespeare’s sonnets into short films (http://[url=http://www.pbs.org/newshour/bb/turning-shakespeares-sonnets-short-films/)
|
Discussion Leaders: Barb (augere@ix.netcom.com)
-
Shakespeare Sonnet XXV
(http://www.operatoday.com/Pelleas_and_Melisande-Leigh.gif)
Let those who are in favour with their stars,
Of public honour and proud titles boast,
Whilst I, whom fortune of such triumph bars,
Unlook'd for joy in that I honour most.
Great princes' favourites their fair leaves spread
But as the marigold at the sun's eye;
And in themselves their pride lies buried,
For at a frown they in their glory die.
The painful warrior famoused for worth,
After a thousand victories once foil'd,
Is from the book of honour razed quite,
And all the rest forgot for which he toil'd:
Then happy I, that love and am beloved
Where I may not remove nor be removed. |
William Shakespeare Sonnet 25https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=JX3eC5wcQao
-
Ah, yes, how we can sometimes be so quick to throw someone out of our hearts (frown) after a lifetime of praiseworthy behavior (a thousand victories) by giving greater weight to other less than honorable actions.
For at a frown they in their glory die.
The painful warrior famoused for worth,
After a thousand victories once foil'd,
Is from the book of honour razed quite,
And all the rest forgot for which he toil'd:
I love the final couplet for its confident recognition that he will never be thrown out of his beloved's heart.
Barb: Your neighbor's behavior is outrageous and shocking. I hope you are able to protect yourself and your property from further such attacks and intrusions. It sounds like he definitely has too much access! I wish you well!!
-
That's one of the joys of reading the sonnets this way--all of a sudden coming on something that particularly speaks to us. We probably all have our favorites, the poems and lines that hit home.
Barb, the jerkin looks like either to me. It seems to be mostly a bit stiffer than the sleeves, so it could be fur, but the way it curls around the armholes makes me wonder. Who is the artist?
-
I don't know why Pat I did not think to look her up - turns out it is a self-portrait - and notable, it is the first self-portrait as an artist in front of their canvas done in Europe - she is from Antwerp and her father, Jan Sanders van Hemessen was a famous mannerist painter.
Where High Renaissance art emphasizes proportion, balance, and ideal beauty, Mannerism exaggerates such qualities, often resulting in compositions that are asymmetrical or unnaturally elegant. Mannerism is notable for its intellectual sophistication as well as its artificial (as opposed to naturalistic) qualities.
They both painted the well placed and the wealthy - Caterina married Chrétien de Morien, the organist of Antwerp Cathedral - somehow after her marriage she was close to the Queen, who after the death of the king renounced her title and returned to Spain where Caterina van Hemessen and her husband followed. After Queen Mary died they returned to Antwerp and for their service they were bequeathed funds to live the rest of their lives in comfort.
Another self-portrait painted in 1548
(http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-BwavC6dwfj4/VJm7xlvANeI/AAAAAAAADSU/HeeY9iIqGvM/s1600/Catharina_van_Hemessen_-_Jeune_fille_jouant_du_virginal_(1548)_(i).jpg)
-
Thanks Leah for labeling my neighbor - grrr but it helped to hear someone else say it - from the lines you shared the one line that to me is a ringer and could stand alone is... "And all the rest forgot for which he toil'd:"
Sounds like so much of our lives that we give it our best but the actual work is lost to even our own memory. Really an extension of "they in their glory die."
Reminds me in a poignant way of the many homeless who die alone with no recognition of the work they did accomplish during their earlier life and the difference they did make. I used to help once a month at our local Mary House that is a place the homeless found in the streets who are very very ill who are going to die but the hospitals only allow them to stay 24 hours and often the gal that heads up Mary House would get a call and they would fetch these folks so they could at least die in a bed. Seldom was there any way to trace any family and if there was we all used to chip in to get, usually very poor family member to come and then they would be given the ashes but too many had no one and no way to acknowledge their value - they were not always homeless.
Another thought on this theme - I bet Shakespeare would be anxious about the many private libraries with thousands of books that are never read - the work of writers preserved but the purpose of their work was to be read - I think of places like the Biltmore house, built by Vanderbilt in Asheville NC with it huge two story library that as far as I know there is no system to borrow the books. I often thought with their turning everything about the estate into a money maker and with the extension of the University of North Carolina in Asheville and all the local artist bookmakers in the area they could have a gold mine of students getting credit for cataloguing the library and choosing 5 books a year from the Library that are not your everyday title to have copied into say 50 hand bound copies and sold with the same 5 made available as a general printing run with an annual weekend gathering centered around discussing the books and the authors. Ha I'm good at coming up with ideas for others but never for myself - ah so... However, this sonnet and your choosing those lines Leah got me going didn't it ;)
-
Barb, I'm feeling kind of ticked off at your neighbor too, and I've never even heard of him before.
In this sonnet Shakespeare is contrasting what happens to idols in public life, where the attitude is "so what have you done for me lately?" with him and his beloved, where he is firmly embedded in his love's heart, and can't be displaced. Of course in real life, that's not always true. People can fall out of love.
-
I know Pat, that neighbor is a doozy - usually feel no sense in sharing his over-reaching control and crazy midnight runs to do damage - just makes it more real than I want to acknowledge and prefer to keep the peace by carefully choosing when and how to say anything at all.
If I say anything the damage is worse and here of late it appears if I look at him without open friendliness he takes it as a snub and then I have more property damage - talked it over with my son who had managed 180 drivers so he knows a bit about human nature and together, we realized there was no winning with this guy and WWIII was not going to help me so I had to learn to forget it - it could be worse -
Some in this neighborhood have these weekend rent houses next to them where a bunch of wild collage age kids that sleep 8 to a room and have cases of beer and hard liquor delivered come for a few days for one of our citywide musical venues. It is a constant drunken party with girls, cars taking up the street, often nudity that with young children is not what you want so you have to leave your own house and go someplace everyday for the weekend.
The Sonnet - Interesting how accepting we are that we can fall in and out of love - I wonder if that is love but some other attraction - I guess I like Clint Black's song that love is a verb.
-
Shakespeare Sonnet XXVI
(http://ldelgado12.wikis.birmingham.k12.mi.us/file/view/vassal%20confrences.bmp/416888326/vassal%20confrences.bmp)
Lord of my love, to whom in vassalage
Thy merit hath my duty strongly knit,
To thee I send this written ambassage,
To witness duty, not to show my wit.
Duty so great, which wit so poor as mine
May make seem bare, in wanting words to show it,
But that I hope some good conceit of thine
In thy soul's thought, all naked, will bestow it:
Till whatsoever star that guides my moving,
Points on me graciously with fair aspect,
And puts apparel on my tattered loving,
To show me worthy of thy sweet respect:
Then may I dare to boast how I do love thee,
Till then not show my head where thou may'st prove me. |
William Shakespeare's Sonnet 26https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=5F14RvAZUKw
-
Sounds like he's been bawled out by his patron, and is eating humble pie. Maybe his patron thought he was getting too big for his britches.
I love the picture.
-
I didn't think of that. You're right. Patron or lover. He's saying "Even if I can't express myself properly, my feelings of duty (and love in the later lines) are strong, and I hope these lines will tide you over until something makes you notice the strength of my feelings; then I can show my face again"
-
I love the picture too. Who is it? I wonder why the kneeling man has no sword, just an empty scabbard.
-
Pat this is what I found...
In medieval Europe, the swearing of fealty took the form of an oath made by a vassal, or subordinate, to his lord. Feudalism describes a set of reciprocal legal and military obligations among the warrior nobility, revolving around the three key concepts of lords, vassals and fiefs.
Before a lord could grant land (a fief) to someone, he had to make that person a vassal. This was done at a formal and symbolic ceremony called a commendation ceremony, which was composed of the two-part act of homage and oath of fealty.
During homage, the lord and vassal entered into a contract in which the vassal promised to fight for the lord at his command, whilst the lord agreed to protect the vassal from external forces. Fealty comes from the Latin fidelitas and denotes the fidelity owed by a vassal to his feudal lord. "Fealty" also refers to an oath that more explicitly reinforces the commitments of the vassal made during homage.
"Fealty" are duties incumbent upon a vassal that were owed to the lord, which consisted of service and aid. One part of the oath of fealty included swearing to always remain faithful to the lord. The oath of fealty usually took place after the act of homage, when, by the symbolic act of kneeling before the lord and placing his hands between the hands of the lord, the vassal became the "man" of the lord.
Typically the oath took place upon a religious object such as a Bible or saint's relic, often contained within an altar, thus binding the oath-taker before God. Fealty and homage were key elements of European feudalism.
Fealty is distinct from other parts of the homage ceremony, and is usually used only to refer to that part of the ceremony where the vassal swore to be a good vassal to his lord.
Could find nothing about the empty scabbard except that symbolically it is feminine energy - my guess is it shows having less power than the liege as well as the age old ceremony shown in art where the vassal's own sword is used to knight him so it could be next to the king or who ever he is and we just do not see it.
And Joan I like your idea that he may have been eating humble pie but the other thought that makes me wonder if it is a love poem saying he was like a vassal to her - these lines have me question what he is saying...
And puts apparel on my tattered loving,
To show me worthy of thy sweet respect:
If nothing else it is a radical change to the Sonnets we have been reading.
-
Shakespeare Sonnet XXVII
(http://ic.pics.livejournal.com/ginger_at_heart/51919163/245116/245116_original.jpg)
Weary with toil, I haste me to my bed,
The dear repose for limbs with travel tired;
But then begins a journey in my head,
To work my mind, when body's work's expired:
For then my thoughts (from far where I abide)
Intend a zealous pilgrimage to thee,
And keep my drooping eyelids open wide,
Looking on darkness which the blind do see:
Save that my soul's imaginary sight
Presents thy shadow to my sightless view,
Which, like a jewel hung in ghastly night,
Makes black night beauteous and her old face new.
Lo, thus, by day my limbs, by night my mind,
For thee, and for myself, no quiet find. |
William Shakespeare's Sonnet 27https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=RRL7vM9EFXk
-
The poor poet--he's traveling long hours, (away from his love?) getting bone-tired, lying down to rest, hoping to get a good night's sleep. What happens? There, in total darkness, he imagines his love, and the sight lights up the whole world, and he can't sleep.
Lo, thus, by day my limbs, by night my mind,
For thee and for myself, no quiet find.
I like that most of these sonnets, though presumably still written to the unknown young man, work equally well if you assume they are addressing a woman.
-
You summed it up well, Pat, and brought light to the darkness of my sightless view! I was having a hard time connecting the meanings in this one.
Almost immediately, though, I noticed the grouping of faces in the upper right quadrant of the painting. Does anyone else see them? They seem to be manifesting out of the tree limb.
-
Sorry I have been away for a few days. My hubby and I escaped to Maumee Bay State Park and Resort for my birthday. Oh how lovely it was to wake up to a sunrise on the bay, and watch the sun set on the bay.
I will try to catch up but before I do I have got to say, Barb the actions of you neighbor is despicable for a human being. The fact you feel you can not do anything for future retaliation from him almost scares me. For you to even act as though nothing has happened and address him friendly to keep the peace gives him a clear understanding that you are submissive and afraid of his bully actions. You are much more tolerant than me because I would have involved the authorities and let him know with no unmistaking clarity his actions will be punishable by law if he persists. When I first moved into our house we dealt with neighbors who were bullies, and their teen children exposed themselves to my younger children. My hubby and I went away for a week-end leaving a very age appropriate, trustworthy, mature capable girl to care for our three young kids and the boys in the neighborhood between the ages of 14 - 16 actually forced their way in our home, held the kids and our sitter hostage the entire day. When we got home and heard what happened I immediately called the police. They approached each set of parents, and a child detective interviewed all the kids involved. A neighbor parent had the nerve to come to talk to me and my hubby and say if we expected to be friends and be a part of our neighborhood we must understand bringing the authorities into kid's matters will not be tolerated. I told him I do not want to be a friend or a part of any such neighborhood who has young boys who act like this, and for him to take his advice and self and leave my house. I warned the parents and children that if we have any further problems I will be videotaping and prosecuting. That ended all my problems. I detest bullying, and you should not ever have to feel intimidated by a neighbor or neighborhood. That rental property sounds a nightmare. So very sorry you feel you have no recourse. I am so glad to hear you are okay from all the reactions to the solution you came into contact with. I still would consider making out a report to have on file. I would consider having a camera installed outside your home so he can see his actions in the night time will be caught on tape. Nothing stops bullies quicker than them knowing their actions will be taped and used as evidence against them.
-
Sonnet XXVll
Lo, thus, by day my limbs, by night my mind,
For thee, and for myself, no quiet find.
Oh dear seems our Shakespeare has gotten himself into a quandary with his unrequited love.
-
And once again, BARB has found a picture for it: a youth lying in bed with all kinds of figures (presumably imaginary) intruding.
I like this poem a lot, too.
-
Ok Joan the picture - painted in 1908 by Russell Flint and called, La Belle Dame sans Merci - after the poem of the same name by Keats.
The poem is considered by many to be one of the loveliest of the literary ballads. It begins when a person passing by on the side of a hill comes upon a knight at arms who seems lost and dazed. The knight describes his meeting with a beautiful lady without mercy.
LA BELLE DAME SANS MERCI
O what can ail thee, Knight at arms,
Alone and palely loitering?
The sedge has withered from the Lake
And no birds sing!
O what can ail thee, Knight at arms,
So haggard, and so woe begone?
The Squirrel’s granary is full
And the harvest’s done.
I see a lily on thy brow
With anguish moist and fever dew,
And on thy cheeks a fading rose
Fast witherest too —
I met a Lady in the Meads,
Full beautiful, a faery’s child.
Her hair was long, her foot was light
And her eyes were wild —
I made a Garland for her head,
And bracelets too, and fragrant Zone
She look’d at me as she did love
And made sweet moan —
I set her on my pacing steed
And nothing else saw all day long
For sidelong would she bend and sing
A faery’s song —
She found me roots of relish sweet
And honey wild and manna dew
And sure in language strange she said
I love thee true —
She took me to her elfin grot
And then she wept and sigh’d full sore,
And there I shut her wild wild eyes
With kisses four.
And then she lulled me asleep
And there I dream’d, Ah Woe betide!
The latest dream I ever dreamt
On the cold hill side.
I saw pale Kings, and Princes too
Pale warriors, death pale were they all;
They cried, La belle dame sans merci
Thee hath in thrall.
I saw their starv’d lips in the gloam
With horrid warning gaped wide,
And I awoke, and found me here
On the cold hill’s side
And this is why I sojourn here
Alone and palely loitering;
Though the sedge is withered from the Lake
And no birds sing —
~ John Keats (1795-1821), English Romantic poet
However, there is more in the painting - yes, Leah the figures in the trees that if you notice, adjacent to the tree a long staff or totem that is nicely carved although we cannot see the top - it disappears beyond the painting - for our purposes as a sleeping man who is dreaming the painting works - and to associate it with the Keats poem works - however, there is more... and those figures and the totem tell another story.
During the Viking Age, “warrior-shamans” typically fell into two groups: the berserkers (Old Norse berserkir, “bear-shirts”) and úlfheðnar (Old Norse for “wolf-hides”). These groups were of the earlier Germanic warband, and had in common the shamanism of other circumpolar peoples.
Circumpolar is one of five groups of stars always visible above the horizon and it also refers to being surrounded or located at or near either of the earth's poles. The Norse early religion includes a tree as the earths axis or pole that was often symbolized in ceremony as a staff and a totem.
Both the berserkers and úlfheðnar shared a common set of shamanic practices - the difference - the totem animal of the berserkers was the bear, the úlfheðnar was the wolf. Our painting does not show us which animal is on top of the totem.
Now the good stuff - an initiation process using a symbolic death and rebirth, when the shaman-to-be acquires his powers. In preparation they spent a period in the wilderness, living like their totem animal and learning its ways, sustaining themselves through hunting, gathering, and raiding the nearest towns. They ceased to be ordinary human being and became instead a wolf-man or a bear-man, more a part of the forest than of civilization.
On the battlefield, the berserker or úlfheðinn would enter the fray armor-less and naked wearing only his animal mask and pelts into battle and were as crazed as dogs or wolves and as strong as bears or bulls. They bit their shields and slew men, while they themselves were not harmed by fire nor iron. This is called “going berserk" howling, roaring, and running amok with godly or demonic courage.
A warrior’s shield and weapons were the emblems of his social identity and status. They were given to a young man who had come of age by his father to mark his arrival into the world of rights and responsibilities of his society’s adult men.
Biting or discarding the shield, the mythical beast triumphed over the petty man, and “Odin’s men” tore through the battle, in a trance impervious to pain.
Notice in the picture his shield hangs in a tree - I would guess the other male figures in the trees represent Odin or his men, such as Egill Skallagrímsson and Starkaðr, warrior-poets. Although our young warrior is dressed he is not in typical fighting gear however, there is a metal helmet near his feet.
If this is the real story behind the painting then the woman is probably a Valkyrie, a female supernatural figure associated with fate and in particular, chooser of the slain. Viking Age stylized silver amulets depicting women with long gowns, their hair pulled back, sometimes presenting drinking horns have been found throughout Scandinavia. These figures are commonly considered to represent valkyries.
So have your pick - weary traveler - Keats, sleeping knight - or one of the Norse fighting men either dying or living in the forest and going into his trance
-
Bellemarie - thank you for your concern and oh my what a horrible experience for you and your family - safe neighborhoods can sometimes be playgrounds for those who we cannot imagine their behavior being anything more than something we read about - certainly not living next to us...
And yes, our weary traveler is in a quandary isn't he...
Pat you started us off today and that is a great reminder that these Sonnets can be read as being spoken to either a man or a woman. Because if we were to use the Norse interpretation of the art work it would be a message about the sleeping knight or if the message was to a women the thought of the weary traveler seeing within the blackness could even be a premonition or dream of a beckoning valkyrie.
Looking on darkness which the blind do see:
Save that my soul's imaginary sight
Presents thy shadow to my sightless view,
Which, like a jewel hung in ghastly night,
Makes black night beauteous and her old face new.
-
Leah, I didn't see the faces in the tree until you pointed them out, but I saw the cat and some other spooky stuff.
-
Shakespeare Sonnet XXVIII
(https://40.media.tumblr.com/3544f00aad8bdc6042c9d72539172741/tumblr_mjo6dkYmqT1s2gtggo1_500.jpg)
How can I then return in happy plight,
That am debarr'd the benefit of rest?
When day's oppression is not eas'd by night,
But day by night, and night by day, oppress'd?
And each, though enemies to either's reign,
Do in consent shake hands to torture me,
The one by toil, the other to complain
How far I toil, still farther off from thee.
I tell the day, to please him, thou art bright,
And dost him grace when clouds do blot the heaven:
So flatter I the swart-complexion'd night,
When sparkling stars twire not thou gild'st the even.
But day doth daily draw my sorrows longer,
And night doth nightly make grief's strength seem stronger. |
William Shakespeare Sonnet 28https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=QG6O-UTauv8
-
Sonnet XXVIII
But day doth daily draw my sorrows longer,
And night doth nightly make grief's strength seem stronger.
From what I can gather is he is on a journey to return to his lover and is finding it unbearable to be away.
I agree, I think these sonnets can surely be looked at either for a man or woman. Knowing he was writing them for his young male does not take away the possibility these sonnets could be given to a female from a male, or vise versa. Regardless, they speak of a love so deep it pains you from being absent from your lover.
Barb, safe neighborhoods can sometimes be playgrounds for those who we cannot imagine their behavior being anything more than something we read about - certainly not living next to us...
These words could not be more truer. We have had more experiences that would blow your mind, thinking living in these picture perfect neighborhoods exempts you from sick, deranged people is a falsehood.
-
I appears Shakespeare is writing a flury of Sonnets about being alone - yesterday, in sleep and today, traveling a long distance away - both Sonnets are a bit depressive - he sees his loneliness caused by being separated from the one he loves
I agree Bellamarie the lines you chose are lovely - I especially like the last one you chose. And night doth nightly make grief's strength seem stronger - in times of grief I do not remember being more stricken at night but then it can be calling us to think on the night of our soul so that day or night our inner being is in a dark place.
I had to laugh aloud as I read, "I tell the day, to please him, thou art bright," I remember that about Fiddler on the Roof when Tevye talks to and even shakes his fist at his God - I never think to give a personality to the day or the night or a tree or even God. My God is an energy rather than a man who is a superman in disguise with all his power hidden beneath his robes. Other aspects of nature to me I never think as having a personality but how much fun to think that way and to have a conversation with these entities.
-
Shakespeare Sonnet XXIX
(http://www.hawar-islands.com/blog/media/blogs/kuwait/C-Lark-fly.jpg)
When, in disgrace with fortune and men's eyes,
I all alone beweep my outcast state,
And trouble deaf heaven with my bootless cries,
And look upon myself, and curse my fate,
Wishing me like to one more rich in hope,
Featur'd like him, like him with friends possess'd,
Desiring this man's art and that man's scope,
With what I most enjoy contented least;
Yet in these thoughts myself almost despising,
Haply I think on thee, and then my state,
Like to the lark at break of day arising
From sullen earth, sings hymns at heaven's gate;
For thy sweet love remember'd such wealth brings
That then I scorn to change my state with kings.
|
William Shakespeare's Sonnet 29https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=XOCL_NEgf0g
-
Stay with the Youtube link if you want to hear Sonnet 29 - it is by a younger Matthew Macfadyen and it starts off a bit slow as he appears to be shopping in a video store before he is actually speaking the Sonnet.
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=XOCL_NEgf0g
-
Sonnet XXIX
Wishing me like to one more rich in hope,
Featur'd like him, like him with friends possess'd,
Desiring this man's art and that man's scope,
With what I most enjoy contented least;
Shakespeare seems to not be satisfied with what he has, or maybe where his life is at this moment. He seems to desire what others have. This reminds me of the 10th Commandment
Exodus 20:17 "You shall not covet your neighbor's house; you shall not covet your neighbor's wife or his male servant or his female servant or his ox or his donkey or anything that belongs to your neighbor."
http://biblehub.com/exodus/20-17.htm
Then in the last lines:
Haply I think on thee, and then my state,
Like to the lark at break of day arising
From sullen earth, sings hymns at heaven's gate;
For thy sweet love remember'd such wealth brings
Shakespeare is able to get out of his funk by remembering what he has had. Isn't that true in all of us? We tend to forget what he have or have had at times and look at what others seem to have and begin to feel depressed and down. Yet, once we take the time to stop dwelling on what others have and we don't, and really appreciate what is or has been in our lives, we can see the love, beauty and grace we have been given.
Barb, Yes, I think from time to time we all tend to put entities as beings to talk to or relate to in a physical sense. I took a photo while watching a sunset on the Bay while away these past few days and it is amazing what the cloud formation shows. Have a look:
(https://scontent-yyz1-1.xx.fbcdn.net/v/t1.0-9/13681034_10210324454691124_3115733988049246875_n.jpg?oh=85409a1cce8654ae3456b3cf050d5980&oe=582FBABF)
I see the profile of God with open mouth, looking at the white dove Holy Spirit with wings in flight. I showed this picture to our parish priest who happened to be visiting us the other day and he was simply in awe. I said I do believe God likes to show off and reveal himself to us in many ways. It's okay if no one else sees this, I just feel pretty special that my eyes can.
p.s. Still not sure how to resize pics so feel free to make this smaller.
-
Shakespeare seems to be having a rough time. After several poems in which he's separated from his love, now we learn he's had some setbacks in life. His whole outlook is blighted. Look at the last line of Bellamarie's quote: "With what I most enjoy contented least". He can't even take pleasure in the things he normally likes. But then he thinks of his love, and his sense of joy returns. The lark is a powerful symbol here; you hear it unexpectedly, because it's so high in the sky you don't see it, and its song is beautiful and joyous.
It's a lovely poem.
-
PatH., I kind of felt a bit melancholy for him in this poem. He sure has changed in the past few sonnets. Much more forlorn and somber. It's as though he has lost his lover.
-
Interesting how we each have a different reaction reading these Sonnets - yes, Bellamarie they are more somber aren't they.
For me that first line I thought set the mood and I could taste the shame and depression knowing at that time in history to be without a fortune or to have lost a fortune is to be so low in the eyes of others, in addition there would be the possibility of prison - When, in disgrace with fortune and men's eyes, although to me he was not comparing himself competitively or being envious of others but rather feeling alone and crying to God much like Tevya cried to God in his frustration and that in-spite of his feeling his fate was cursed he still had hope. I saw his saying he still had hope when all around him was failure as his ability to have 'hope in the unknown' which, as you read St. John of the Cross is the definition of hope.
Bellamarie, your admiring the cloud formations reminded me of when we were kids and a few of us would lay on our backs in the grassy spot on top of the hill where we usually flew our kites and we made things out of the clouds. Almost meditative doing that.
And yes, as you can see made the lovely photo just a bit smaller - nice photo of the clouds which reminded me of the clouds we see here in October - as of now the sky is either clear with a sun that is so bright and hot you cannot look at the sky or huge monster clouds that blow up from the coast full of moisture but looking more like a child's nursery rhyme book or piles of ice cream and whipped cream.
Pat that thought you shared "He can't even take pleasure in the things he normally likes. But then he thinks of his love, and his sense of joy returns." so true isn't it - when we are down thinking of even something we love that we can see in our minds eye brings a smile to our hearts.
Need to remember that when there seems like too much crowding in - to think of my family or something I love - read today that thinking positive thoughts and most important saying positive rather than negative words actually affects our brain so that we become motivated to take charge of our life and our choices. No wonder we gravitate to folks who are upbeat and positive.
Bellamarie you also see these last few Sonnets as feeling forlorn and somber - he lost something - or at least he is writing about losing - this could be a theme or it could be Shakespeare is writing from his personal experiences. Knowing how writers often disguised things that could not be said aloud in a metaphor these poems of loss could be about anything couldn't they.
-
Oh yes, in the heading there is another link added - found this great BBC special from Michael Wood on Shakespeare's mother - all the places she lived and how life was for women during her time in history living in Britain, the show is an hour long and lovely - just lovely - The Secret Life of Tudor Women - https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=kmpiY5kssU4
-
Shakespeare Sonnet XXX
(http://m8.i.pbase.com/g3/89/198089/2/95436658.zYm3Ajhy.jpg)
When to the sessions of sweet silent thought
I summon up remembrance of things past,
I sigh the lack of many a thing I sought,
And with old woes new wail my dear time's waste:
Then can I drown an eye, unus'd to flow,
For precious friends hid in death's dateless night,
And weep afresh love's long since cancell'd woe,
And moan the expense of many a vanish'd sight:
Then can I grieve at grievances foregone,
And heavily from woe to woe tell o'er
The sad account of fore-bemoaned moan,
Which I new pay as if not paid before.
But if the while I think on thee, dear friend,
All losses are restor'd and sorrows end. |
William Shakespeare's Sonnet 30https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=2LDIFwejTr8
-
Sonnet XXX
But if the while I think on thee, dear friend,
All losses are restor'd and sorrows end.
It's a continuation of Shakespeare in sorrow. He seems to be reminiscing about lost relationships, be it friends, family, or lost loves. It appears that he finds comfort and solace in the memory of his dear friend.
Yes, Barb I agree we do tend to gravitate to those who bring positive feelings in us rather negative. As I have gotten into my sixties I have found I am so much more selective in who I want to spend my time with. I am more tolerant of debbie downers, but spend far less time in their company. It's so much easier to enjoy positive people who reciprocate your joy.
I absolutely love looking to the clouds and seeing if there are any images formed. It's truly amazing what people have posted on social media of the different formations visible to the eye.
-
His sorrow seems to be shifting: first, having to travel away from his love, then disappointment in his ambitions or accomplishments, and now he adds regret for absent and dead friends. It's fun to compare the different sonnets saying the same thing, some better than others. Do you have any favorites?
-
Finding the photo of the sculpture in New York made from only the material left at ground zero, the World Trade Center after 9/11 brought this Sonnet to another level for me.
Yes, Bellamarie "about lost relationships, be it friends, family, or lost loves" does makes it personal doesn't it and yet, the losses that we pay homage to on the anniversary of a date - not only 9/11 but Armistice day and Memorial Day and the Wall in D.C. - all the sacrifice offered by those in this nation who was someone's friend or family member or love. I wonder how many who have lost a loved one to the cause of this nation feel comforted reading this Sonnet - probably not many know the Sonnet but those who do , sure hope the words of Shakespeare helps.
For precious friends hid in death's dateless night,
And weep afresh love's long since cancell'd woe,
And moan the expense of many a vanish'd sight:
Then can I grieve at grievances foregone,
And heavily from woe to woe tell o'er
The sad account of fore-bemoaned moan,
Like most of us I have not often felt "The sad account of fore-bemoaned moan," except when looking at something like a memorial however, that line sure hits home, sinking deep into the pain of sorrow as we think on personal losses of family and friends.
I can see Pat what you are saying - yes, his sorrow has been shifting - Never have read all the Sonnets and now reading them one after the other there is a pattern - you have to wonder how they were written - did he write a group at once or did he take Sonnets written over time and place them in a continuum. I am sure there are many theories written by the many who study his work but not actually being there they are theories and so, we can wonder until a note surfaces from Shakespeare explaining his plan, which allows us a wondering mind.
-
Shakespeare Sonnet XXXI
(http://eqview.com/wp-content/uploads/2015/05/angel-600x300.jpg)
Thy bosom is endeared with all hearts,
Which I by lacking have supposed dead;
And there reigns love and all love's loving parts,
And all those friends which I thought buried.
How many a holy and obsequious tear
Hath dear religious love stolen from mine eye,
As interest of the dead, which now appear
But things remov'd, that hidden in thee lie!
Thou art the grave where buried love doth live,
Hung with the trophies of my lovers gone,
Who all their parts of me to thee did give;
That due of many now is thine alone:
Their images I lov'd I view in thee,
And thou (all they) hast all the all of me. |
William Shakespeare Sonnet 31https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=bu7UT6vHFpc
-
Sonnet XXXI
And there reigns love and all love's loving parts,
And all those friends which I thought buried.
How many a holy and obsequious tear
Hath dear religious love stolen from mine eye,
I'm not sure who Shakespeare is directing this sonnet to, is it God? He seems to be saying that he has lost all his loves to him (religious love stolen from mine eye), and they have taken all his love with them. It appears he is acknowledging that God is of all love, and to look to God, he is able to see all love, and those past loves still alive. I get a very spiritual sense in this sonnet.
-
I had made the opposite assumption: that he was addressing his beloved. The qualities he mourned in his former loves are enshrined in his present love, and the pieces of himself--his heart, his love, etc, that he had bestowed on the former loves are now gathered together as the property of the current love.
The wording could fit either interpretation. What does everyone think?
-
Yes, PatH., I can see it fit either interpretation.
-
Our Poetry Page Reads
Shakespeare Sonnets
2016 the world commemorates
400 years since the death of William Shakespeare.
(http://d13a6ytc0s97c3.cloudfront.net/uploads/listing/image/67/event_RS556808_36980_ROY210915_010-lpr.jpg)
April, 1616. A man died, but a legacy was born; one which proved
so essential not only to the development of
drama and literature, but to language, to thoughts and ideas.
A Sonnet a Day
July 1, till December 1,
We read in order, from 1 to 154
A Shakespeare Sonnet each day.
Welcome
Please share your comments about the day's Sonnet.
Link: First Post of Our Discussion on July 1 (http://seniorlearn.org/forum/index.php?topic=176.msg283685#msg283685)
Shakespeare Anniversary Links
- Shakespeare400 (http://www.shakespeare400.org/)
- Shakespeare 400 at The Globe (http://www.shakespearesglobe.com/400)
- Shakespeare 400 Chicago (http://www.shakespeare400chicago.com/)
- Dame Judi leads Shakespeare Day gala finale (http://www.bbc.com/news/entertainment-arts-36111591)
- Turning Shakespeare’s sonnets into short films (http://[url=http://www.pbs.org/newshour/bb/turning-shakespeares-sonnets-short-films/)
|
Discussion Leaders: Barb (augere@ix.netcom.com)
-
I felt such a sense of satisfaction reading sonnet 31 - I've often thought how when someone dies they do not represent just themselves or even their family but, all the people in their community that were part of their life - the fireman who showed them the engine when they were youngsters, their teaches, the nurses and doctors who gave more then medicine but showed an interest and shared some of themselves, the grocery clerk who helped them find something and I remember, as a kid the various shops where they chatted with you as old friends - on and on through our life when our we die, buried is not only our own history but a piece of everyone who was part of our life.
Thou art the grave where buried love doth live, the love of all those we affected and who affected us during our life, a piece of each is buried with us since we are pieces and bits of all we touch in life.
I like the idea of death as being simply things remov'd those words help make real the losses, the many losses of more than friends and family - the little losses that assail us as we age - the loss of energy - the loss of the store on the corner that was so convenient, the loss of habits and ways - there are no more street cleaners pushing brooms or boys delivering groceries on their bikes or even news boys standing on a busy street calling out the headlines - change has remov'd those things.
Thanks Bellamarie I did not know what to make of the two lines - could not figure out what religious love was - maybe it is applied to God -
How many a holy and obsequious tear
Hath dear religious love stolen from mine eye,
...a holy and obsequious tear sound like a supplicant and so maybe that is saying love is a devotion to God.
And then Pat you see the love of a former lover as part of the love in his current lover - this sure leaves what we read into the poem up for grabs doesn't it - looks like we each have a different reaction to these words on 14 lines. The Sonnet is for sure a reflective poem.
Sad or melancholy but in some ways hopeful - maybe that is what melancholy is - a sadness that does not wrap you into utter darkness.
-
Shakespeare Sonnet XXXII
(http://studentsforliberty.org/wp-content/uploads/2010/12/small-quill.jpg)
If thou survive my well-contented day,
When that churl Death my bones with dust shall cover,
And shalt by fortune once more re-survey
These poor rude lines of thy deceased lover,
Compare them with the bettering of the time,
And though they be outstripp'd by every pen,
Reserve them for my love, not for their rhyme,
Exceeded by the height of happier men.
O, then vouchsafe me but this loving thought:
'Had my friend's Muse grown with this growing age,
A dearer birth than this his love had brought,
To march in ranks of better equipage:
But since he died, and poets better prove,
Theirs for their style I'll read, his for his love.' |
William Shakespeare's Sonnet 32https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=9sihhvXKZLw
-
Sonnet XXII
Shakespeare is asking his lover to see his poems for the love he writes of after he dies, rather than compare his works to the skill that others after him will write, which may seem much better than his words. Sort of like when you hear the saying, "love is blind" he does not want his lover to look at his words in his poems as anything other than, the love he has for him.
-
Good summary: his verse may not be as good as those written later, but his love is greater than anyone's.
-
Of course his best sonnets have never been surpassed, and we read them for their quality.
-
Had to read some of the lines over and over before it sank in what he was saying in this poem - at first I thought it was because my feelings were reacting or, my desire to interpret what he was saying by turning them into my own thoughts - then with repeated readings of each line till it sank in I could see what was happening -
For me the first two lines are complete thoughts - the lines were not dependent upon each other to catch the thought being shared - and then line 3 requires line 4 to make any sense and that was the stumbling block - I expected each line to be complete as I was being programed by line 1 and 2 - once I caught on it was smooth sailing.
Bellamarie you summarized it didn't you - his desire for his poems of love rather than his skill, his ability to rhyme be the thing remembered.
Pat yes, his love is greater than anyone's - He may have something there since we are still reading about his love over 400 years later.
Do y'all write for posterity? I wonder often about the many photos we take when you go into so many antique stores and shops carrying vintage items and see the boxes of old photos with no idea who the folks are in those photos or anything about their life - I'm thinking what we think we do for posterity is not in our control and the luck of the dice like so many things in our life. Some contract MS and others Cancer and still others are born with a greater capacity to exchange air and go on to become professional or Olympic athletes and still others have a knack for numbers so they can create new combinations that ultimately lead to knew energy or products.
Think I will re-read this poem and replace the object of the love to a skill in my and individual friends and family members bailiwick of gifts and blessings - - - yes, a bit of gratitude and more, loving what is a special gift. Yep, Fun...
-
Barb, I suppose if I, like Shakespeare would like to leave something behind that would show my love, rather than my skill, I would hope it would be everyone who has ever known me, spoken to me in any capacity, has shared little or much time with me, will remember the love I resonate for faith & family. I have stacks and stacks of CDs of pictures I have taken since digital came out, and I have rows of photo albums I did before digital that will leave the memories of the shared moments, and show the love poured into them. My faith and love of our Lord shines through and is becoming an extension to my children and grandchildren. This will be my Masterpiece I care to showcase to the world long after I am gone. I do like to think my few published poems will be remembered, even though they could not compare to our great poet Shakespeare, but as Shakespeare puts it:
"But since he died, and poets better prove.
Theirs for their style, I'll read, his for his love."
-
Nice Bellamarie - really nice... if we use the poem as a guide it sounds like he is suggesting what we do is only as good as it is put into some kind of record for the future - I have fond memories of my grandmother and some stories about my great grandmother so in that way some of who we are and how we love each other is passed - just something to ponder...
I sure have no knowledge of the childhood of any of my great grandparents and for those on my father's side all i have is the research from when they sailed to America, what their craft was and some of the census even tells me where they lived - I do remember as a kid the family Sunday dinners usually involved the adults telling all the tales of pranks and heroism by family members but that is not a way of life any longer - we are all separated living in various states - and like you I have tons of photos and other memory keeping collections but I just know that when my grands are choosing jobs on other continents they do not pack into their meager belongings collects of family memorabilia.
The young are becoming more like nomads as the spread out for jobs - and then I think on those from the time of Shakespeare who were just beginning to settle American and other far off places - they too may have a teapot or small chest from their family but for the most part it is memory that kept family history alive. I wonder if that is what it is as generations have various opportunities never imagined by the proceeding generation.
-
Barb, you are so right,
The young are becoming more like nomads as the spread out for jobs.
The pics these generations are relying on are selfies, icloud, and whatever is on their hard drives which they don't even bother to backup to cds. So, I suppose it will become like back in the days, when you carried your memories in your heart, and hope your mind stays sharp enough to bring them forward from time to time. Ughh.... I just felt a stroke of sadness.
-
Shakespeare Sonnet XXXIII
(http://www.head-fi.org/content/type/61/id/1134776/)
Full many a glorious morning have I seen
Flatter the mountain-tops with sovereign eye,
Kissing with golden face the meadows green,
Gilding pale streams with heavenly alchemy;
Anon permit the basest clouds to ride
With ugly rack on his celestial face,
And from the forlorn world his visage hide,
Stealing unseen to west with this disgrace:
Even so my sun one early morn did shine
With all triumphant splendor on my brow;
But out! alack! he was but one hour mine,
The region cloud hath mask'd him from me now.
Yet him for this my love no whit disdaineth;
Suns of the world may stain when heaven's sun staineth. |
William Shakespeare's Sonnet 33https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=3fWvIrejfFc
-
Sonnet XXXIII
Even so my sun one early morn did shine
With all triumphant splendor on my brow;
But out! alack! he was but one hour mine,
The region cloud hath mask'd him from me now.
I feel Shakespeare is saying he had a love for a short time and was exceedingly happy, and now has lost him.
This reminds me of the poem "In Memoriam A.H.H." is a poem by the British poet Alfred, Lord Tennyson, completed in 1849. It is a requiem for the poet's beloved Cambridge friend Arthur Henry Hallam, who died suddenly of a cerebral haemorrhage in Vienna in 1833.
https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/In_Memoriam_A.H.H.
I especially like this pic. (Feel free to resize it.)
(http://spiritualcleansing.org/wp-content/uploads/2015/08/Tis-better-to-have-loved-and-lostThan-never-to-have-loved-at-all..jpg)
-
Bellamarie it sure sounds like it doesn't it - to have the love for an hour sounds like a comparison of time compared to the eons of glorious mornings and to travel west in disgrace - you have to wonder if this was written after Shakespeare lost his son Hamnet at age 11, twin to Judith- both children's baptism and death is written in the church records.
We've read a small group of elegies in Sonnet form the last few days - I wonder if they were all written at about the same time in response to how Shakespeare handled Hamnet's death or if they were written over time about various deaths in the family although both his first born Susanna and Judith lived past his death. Susanna and her husband were executors of her father's estate.
-
Daughter here so between our chatting I come in - did not get to read about the Tennyson elegy and was finally able to follow the link - amazing the poem was written over a seventeen year period - which makes you wonder about these Shakespeare sonnets - the time between the life experience that starts his train of thought till a finished Sonnet could have taken time. Do you have books of poetry Bellamarie or do you mostly read poetry online - did you memorize poems when you were in grade school or was that already a passé activity...
No elegy but we are out to empty the shed then on to a massage and a movie...
-
Yes, Barb it sure does sound like an elegy.
No, I did not memorize poems while in grade school. In my public school there truly were very few studies of poems, sad to say. I have written poems of my own since a very young child. For each of my children I have written a personal poem, and plan to have them framed and given to them in the future. I have written many for my husband, and wrote a few for my mother who passed away and had them published in the local newspaper on anniversaries of her death, I suppose you would call them an elegy. I have two poems published in a couple of books of anthology with the Library of Congress. One was written after the 911 attacks of the twin towers. I do have many books of poems, and one I especially love is this one:
(http://coverart.textbookrush.com/medium/481/1-9781401302481.jpg)
Enjoy your massage & movie!!
-
Shakespeare Sonnet XXXIV
(http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-9r5HNuCkFFM/UJgOxXujQcI/AAAAAAAAE7M/BLf6XZkBGhA/s1600/IMG_5692.jpg)
Why didst thou promise such a beauteous day,
And make me travel forth without my cloak,
To let base clouds o'ertake me in my way,
Hiding thy bravery in their rotten smoke?
'Tis not enough that through the cloud thou break,
To dry the rain on my storm-beaten face,
For no man well of such a salve can speak
That heals the wound and cures not the disgrace:
Nor can thy shame give physic to my grief;
Though thou repent, yet I have still the loss:
The offender's sorrow lends but weak relief
To him that bears the strong offence's [cross].
Ah! but those tears are pearl which thy love sheds,
And they are rich and ransom all ill deeds
|
William Shakespeare's Sonnet 34https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=q2Sy3Rt1hdM
-
Sonnet XXXIV
Phew.... I see Shakespeare sorta chastising his love for enticing him into thinking this was going to be a meaningful, sunny relationship. He left himself open and vulnerable, only for it to end badly. He feels disgraced by having opened himself up, only to be hurt. He is finding no solace in thinking the offender is sorrowful of the hurt he is experiencing. But then these last two lines have me a bit confused:
Ah! but those tears are pearl which thy love sheds,
And they are rich and ransom all ill deeds
Does he relish in the fact the offender is also hurt? How can tears be pearls, if they come from hurt? Does Shakespeare feel the lover's tears are deserving for how he treated him?
I can think of only one relationship I was in before I met my husband. I was so certain I was in love, and it ended in heartache. Thinking he was in some sort of pain, I suppose did bring me some twisted comfort, after having to live with his betrayal, lies and horrible actions. I, like Shakespeare expresses, felt disgraced and hurt. Not good memories.
-
Ah, Sweet Love, Sweet Forgiveness!
If each tear but held a word...
This sonnet brought just the opening lines of a Larry Levis poem to mind called "A Letter."
It’s better to have a light jacket on days like this, Than a good memory.
It is quite a long poem. Here is a PDF link if you are interested.
http://www.poetry.restory.net/ruekblog/wp-content/uploads/2012/08/A_Letter.pdf (http://www.poetry.restory.net/ruekblog/wp-content/uploads/2012/08/A_Letter.pdf)
-
I had the impression that he was saying that his love's tears are as valuable as pearls and pay a ransom for all of his or her supposed misdeeds - all is well.
-
Leah, I like your interpretation of the tears being pearls, a ransom paid. It seemed confusing to me. Maybe because I allowed my own emotions enter into this sonnet. Thank you for sharing the poem.
I noticed Shakespeare seems to have the same style in these sonnets, he speaks of the anguish, sadness, forlorn, and pain, and then seems to always find something good to say in the last sentences of the sonnet. It's as though he can't end with negative thoughts.
-
Bless confusion! A wise woman I know constantly reminds me when I complain of confusion: Do not despair, Leah, confusion is just a signal fire alerting you that you don't have access to enough information yet. Be patient because your recognition of your confusion is another signal fire letting you know to stay tuned because what you need to dispel the confusion is on the way! I love that! So, to remind myself of this, when I feel confused, I stand tall, look skyward and call out: INCOMING!! 🚀 Or: The Transport is Away!
-
Hahaha I love today - between Shakespeare making me chuckle and then reading your posts - how much fun - even if you did not intend to be funny I found the fun that was pleasing.
The line 'Hiding thy bravery in their rotten smoke?' now does that sound like an 8 or 9 year old being audacious rotten smoke - funny I can just see a little guy speaking of the rotten smoke when referring to dark and rolling clouds.
Then Bellamarie your memory of a rotten ;) boyfriend - oh don't we all have them - memories of being shamed or mistreated or taken advantage of or backstabbed by the very kids we thought were our friends and then the kids that not only did not include us in their click but we became for a time the butt of their gossip - painful at the time but funny now these many years later, as we remember those events that we were sure we were going to die over and be forever more among the backwaters of society - hahaha oh dear - how we made the banged up knees and chins to our psyche into major surgery.
I love it - again chuckling away as I imagine us standing tall in our yards calling to the sky 'INCOMING!! 🚀' - Fabulous, which Leah the poem is wonderful - that is a keeper - is it part of a long poem Winter Stars by Larry Levis or is that the title of a book of his poetry - I would love to read more of his work - so for him it was a light jacket where as for Shakespeare it was a cloak. And Ovid's, Metamorphoses, Book X, as referred to by Larry Levis starting his poem, it is a saffron robe -
Hymen, (the god of marriage) called by the voice of Orpheus, departed, and, dressed in his saffron robes, made his way through the vast skies to the Ciconian coast: but in vain. He was present at Orpheus’s marriage, true, but he did not speak the usual words, display a joyful expression, or bring good luck. The torch, too, that he held, sputtered continually, with tear-provoking fumes, and no amount of shaking contrived to light it properly.
Instead of tear-provoking or properly lighted Shakespeare says,
'Tis not enough that through the cloud thou break,
To dry the rain on my storm-beaten face,
And then these lines finish out the tears with no light to limit the grief.
Nor can thy shame give physic to my grief;
Though thou repent, yet I have still the loss:
We know Shakespeare read Ovid in school as it was part of the British curriculum during the fifteenth and sixteenth and even seventeenth century. I wonder if he realized possibilities for his poem because of reading Book 10 of the Metamorphoses as did Larry Levis.
Lots of imagery in this Sonnet that can help us see this poem on another level using the traditional symbols to help us.
Cloak is both a symbol of dignity as much as it is a symbol of disguise, obscurity and darkness hiding man's nature.
And a pearl has many meanings including the essence of the moon that controls the tides, the embryo of cosmic life, the essence of the divine and the Great Mother; principle of the oceans, law, justice, salvation, the Word of God, baptism, man's search for reality and the experience of Light.
Clouds are the flock of Apollo, and the veil of the unseen God, while smoke symbolizes ascending prayers, the soul ascending, the shortness of life, the vanity of fame and the path of escape from time and space.
Rain the decent of heavenly influence, purification, both fertility and spiritual revelation. All sky gods fertilize the earth by rain. A storm symbolizes creative power, the bringer of fertilizing rain, fecundation and illumination.
And so making this Sonnet our own we can branch out and see more meaning than straight out reading it word for word. Fun... really...!
Ah yes, confusion - love the idea that confusion is a blessing - lots to think about thanks for that Leah.
Now onward to one of my favorites - do y'all have a favorite among those we have read so far?
-
Shakespeare Sonnet XXXV
(https://newenglandsun.files.wordpress.com/2014/01/roses-with-thorns.png)
No more be griev'd at that which thou hast done:
Roses have thorns, and silver fountains mud,
Clouds and eclipses stain both moon and sun,
And loathsome canker lives in sweetest bud.
All men make faults, and even I in this,
Authorizing thy trespass with compare,
Myself corrupting, salving thy amiss,
Excusing thy sins more than thy sins are;
For to thy sensual fault I bring in sense,
(Thy adverse party is thy advocate)
And 'gainst myself a lawful plea commence:
Such civil war is in my love and hate
That I an accessary needs must be
To that sweet thief which sourly robs from me. |
William Shakespeare Sonnet 35https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Nb1Var5rUSc
-
In his internal 'civil war', the part of him that loves holds greater sway over the part of him that hates; this is what allows his generous stance which not only forgives or overlooks the 'sins' of the unfaithful lover, but also takes his own role as an accessory to the sweet thief's betrayal by virtue of of his love for the beloved into account.
-
Barb: To answer your question, the Levis poem, "A Letter," is part of Winter Stars. I found this list of his poems and prose in Blackbird, an online journal of the Virginia Commonwealth (I think!) University: http://www.blackbird.vcu.edu/v-index_bb/index_levis-larry.html (http://www.blackbird.vcu.edu/v-index_bb/index_levis-larry.html). I find them difficult AND irresistible. Especially cannot NOT read them aloud to try to feel them out. It's like mining for diamonds in the dark, and being surprised by reflections of light here and there. Enjoy! I hope to read one entry a day. Not sure what it is about dead poets...
You offer up such a wealth of background color in your posts (and I am not counting your red & purple neighbor!😬) that you have got me curious about where all that comes from; have you been a teacher all your life? Whatever it is, we sure are benefiting from your treasure!
-
Sonnet XXXV
Roses have thorns, and silver fountains mud,
Clouds and eclipses stain both moon and sun,
And loathsome canker lives in sweetest bud.
All men make faults, and even I in this,
Well, well, well, has Shakespeare realized there is is good and bad, beauty and flaw in all things of the world, and so he will not fret so much? This sonnet makes me think of some of the words in the song, The Facts of Life
When the world never seems to be living up to your dreams
It's time you started finding out what everything is all about
You take the good, you take the bad,
You take them both and there you have
The facts of life, the facts of life.
http://www.lyricsmode.com/lyrics/t/tv_theme/the_facts_of_life.html
-
The Civil War - from the Sonnet - never thought of it as a Civil War - nice pick of words from this Sonnet Leah - I just remember growing up and hearing roses have thorns - never knew where it came from but I do remember all the hoohaw when Ingrid Bergman became a real person rather than one of her characters - from nuns and saints to the horrors of horrors, a divorced woman - and then, of all things, she marries an Italian - oh my - everyone was outraged and the back-fence gossiping was non-stop similar to later when Jackie Kennedy married Onassis. My mother, who had a quip for nearly every sentence that ever came out of our mouths responded, teaching us to not follow the hysteria, saying, roses have thorns and then she added platters have cracks - I am sure it was changed along the way by the average since folks in our economic community did not have silver platters much less silver fountains where as, the platter was very indicative of a well fed family and that was a big step in the ladder of success.
Reading the poem I could not help but smile and remember that thinking used daily when my youngsters were in high chairs - and even as youngsters - either they were capable of being a thorn or whatever they messed up or broke was a thorn in my side of a special item that was like a rose in the garden - years ago I remember the star of any garden was the rose. Maybe because my mother loved roses so much. As a teen I remember how special and filled with joy and satisfaction when I could gift my mother a rose bush for her birthday in February and for Easter and for Mothers Day all in the spring planting time. And so if something went wrong it was like the thorn on the star of the garden, the rose bush.
hmm my daughter and I were only talking about how some folks have a natural happiness that baubles to the surface regardless their circumstance - that is it, isn't it - I was a child of the 30s when we were all hanging on but life was a rose that had some thorns - to look at life as a rose - amazing - yes, that is it.
ha yes, you also Bellamarie - how much fun - we all get a similar vision from this poem.
"When the world never seems to be living up to your dreams
It's time you started finding out what everything is all about
You take the good, you take the bad,"
Well this is just urging me to find out what rose it is that folks have good luck growing with all our deer that eat any flower like it is their private stash of candy, because I need to get back to remembering how uplifting it was to get up everyday believing life was a beautiful soft petaled rose. All the rat tat tat of the day between politics and wars and corruption and duplicity and just plain ornery unkindness my view on life was getting more and more like a prickly pear cactus with a brief spring flower - that is glorious but nothing like the soft Fibonacci, or Golden Spiral arrangement of rose petals.
Bellamarie perfect I need to memorize the four lines you pulled from the Sonnet - they are too perfect as a fun way to smile at myself and with anyone as we make our errors.
Roses have thorns, and silver fountains mud,
Clouds and eclipses stain both moon and sun,
And loathsome canker lives in sweetest bud.
All men make faults, and even I in this,
Leah thanks for the kudos - my daughter, who was visiting and is out with old Austin friends tonight was only making similar remarks that embarrassed the heck out of me - as if it was special and all I could think is that everyone knows this stuff - and of course my daughter said, no and proceeds to name names and how they respond to life.
No Leah, I was not a teacher per se although, I was a trainer for adult Girl Scouts and was sent by national to Canada to train and I taught needlework that involves more history than you can imagine from, how and when felt was made and how the early stitches were developed etc. Part of my learning took me to England and France for research - I was a trainer in a good size Real Estate office for new Agents - all this helping others learn, for me meant lots of research and my curiosity is endless so research is my middle name.
Growing up, I was the oldest of 4 in difficult circumstances. My role was to be caretaker for my siblings and so formal education did not happen for me till my eldest two children were in Junior High and High school and my youngest trailed them by 5 years. Where as both my sisters have degrees out of the gazzoos - the sister just younger than I am has two doctorates for heaven's sake.
I remember before entering the first grade wanting to read the 'books' that looked like a typical adult 300 plus page leather or cloth bound book - one of my achievements that never thought was special till again, my daughter pointed out folks do not read an entire school library by the time they are in the eighth grade and get special permission to read the adult books, reading so many of the adult classics just because they had a good story and I seemed to see the symbolism and metaphors long before I knew those words.
I think the other bent to my interests is, I went to Catholic School and we were taught the symbolism in the church literature we read and all the aspects of the mass and the architecture etc. so that symbolism was a natural -
Long answer just to say I am very curious, still read mountains of books and see connections in what I read as I do in life. I love sharing - thinking others get the fun of connecting dots if someone will just start it. And as I said, my mother always had a quote, a poem, the words of a song for everything that came up - automatic -
I remember doing that at the airport one time - exasperated looking for my ID while tearing through my purse saying quietly, "Remember the sky that you were born under, know each of the star's stories." ha and someone behind picked up with the next couple of lines and together we went on a bit more and finally there were three of us filling in the lines, smiling and having a good time so that even the gal behind the desk was smiling. We didn't get it all but we had a good time with what we did remember from Joy Harjo's Remember.
So that is all we really do here in this discussion - read a poem and make connections - since our lives are different we often make different connections and that I think is the fun of seeing words mean something so different as we each associate with the words or phrase or the entire poem. We bring what we have floating around in our experience that a Sonnet connects us and off we go... sharing... :D
-
Shakespeare Sonnet XXXVI
(https://s-media-cache-ak0.pinimg.com/736x/e6/d8/17/e6d817592d4ae50161354d60be22d55e.jpg)
Let me confess that we two must be twain,
Although our undivided loves are one:
So shall those blots that do with me remain
Without thy help by me be borne alone.
In our two loves there is but one respect,
Though in our lives a separable spite,
Which though it alter not love's sole effect,
Yet doth it steal sweet hours from love's delight.
I may not evermore acknowledge thee,
Lest my bewailed guilt should do thee shame,
Nor thou with public kindness honour me,
Unless thou take that honour from thy name:
But do not so; I love thee in such sort
As, thou being mine, mine is thy good report.
|
William Shakespeare's Sonnet 36https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=r7LrE45nxFQ
-
Barb,
Well this is just urging me to find out what rose it is that folks have good luck growing with all our deer that eat any flower like it is their private stash of candy, because I need to get back to remembering how uplifting it was to get up everyday believing life was a beautiful soft petaled rose. All the rat tat tat of the day between politics and wars and corruption and duplicity and just plain ornery unkindness my view on life was getting more and more like a prickly pear cactus with a brief spring flower - that is glorious but nothing like the soft Fibonacci, or Golden Spiral arrangement of rose petals.
I am a political junkie, have been for about twelve years now. I want to know everything I can about everything political, and in today's happenings oh how it can spin my head trying to keep up with these two candidates and the media frenzy. So.... each morning I wake up, I go outside, say good morning to all my beautiful flowers, sit on my patio swing, and watch as the birds come for their morning feeding from our feeder, stop by to take a drink from my lovely water fountain, and then I get the pleasure of the bunnies coming to munch on some flowers, squirrels making every attempt possible to get to the bird feeder, and a few chipmunks scurry around looking for leftover bird seed, not to mention I will spot a beautiful monarch butterfly that is never anxious to fly away, my one pigeon who returns to the same electric wire to sit and coo coo, and then of course the female cardinal who puts in her appearance each day. Sometimes I am lucky to see the male cardinal as well. The robins and sparrows grace my feeder and birdbath and just chirp away...... So, this is what drowns out the rat ta tat tat of the doom and gloom of politics, war, more police shootings, etc., etc., and bad news for me each day. I do not turn my tv on all day long until after dinnertime. Then I catch a few newsworthy shows and on to watch my shows on my dvr. I do love catching up with my friends on Facebook as well. I have reconnected to many of my alumni and we share our family, faith and daily happenings. I am simply overwhelmed by the corruption that is being exposed and so I have to find solace in the simpler things in life.
Here is a link that many are discussing deer eating roses and which flowers they don't bother with. Good Luck!
So far, the deer have left my Snow Pavement rugosa roses alone...for the most part.
They don't eat saponaria, geraniums, marigolds, pansies, chives, pinks, lilacs, spirea, Therese Bugnet, and (I think) the albas, except for Chloris which is thornless. They don't seem to bother Harison's Yellow, madame Plantier, or madame Hardy.
It's funny you mention Ingrid Bergman roses, my friend posts her beautiful Bergman rose bush every year on Facebook, it was her deceased mother's favorite and every year I vow to buy one and haven't yet. Barb I have to applaud you on your academia accomplishments later in your years, I love the hunger you have for research. You have certainly set me on a few searches of my own over the years discussing books with you. I can't imagine my life without access to researching whatever my curious mind finds interesting. How boring would life be to just take things at face value and never question further or want to know the when, where, how and whys of things. I have not had the joys of traveling outside this country besides to Canada, but I can say I have lived vicariously through the travels of many of my close friends who have retired and have begun their travels abroad. Something tells me you would have made an excellent History Professor in college. Okay....back to Shakespeare!
-
Sonnet XXXVI
This sonnet appears to be the break up, the final good-bye. Shakespeare is acknowledging, he and his lover will never be able to be public with their relationship. This sonnet affirms to me that Shakespeare is writing this to his youthful male love, and has come to terms they will never be anything more to each other than "in love" but nothing more. He wants him to realize he does not in any way want him to dishonor his own name by being public.
I may not evermore acknowledge thee,
Lest my bewailed guilt should do thee shame,
Nor thou with public kindness honour me,
Unless thou take that honour from thy name:
In these last two lines I see Shakespeare telling him he loves him too much to ever see his name dishonored for the sake of their love.
But do not so; I love thee in such sort
As, thou being mine, mine is thy good report.
This reminds me of the last lines of plays or operas, where the two lovers part, making the ultimate choice, sacrifice for the sake of their love. Very dramatic.
-
Whew, I blinked, and missed a few days. But it's good in a way, because it seems to me that there's a change in mood starting with #33, and progressing steadily through 36. In 33 and 34, things start out sunny, but then change, becoming cloudy or rainy, as the beloved treats the poet cruelly after starting out sweetly. But, as Bellamarie points out, all is forgiven in the final couplet. In 35, there isn't even a fair beginning, just the realization that everything sweet has it's bad side. And in 36, it sounds like the beloved is deliberately shunning the poet, in spite of still loving him, because it will do him harm if he's seen to love the poet. I don't know if the poet is politically out of favor, or it's bad for a man to be seen loving a man, or what, but:
I may not evermore acknowledge thee,
Lest my bewailed guilt should do thee shame,
Nor thou with public kindness honour me,
Unless thou take that honor from thy name.
But the poet is still in love.
-
Bellamarie, you posted while I was writing. We both see it.
-
Both of you, Bellamarie and Pat see this as a response to the love of another male that cannot be brought to fruition.
Another thought - regardless if true or not - if there were lovers who chose not be be brave and independent as Romeo and Juliet but rather follow the plan set out by their family and society - they too would be having a conversation similar to this Sonnet.
It does appear to be a Sonnet acknowledging a love that cannot be, that shows a love that is filled with tenderness warning of the affect their love expressed would make if made public.
Lest my bewailed guilt should do thee shame,
Nor thou with public kindness honour me,
Unless thou take that honour from thy name:
I am wondering if this Sonnet is an example of how to proceed when the opposite of love comes into our lives - I did look up and found many who see indifference as not the opposite since there is no feelings at all for either love or hate - so it appears hate is the opposite. And yet, we have all experience folks being cruel, or backstabbing with gossip or any number of painful experiences from folks who do not exactly hate but then they do not love - seems to have to do with their self-empowerment at the expense of the public esteem for the one they see as their enemy.
Well no sense in making this a discussion about human behavior - but curious how this poem would be an appropriate response to the opposite of love. The poem seems to fit better if there is war between the two because most hate is one sided so that there is a victim and a perpetrator. Where as war makes two believing the other filled with malice is attempting to do them in.
Although our undivided loves are one: - Although our undivided hates are one:
In our two loves there is but one respect, - In our two hates there is but one disrespect,
Which though it alter not love's sole effect, - Which though it alter not hate's sole effect,
Yet doth it steal sweet hours from love's delight. - Yet doth it steal harsh hours from hate's dislike
Nor thou with public kindness honour me - Nor thou with public hostility dishonour me.
Unless thou take that honour from thy name: - Unless thou take that dishonour from thy name:
But do not so; I love thee in such sort - But do not so; I hate thee in such sort
Good grief it is as if the opposite of Shakespeare's Sonnet, of honorably pulling back from public acknowledgement of a love that is considered unacceptable, is describing the goings on in public today between the candidates for our president - interesting... not the why's or wherefore's that is being enacted in public but to see what is happening - hmm
Well back to the real love that one has for another that is greater than the personal satisfaction of expressing that love. That is an noble and sacrificial love.
Obviously this poem has captured our debating mind - and it was done without attacking - amazing. hmm need to read this again and see how he did it...
-
Shakespeare sees this love/hate dichotomy. In # 35:
Such civil war is in my love and hate
That I an accessary needs must be
To that sweet thief which sourly robs from me.
Looking back on the last few sonnets, I see a world of pain in coming to terms with how love is turning out compared to what he might have expected.
-
Good point Pat - And yet, in #35 to me anyhow he seems to be minimizing the love/hate - is that it - we make war rather than minimize? Or maybe he is saying the natural way is Civil War...???
-
Yes, I too have felt the anguish and pain he is feeling in these last few sonnets, knowing this love is not meant to be.
-
Shakespeare Sonnet XXXVII
(https://s-media-cache-ak0.pinimg.com/564x/f1/99/9f/f1999fd5c40521e4e7c5aa7e7a6b7524.jpg)
As a decrepit father takes delight
To see his active child do deeds of youth,
So I, made lame by fortune's dearest spite,
Take all my comfort of thy worth and truth.
` For whether beauty, birth, or wealth, or wit,
Or any of these all, or all, or more,
Entitled in thy parts do crowned sit,
I make my love engrafted to this store:
So then I am not lame, poor, nor despised,
Whilst that this shadow doth such substance give
That I in thy abundance am sufficed
And by a part of all thy glory live.
Look, what is best, that best I wish in thee:
This wish I have; then ten times happy me! |
William Shakespeare's Sonnet 37https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=GP8axcuofs8
-
Sonnet XXXVII
Look, what is best, that best I wish in thee:
This wish I have; then ten times happy me!
I absolutely LOVE these two lines. Shakespeare is feeling his aging, he is contented and overjoyed to be seeing his young one be bestowed with crown, wealth, beauty and glory. He seems to have come to a time in his life that he will live vicariously and happily through seeing what this young one reaps. Don't we all sit back and look at the youth of our kids and grandkids and just feel overjoyed in their beauty, youth, and accomplishments. I know I sure do. Nothing brings me more joy than to see it through their eyes. My heart swells to know they are happy, and I too want only the best for them.
-
OH yes, Bellamarie you nailed it for me as well - we love seeing our children and grands do well - Shakespeare writes in this Sonnet that the deeds done well and the various considered fortunes of the day are a reflection on him so that his health and economic misfortunes he can bare more comfortably. I think yes, we do feel such happiness when our children do well in the small things as in their total life experience.
The poem makes it sound as if he is tied at the hip - engrafted to this store - where as for many of us we see our off springs as separate but we are delighted and proud when they have done well because of opportunity the family provides.
I wonder - I bet this is written as if a closer bond between father and child because where women were strong and kept the household a success they were not considered to be an influence in wealth of wit - yes, beauty and maybe for a few, wealth however, women were not educated and wit was necessary to maintain financial worth and truth - the custom seemed to be that boys needed a man to guide them - his own son lived with his father after he left for London - and so writing as the 'master' of his home I can see how a father would feel engrafted.
Bellamarie I too like the lines you have chosen as your favorites from this Sonnet - which provides us with a very satisfactory thought to dwell on today doesn't it...
-
It's a big mood change from the last few poems, isn't it? He's back to wishing for all the best qualities in his friend, so he can share them vicariously,
"And by a part of all thy glory live."
-
Our Poetry Page Reads
Shakespeare Sonnets
2016 the world commemorates
400 years since the death of William Shakespeare.
(http://d13a6ytc0s97c3.cloudfront.net/uploads/listing/image/67/event_RS556808_36980_ROY210915_010-lpr.jpg)
April, 1616. A man died, but a legacy was born; one which proved
so essential not only to the development of
drama and literature, but to language, to thoughts and ideas.
A Sonnet a Day
July 1, till December 1,
We read in order, from 1 to 154
A Shakespeare Sonnet each day.
Welcome
Please share your comments about the day's Sonnet.
Link: First Post of Our Discussion on July 1 (http://seniorlearn.org/forum/index.php?topic=176.msg283685#msg283685)
Shakespeare Anniversary Links
- Shakespeare400 (http://www.shakespeare400.org/)
- Shakespeare 400 at The Globe (http://www.shakespearesglobe.com/400)
- Shakespeare 400 Chicago (http://www.shakespeare400chicago.com/)
- Dame Judi leads Shakespeare Day gala finale (http://www.bbc.com/news/entertainment-arts-36111591)
- Turning Shakespeare’s sonnets into short films (http://[url=http://www.pbs.org/newshour/bb/turning-shakespeares-sonnets-short-films/)
|
Discussion Leaders: Barb (augere@ix.netcom.com)
-
I wonder Pat - what do you think - it almost sounds as if he is writing this to his son -
Take all my comfort of thy worth and truth.
Look, what is best, that best I wish in thee:
-
Not sure whether he's writing to his son, or comparing his feelings for the beloved to a father's feelings for his son.
As a decrepit father takes delight
To see his active child do deeds of youth,
So I, made lame by fortune's dearest spite,
Take all my comfort of thy worth and truth.
It's a strength of these poems that their emotions can fit several ways.
-
Yes, indeed I see Shakespeare writing this sonnet for his son. It's a bit of his legacy he sees he is leaving in his son.
-
Could be couldn't it Bellamarie - Knowing his one and only son died at age 11 I kinda like the idea but then Pat does show us how it could be for his friend who many see he is writing to in these early Sonnets. Either way but I do like as you say the idea the Sonnet was expressing his feelings about his own son.
These are lines that can allow us to day dream the poem is written to his son...
Whilst that this shadow doth such substance give
That I in thy abundance am sufficed
Again, one of those mysteries we will never know - those who study his work have their opinion however, all is studied scholarship since there was no note left by Shakespeare saying to whom these Sonnets were written, for or about.
-
Barb, I just sometimes get a feel that the sonnets were not all written for one individual person. Yes, I can see some that seems directed to his youthful male love, but then earlier on I saw some as though they were meant from a male to female when we were seeing a lot about procreating, and then some do seem more to an offspring. I can't imagine someone as brilliant as Shakespeare intended all of these directed to only one person.
-
Shakespeare Sonnet XXXVIII
(https://s-media-cache-ak0.pinimg.com/736x/5b/4e/34/5b4e345091997beeaf3ecff4dae1599f.jpg)
Stratford Upon Avon: Shakespeare's surrounded by his 2 muses.
How can my Muse want subject to invent,
While thou dost breathe, that pour'st into my verse
Thine own sweet argument, too excellent
For every vulgar paper to rehearse?
O, give thyself the thanks, if aught in me
Worthy perusal stand against thy sight;
For who's so dumb that cannot write to thee,
When thou thyself dost give invention light?
Be thou the tenth Muse, ten times more in worth
Than those old nine which rhymers invocate;
And he that calls on thee, let him bring forth
Eternal numbers to outlive long date.
If my slight Muse do please these curious days,
The pain be mine, but thine shall be the praise. |
William Shakespeare's Sonnet 38https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=5gHcrPbv5ME
-
In Greek and Roman mythology, the nine daughters of of Wit and Charm, the daughters of Zeus (the second generation king of the gods) and Mnemosyne (goddess of memory). Each of the nine goddesses, preside over the arts and sciences. The Muses can bestow the gift of talent and insight but they can also, viciously, revoke their blessings
(https://upload.wikimedia.org/wikipedia/commons/thumb/0/0c/Muses_sarcophagus_Louvre_MR880.jpg/1020px-Muses_sarcophagus_Louvre_MR880.jpg)
Calliope (epic poetry), Clio (history), Euterpe (flutes and lyric poetry), Thalia (comedy and pastoral poetry), Melpomene (tragedy), Terpsichore (dance), Erato (love poetry), Polyhymnia (sacred poetry), Urania (astronomy).
Homer invokes the Muse to tell the story of the adventures and travels of the man of many ways, Odysseus.
Homer asks the Muses to tell of how Hector set fire to the ships of the Achaeans.
In the Underworld, Agamemnon tells Achilles that all nine Muses mourned his death
Quote from Eliza Farnham, nineteenth century novelist, abolitionist, activist for prison reform - "Each of the arts whose office is to refine, purify, adorn, embellish and grace life is under the patronage of a muse, no god being found worthy to preside over them."
A Muse is a force personified as a woman, who is the source of inspiration for a creative artist.
-
Shakespeare uses the muses very prettily here to compliment his beloved. (S)he is so excellent, that merely thinking about him/her is so inspiring that even the poor, untalented poet can write about it. So the beloved becomes a new muse, the tenth, the poet's inspiration. Then the last two lines, the poet suffers to write the lines, and the beloved enjoys the resulting praise.
My book says "numbers" in line 10 means "verses".
This poem is back to a more traditional love poem, not as specific to the poet's own situation. I like the way we see the different mood changes in succeeding poems, first one theme, then morphing into another.
-
Thanks for the list of muses, Barb. I've always wondered what astronomy was doing there.
-
Love poem for sure isn't it Pat - recognize in his statue at Stratford the muse with the lyre or whatever the musical stringed instrument as being the sign for Erato but the other I cannot figure out - it appears to me she is holding a palette and paintbrushes I wonder if they are supposed to be stylists which could make her Calliope - can you figure out what she is holding - I read somewhere that what they hold are used as symbols just as much as their name.
Remember being in love when we were only teens and that feeling that our heart was literarily turning over in our body when we saw the one who was tugging our affections... these two lines remind me of what that was like.
While thou dost breathe, that pour'st into my verse
Thine own sweet argument, too excellent
-
Shakespeare Sonnet XXXIX
(https://upload.wikimedia.org/wikipedia/commons/d/d3/Leighton-God_Speed!.jpg)
O, how thy worth with manners may I sing,
When thou art all the better part of me?
What can mine own praise to mine own self bring?
And what is't but mine own when I praise thee?
Even for this let us divided live,
And our dear love lose name of single one,
That by this separation I may give
That due to thee which thou deservest alone.
O absence, what a torment wouldst thou prove,
Were it not thy sour leisure gave sweet leave
To entertain the time with thoughts of love,
Which time and thoughts so sweetly doth deceive,
And that thou teachest how to make one twain,
By praising him here who doth hence remain. |
William Shakespeare Sonnet 39, recited by 6 year old, Jaihttps://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Gj1CNDKBnDQ
-
Sometimes 'twain' seems to imply two together and at other times to split apart. This muddies the meaning for me.
-
Sonnet XXXIX
It seems Shakespeare is unable to feel comfortable praising his love, because to do so would appear to be praising himself. He sees the two of them as one. He wants to divide them, so he is able to give deserved praise to his love.
Isn't it so true that at times when you are a couple that people do in fact see you as one? With my hubby and myself, so often I notice others see him and me as a reflection of each other. And yes, maybe his kind acts give me some undeserving praise, and vice versa. This past weekend, he and I spent hours chairing our parish festival Bingo, and since he was a letter carrier in our parish community for 30 years he became even more familiar with all the parish families. The elderly (Ooops excuse me, I think he and I would be considered elderly now as well), anyway, the older ladies and gentlemen would come up to say hi to my hubby and they would automatically greet me with such enormous warmth and kind words, simply because of their admiration they had for my hubby when he was their mailman.
Shakespeare nailed this one, even though the two were not married, it reminds me of scripture:
Mark 10:8 New International Version (NIV)
8 and the two will become one flesh.’[a] So they are no longer two, but one flesh.
-
What meaning where you working on Leah till the word twain tripped you up?
I know the poem is heartfelt and attempting to share this great love but I had to smile reading it - to me it should be read during every Al-anon meeting - most partners are in the mess they are in because of the very love he is describing that today we call co-dependent.
I had not seen the word twain having opposite meanings but a chuckle for me - the double meaning is too perfect - in fact that double meaning for me has the entire poem hinged on that one double meaning word - implying two together and also split apart - wow - would not have seen the value of that word till you brought it up Leah - so your confusion turned out to be for me the king pin of the sonnet.
OK what was it you were getting out of the poem and in what way was twain having opposite meanings muddling your thinking - I bet there is more to this that your conscript of thoughts will uncover.
whoops Bellamarie you posted while I was writing - let me post this and then read your post...
-
Oh funny - Bellamarie I love it - here you see the positive of a couple being considered interchangeable. That idea is sure explored in those first four lines isn't it - and yes, there is the idea that a married couple become one - Shakespeare is not talking about a partner or lover with an obsessive nature but he does make the argument for a separateness doesn't he - I wonder - hmm just thought -
Yes, I wonder if the word twain with its duel meaning really is right on - because there is a benefit to a couple who become one and also, there is equally a benefit to being your own and not be swallowed up as a single unit. If we are given gifts of talent and we do not fully explore our talents we are denying the world, ourselves and our partner of what is unique to ourselves and yet, the poem is suggesting a unity that comes from sharing something similar so that we see in our partner the part of ourselves that we admire - maybe that is part of what makes a safe and good choice of a partner - as a partner there is parts of each other that is shared - I should look up the traditional symbolic meaning of two - that really could caste a light on this poem couldn't it... Back later...
-
Barb- I do believe we must never overlook our own personal identity or talents when in any relationship. As in a marriage scripture says we become as one, but it does not dispel our own individuality. I like how the poem shows we can see some of our best qualities through our partner. So many times I hear one partner say to the other, "You bring out the best in me." or they say, "I like the person I become when I am with you." What a huge compliment to know a relationship brings out the best in a person. Love it!!
-
Shakespeare Sonnet XL
(http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_1f8qaegCiyU/S2ltkYP7a7I/AAAAAAAABa4/qhT0oQP0Jz8/s400/whitehat_detail.jpg)
Take all my loves, my love, yea, take them all;
What hast thou then more than thou hadst before?
No love, my love, that thou may'st true love call;
All mine was thine before thou hadst this more.
Then if for my love thou my love receivest,
I cannot blame thee for my love thou usest;
But yet be blamed, if thou thyself deceivest
By wilful taste of what thyself refusest.
I do forgive thy robbery, gentle thief,
Although thou steal thee all my poverty;
And yet, love knows, it is a greater grief
To bear love's wrong than hate's known injury.
Lascivious grace, in whom all ill well shows,
Kill me with spites; yet we must not be foes.
|
William Shakespeare's Sonnet 40https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=FZGm60E_G7Y
-
Sounds of the intense inner struggle of the poet when his 'true love,' the young (?) man, takes up with the poet's mistress (who cannot be his TRUE love). Lots of gnashing of teeth as he struggles in a back and forth way to view what has happened, express his anguish and perhaps some measure of disbelief at the recklessness of the youth in what may be self-deception, and yet feels a strong need to forgive him for the theft of the mistress. I feel as if he is close to drowning as he attempts to deal with his contradictory emotions of being betrayed and used by his friend and 'true love.'
😫 🙀 😾 ❤️
-
Sonnet XXXX
I can feel the pain Shakespeare is feeling with the betrayal by his young love, yet he wants to remain friends, not foes.
I personally have never been able to understand how one is able to remain friends with someone they are so deeply, emotionally in love with romantically, once they are hurt and betrayed by this person.
-
I had to work at it yesterday to get the words straight in 39. It's very clever--the play on twain--apartness and togetherness at the same time. They're twain because they're apart physically, but they're still together in their minds. But even when they're together in their minds they're twain, because it's two of them in one mind.
-
PAT! yep, that's what flummoxed me - Now that you have described it with words, the kinesthetic memory I had at first reading kicked in and I got a match! In my world I view it like People are made up of all kinds of'parts' that may or may not be in conflict or contrast with each other; yet are all part of the 'one' that We call Me. Our work is to bring them all together and hopefully recreate some unity - and if every person brings all their part into relationship to the whole, eventually we will all add up to one. Very Cool. Thank you.
I re-read it again and see now how clear that idea seems > how to make two (or 20) one:
And that thou teachest how to make one twain.
And he knows how: The way to make the two (2 million) into one is with forgiveness.
This has implications for the journey to the more ethereal realm where all our 'Twain'-egos become ONE.
Tuesday night Stream of Consciousness 🙏
-
Looks like Sonnet 39 was a poem to dig into Pat and Leah - looking at 40 after 39 it appears we are reading twain followed by at least a triad in Sonnet 40 - "All mine was thine before thou hadst this more."
Do y'all think 'love' is the one, the single, the unity, the beginning - or do you think it is 'thought'... "with thoughts of love, Which time and thoughts so sweetly doth deceive?"
With three there is multiplicity, creative power, forward movement overcoming duality - Three stands for "All" - "in whom all ill well shows" - for Christians three symbolizes the unity of Soul, Man and Church - Hope, Love and Charity - and for the Greeks there are three graces, three charities, three sirens, the three in one Moira/Fates.
Interesting how these Sonnets follow each other - from twain to three circling around one. This quote gives a few brownie points to the idea of the "one" being love, with hate being its opposite popping in as a new word to the poem and as an opposite thereby strengthening love... "And yet, love knows, it is a greater grief To bear love's wrong than hate's known injury."
In one breath as you say Leah lots of struggle but landing on a Just resignation...or as you say, forgiveness. "yet we must not be foes." Continuing the lesson as you say, "The way to make the two (2 million) into one is with forgiveness."
Bellamarie, yes how difficult to feel betrayed, as he says it stings more by "love's wrong than hate's known injury".
Another quote that has helped me in my life since I have experienced and struggled with betrayal so that resignation did not stop or soothe the pain till I found this... "Don't blame people for disappointing you, blame yourself for expecting too much from them."
Since the betrayal was more than I could fathom. I decided since I could not figure it out and had no clue how to forgive without accepting the unacceptable or, even to think, accept that the behavior came from someone loved by god, I decided to let a power greater than me, God, take care of it... I did not have to be ugly or show my pain - I realized they would never understand - and so, trust became my issue and I only shared the part of me that was not vulnerable - now if the person is young, as it appears in this poem, than that is a situation where trying out wings often means disappointing others.
Youth and trying out wings of independence is what I think is the position of the love interest in the Sonnet - and frankly, if this is a women who has rebuffed his love and knowing that a woman after marriage will be caged for her entire life this is her only time to exert any personal power - he is distraught and feels robbed but he is not devastated beyond repair - his reputation is still intact and so, I can see growth for her that may give her some empowerment for the remainder of her life and he learned to make peace with the wounds that come from desiring another, who he hoped, if not expected, would fully accept exclusively his love.
However, if this is a man, his lover, his twain, seems still a youth and he cannot stir up the anger and rage as if his rebuff came from someone who intends to inflict pain. Also, if these poems follow then we can assume, to feel as foes is to make part of himself a foe to himself... self inflicting spites - "What can mine own praise 'spites' to mine own self bring?".
Regardless man or women, growth for sure for both of them... and like all emotional growth it often comes with some pain which is the wether bell to adjusting our views.
Yes, perfect, these two Sonnets following each other have meaning - I wonder if the next sonnet fits the scenario or lesson.
-
Shakespeare Sonnet XLI(https://s-media-cache-ak0.pinimg.com/564x/d4/3f/4b/d43f4bb76705a32f18f4e6ba1f3524bf.jpg)
Those petty wrongs that liberty commits,
When I am sometime absent from thy heart,
Thy beauty and thy years full well befits,
For still temptation follows where thou art.
Gentle thou art and therefore to be won,
Beauteous thou art, therefore to be assailed;
And when a woman woos, what woman's son
Will sourly leave her till she have prevailed?
Ay me! but yet thou mightest my seat forbear,
And chide try beauty and thy straying youth,
Who lead thee in their riot even there
Where thou art forced to break a twofold truth,
Hers by thy beauty tempting her to thee,
Thine, by thy beauty being false to me. |
William Shakespeare's Sonnet 41https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Tp_Td-lp8p0
-
Sonnet XXXX1
Where thou art forced to break a twofold truth,
Hers by thy beauty tempting her to thee,
Thine, by thy beauty being false to me.
Oh dear, it seems Shakespeare is pleading with his youthful male love to not tempt the women who are not able to resist is handsomeness, especially Shakespeare's mistress. Shakespeare is pointing out that when he is not with him it is understandable that he will flirt with women, but he is telling him that he is crossing a line by tempting his very mistress, causing not only her to be unfaithful to him, but his youthful male love is also being unfaithful to him as well. This sonnet seems to be telling us the young male is using his youth and beauty to tempt Shakespeare's mistress, and he is being very careless, and it will cause hurt to others, even though he doesn't seem to understand how his actions will hurt others feelings and relationships.
How often does flirtations seem harmless, yet can bring hurt to others. I'm seeing Shakespeare feeling threatened by the beauty and youth of his young love.
-
I get the impression that the beloved didn't take any action to tempt the woman, just that his beauty itself was a temptation. The woman was the one actively tempting, the beloved just didn't resist:
Beauteous thou art, therefore to be assailed;
And when a woman woos, what woman's son
Will sourly leave her till she have prevailed?
But the poor poet; he has to admit it's natural, but it still hurts just as much.
Somehow, I doubt that it's any consolation that this could lead to the children he was nagging about so much. ;)
-
;D :D Pat I had to laugh at your reference to the early Sonnets urging the birth of children -
Bellamarie looks like as you say, harmless flirtation is still painful - ah, if all of our pain would be limited to harmless flirtation but as we act on deeper feelings of love so too, more painful experiences seem to assault us -
I guess that is the story of life, the more we have or the more we love or the more we are responsible for and to the more we experience a deeper attachment.
Today my attachment is limited to staying cool without it costing me a fortune in electric bills - me or my... the promise of rain this weekend is getting more and more believable so maybe...
-
Barb, I'm with you, I am praying for cooler temps and rain. I'm to the point staying in my air conditioned house for comfort beats the heat. Even my inground pool is not enticing to me now.
-
After one cooler day we're facing a series of days with temperatures in the 90s, heat index over 100, 90% humidity, and only down to mid 70s at night. I go out to bring in the mail and the paper.
-
Shakespeare Sonnet XLII
(https://vermeer0708.files.wordpress.com/2011/05/vermeer20the20girl20with20a20wine20glass.jpg?w=470)
That thou hast her, it is not all my grief,
And yet it may be said I loved her dearly;
That she hath thee, is of my wailing chief,
A loss in love that touches me more nearly.
Loving offenders, thus I will excuse ye:
Thou dost love her, because thou knowst I love her;
And for my sake even so doth she abuse me,
Suffering my friend for my sake to approve her.
If I lose thee, my loss is my love's gain,
And losing her, my friend hath found that loss;
Both find each other, and I lose both twain,
And both for my sake lay on me this cross:
But here's the joy; my friend and I are one;
Sweet flattery! then she loves but me alone. |
William Shakespeare's Sonnet 42https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=SxK9n1xvUbQ
-
He's really hurting here, isn't he? It's interesting that you can see clearly he cares more about his man friend than his woman.
That thou hast her, it is not all my grief,
.....
That she hath thee, is of my wailing chief,
A loss in love that touches me more nearly.
He consoles himself with the notion that he and his beloved are one, so the woman really just loves him (the poet) but I doubt that helps much.
-
His explanatory gyrations make him sound very conflicted, so much so that it brings to mind a twisted pretzel or a maze - "I am he as you are he as you are we and we are all together."
-
I'm laughing. You're right, and we've been getting a lot of this lately.
-
Sonnet XXXXII
Well, it appears his woman love, and his young male love, have found each other and he is feeling betrayed and left out.
Leah, Great way to see it!!! :)
I have to admit, my husband first saw me at a dance place with my best friends. I ignored him so he ended up asking my bff out to get closer to me. She didn't really want to date seriously so they broke up after just a couple of dates, and he then asked me out. At first I said NO! He persisted and with my bff's permission, I finally said yes. Here we are just celebrating our 45th wedding anniversary. She felt sad at first when she saw how much in love the two of us became, and she no longer wanted to be my roommate or friend. I suppose like Shakespeare, she felt betrayed and left out, but in the end, she congratulated us and said she was happy for us. Sidenote..... she ended up marrying my hubby's best friend and we all four enjoyed our friendship as married couples!! This sonnet made me think of this.
-
That's almost as complicated as Leah's summary.
-
Where did the day go...
Leah your pretzel description reminded me of an old fashioned thick German pretzel - all twists and turns with just enough salt. ;) Of course it had to be compared to something with salt since salt is the symbol for life, fidelity, friendship, wisdom and knowledge, piquancy and wit. For the Greeks it symbolized literary wit. As heroically sad, "And both for my sake lay on me this cross:" with all the twists and turns in language and among the three that you point out Leah, it keeps the Sonnet lighter using this wit.
Regardless the twists and wit of this poem as Pat you note, he is in a world of hurt. His friend and his love are involved with each other and he uses his wisdom to come to terms with the inevitable rather than flying off into a rage or a sulk. They say true love wants for the one loved to have the best even if someone else brings them the best.
Thou dost love her, because thou knowst I love her;
And for my sake even so doth she abuse me,
Suffering my friend for my sake to approve her.
Now that is constraint... almost verging on martyrdom with "Suffering" - wow...
Shakespeare is keeping his triad going with another slant - sure hope we do not have 17 poems describing various triads - although, this being 25 poems however, after those first 17, for me that many in a row was unexpected having never read these Sonnets through starting with Sonnet One.
Bellamarie glad you and your friend worked it out - reading your description sounded like a libretto for a Gilbert and Sullivan musical farce. They say, life's stranger than fiction.
How well do y'all know the plays - isn't there some of this scenario, one loving a friend's girl in Mid-Summer... or is it Two Gentleman from Verona where there is a switching of lovers.
-
Shakespeare Sonnet XLIII
(http://i0.wp.com/www.legendariummedia.com/wp-content/uploads/2014/10/Galadriel_in_The_Hobbit_AUJSET.jpg?resize=350%2C200)
When most I wink, then do mine eyes best see,
For all the day they view things unrespected;
But when I sleep, in dreams they look on thee,
And darkly bright are bright in dark directed;
Then thou, whose shadow shadows doth make bright,
How would thy shadow's form form happy show
To the clear day with thy much clearer light,
When to unseeing eyes thy shade shines so?
How would, I say, mine eyes be blessed made
By looking on thee in the living day,
When in dead night thy fair imperfect shade
Through heavy sleep on sightless eyes doth stay?
All days are nights to see till I see thee,
And nights bright days when dreams do show thee me. |
William Shakespeare's Sonnet 43https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=-mMM-QoDCwE
-
All days are nights to see till I see thee, - in one respect so romantic but the other side of the coin is the yearning - if it is said aloud the the beloved then all get out romantic but if whispered to yourself or even carried as a thought, oh my how do you get through the day...
Just listened to Yuja Wang play Rhapsody in Blue at the Salzburg Festival and you can hear above the cacophony of sound that was the raucous nature of America in the early twentieth century a plaintive yearning that it reminded me of the tone in this Sonnet. Cannot imagine living when you could not hear the sounds of Gershwin or at least Tchaikovsky and here during the late sixteenth century and early seventeenth century the best they had was the very measured music of Bach and Handel - for sound alone I am so glad I am living now.
Here is a nice link to the music that was similar to the music included in Shakespeare's plays - various short compositions have since been since used in his plays - none of the music from the original plays was ever preserved - except possibly the witches dance in Macbeth - the typical sound symbol inside a box is the link to a short piece of music sung or played that has been included in the plays described.
https://www.britannica.com/topic/Music-in-Shakespeares-Plays-1369568
-
Shakespeare Sonnet XLIV
(http://67.media.tumblr.com/b62de3c78bff451a2e935800ccf0c887/tumblr_inline_n2aitfU3uX1qz7o4j.jpg)
If the dull substance of my flesh were thought,
Injurious distance should not stop my way;
For then despite of space I would be brought,
From limits far remote where thou dost stay.
No matter then although my foot did stand
Upon the farthest earth removed from thee;
For nimble thought can jump both sea and land
As soon as think the place where he would be.
But ah! thought kills me that I am not thought,
To leap large lengths of miles when thou art gone,
But that so much of earth and water wrought
I must attend time's leisure with my moan,
Receiving nought by elements so slow
But heavy tears, badges of either's woe. |
William Shakespeare Sonnet 44https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=-5ugFc4pDKA
-
Yikes...me thinks Shakespeare is going to continue with his anguish and pain over his lost loves. He doesn't seem to be able to even escape his pain even in his sleep. Guess we'll have to muddle through until he changes his mood.
Barb~ Lucky for all involved, we never experienced "switching of lovers", since no one was in love with anyone, they had only dated twice, before deciding to not date anymore. It's like they both knew they were wrong for each other. But yes, it's been a fun story to share throughout our years, with a happy ending for all.
-
Our Poetry Page Reads
Shakespeare Sonnets
2016 the world commemorates
400 years since the death of William Shakespeare.
(http://d13a6ytc0s97c3.cloudfront.net/uploads/listing/image/67/event_RS556808_36980_ROY210915_010-lpr.jpg)
April, 1616. A man died, but a legacy was born; one which proved
so essential not only to the development of
drama and literature, but to language, to thoughts and ideas.
A Sonnet a Day
July 1, till December 1,
We read in order, from 1 to 154
A Shakespeare Sonnet each day.
Welcome
Please share your comments about the day's Sonnet.
Link: First Post of Our Discussion on July 1 (http://seniorlearn.org/forum/index.php?topic=176.msg283685#msg283685)
Shakespeare Anniversary Links
- Shakespeare400 (http://www.shakespeare400.org/)
- Shakespeare 400 at The Globe (http://www.shakespearesglobe.com/400)
- Shakespeare 400 Chicago (http://www.shakespeare400chicago.com/)
- Dame Judi leads Shakespeare Day gala finale (http://www.bbc.com/news/entertainment-arts-36111591)
- Turning Shakespeare’s sonnets into short films (http://[url=http://www.pbs.org/newshour/bb/turning-shakespeares-sonnets-short-films/)
|
Discussion Leaders: Barb (augere@ix.netcom.com)
-
I finally figured out enough of yeseterday's sonnet to have something to say, but I'm traveling, so it'll have to wait for a gap later today.
-
Bless you Pat for leaving the space for the heading - nice...
Bellamarie it sure looks like he is going to speak about melancholy for a bit doesn't it - Yes, in real life I am sure you and your friends have made good choices in your married life but it is a fun story - thanks for sharing it.
Back later today - there is rain on the way - oh and how welcome it will be if nothing else it will get us out of these triple digits - and so I have things to do - do not trust myself to drive unnecessarily in the rain so I am off - of course then when I return I need to shelve all the groceries and then of course take a nap - ah the glories of aging... ;)
-
For nimble thought can jump both sea and land
As soon as think the place where he would be.
Similar yearnings may have led Gene Roddenberry to dream up the Star Trek transporter.
-
A good one Leah - if the Sonnet did not influence him similar thoughts and feelings were his 'muse' ;)
The line that got me - I must attend time's leisure with my moan, how wretched - to moan to me is more filled with despair than crying - a moan feels so alone...
Well the sky is having a good cry today and tonight we are to expect a rip roaring melt down sobbing that will go on for the next few days - the earth sure can use it - the grocery was so crowded with everyone stocking up since any plans to go out to the lakes are cancelled and kids are getting antsy - they know school starts in another two weeks since last weekend was tax free weekend and with the heat they have been cooped up most days - going to the lake they could have run off some of their energy - but not to be - from what I saw it appears tonight will be movie night in most homes.
I thought I would pick up a sandwich but the shop closed early - I've enough to get me through tonight and if the rain is bad I can manage tomorrow and so I can either shop first thing before the church crowd or wait till Monday - I've plenty of coffee and rice, veggies and olive oil - so the storm will not have me an emotional shipwreck tonight although, like most of us who have really lived there have been times... :'(
-
Shakespeare Sonnet XLV
(https://annabelfrage.files.wordpress.com/2013/06/17th-century-man-2.jpg?w=485&h=675)
The other two, slight air and purging fire,
Are both with thee, wherever I abide;
The first my thought, the other my desire,
These present-absent with swift motion slide.
For when these quicker elements are gone
In tender embassy of love to thee,
My life, being made of four, with two alone
Sinks down to death, oppress'd with melancholy;
Until life's composition be recured
By those swift messengers return'd from thee,
Who even but now come back again, assured
Of thy fair health, recounting it to me:
This told, I joy; but then no longer glad,
I send them back again and straight grow sad.
|
William Shakespeare's Sonnet 45https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Vy8sXbSM8ck
-
This reminded me of a poem I wrote back in 1978 when there were several sudden departures among my group of close friends.
Faces loved, lost, and longed for
Snap and smartly shock sputtering synapses -
Call it static cling.
When I'm shorted out too long,
And I see they all are gone -
I become a missing person.
(An anatomy professor pointed out to me that vision has an electrical component which I was not aware of when I wrote it.)
I get an impression of S. hopping from one foot to the other and back again in a painful dance of fluctuating emotions. Sad song!
-
Leah, your poem really hit home, brought a tear or two to my eye. I especially like "static cling".
-
Interesting I have not heard that bit before, that vision has an electrical component - Leah I would love to hear a bit more about that -
And yes, oh, oh, oh, do I relate that when friends die it is as if you are a "missing person" - we can meet new folks and have lunch and even have deep discussions but we cannot at our time in life develop a similar friendship as experienced with long time friends since we simply do not have the years in our lifetime, sharing our experiences and feelings, that it takes. Last year my best friend of 45 years passed, with the last 5 years bringing us particularly closer - what a mixed up set of feelings - I feel as you describe the hopping back and forth that Shakespeare writes in this poem - few tears, it was expected and she lived to be 96 and yet, a huge gaping empty hole that I struggle to fill.
Lots of pairs in this poem that as you say, he hops back and forth between them.
Air --- Fire
Thought --- Desire
present --- absent
Life --- Death
Four --- Two
Joy --- Sad
'Quicker elements' caught my eye - of course it takes me to the Periodic Table - however, the prerequisite to the Periodic Table was a happening after the lifetime of Shakespeare - "Although elements such as gold, silver, tin, copper, lead and mercury have been known since antiquity, the first scientific discovery of an element occurred in 1649 when Hennig Brand discovered phosphorous."
And so Shakespeare's use of air and fire must go back to Greek or Christian symbolism.
From Wikipedia:
Air is one of the four classical elements in ancient Greek philosophy and science. According to Plato, it is associated with the octahedron; air is considered to be both hot and wet. The ancient Greeks used two words for air: aer meant the dim lower atmosphere, and aether meant the bright upper atmosphere above the clouds.
Fire is one of the four classical elements in ancient Greek philosophy and science. It was commonly associated with the qualities of energy, assertiveness, and passion. In one Greek myth, Prometheus stole fire from the gods to protect the otherwise helpless humans, but was punished for this charity.
-
http://www.shrinkpictures.com/download.php?i=phpqE0iCEAM.jpg (http://www.shrinkpictures.com/download.php?i=phpqE0iCEAM.jpg)
Synchronistically enough I just picked up a book that offers a brief mention of electricity as having a role in vision. The book is called PARADOX: the nine greatest enigmas in physics, by Jim Al-Khalili. The photo is from the book.
This is a first try at posting a photo using ShrinkPictures; hope it is in the right size, etc. If it needs adjusting, can someone tell me where I might find specific instructions. Crossed fingers! 🍀
Ah, I see- well, you can get there with the link, but I'd like to know how to do it so the photo appears in the post. ???
-
Leah when you write a Post, above the writing area there are lots of faces and boxes with marks
The first row of marks starts with a large letter 'B' in a box - if you take your cursor and swipe over the word you want to show up as bold then hit that box with the letter 'B' the area that is darkened after you swiped it will have the code instruction before and after to make that word or phrase, bold
I will do it with spaces within the instruction so you can see - Shakespeare [ B ] Shakespeare [/ B ]
Below the box with the letter B is another box that it is difficult to see what the picture is within the box - that is the box you need to bring a photo to us - again spaces within the instruction so you can see what is happening - again swipe your link with the cursor so that it turns dark and then hit that first button in the second line with your cursor - the one with the indistinguishable picture inside the box.
[ img ](http://www.shrinkpictures.com/download.php?i=phpqE0iCEAM.jpg)[/ img ]
Ok one step further - for several reasons - including several readers who enlarge the contents of our discussions by using the wheel on their mouse - photos cannot be huge - within a post we shoot for a width size of max 400 to 450 and most we do around 300 - 350 - most of the photos I share as part of each Sonnet are between 280 and 350
I found just fooling with the width is adequate rather than including the length as well - when the width is adjusted automatically it affects the length - again - we keep the length also less than 450 and 400 works well.
Sooo - when you do the img thing [ img ] again, there is space before and after the 'img' so you can see what is happening - [ img width=300 ] and yes, there is a space between 'img' and the word 'width' - no space between 'width' and the = sign and no space between = and the actual number of pixels that in this case are 300
so if you put in your link to your photo http://www.shrinkpictures.com/download.php?i=phpqE0iCEAM.jpg
and then mark it with your cursor - and then hit the box with the undistinguished looking photo - the first box on the second line - then you have to go back into the instructions with the 'img' - add a space - add the word 'width' - add the = sign, - add the number of pixels - then be sure it is closed with the '/img' but no need to add the width etc. to close it.
[ img width=300 ](http://www.shrinkpictures.com/download.php?i=phpqE0iCEAM.jpg)[ /img ]
-
https://en.m.wikipedia.org/wiki/Retinal_waves (https://en.m.wikipedia.org/wiki/Retinal_waves)
Forget the picture - here is a similar explanation.
Please overlook the apparent abruptness of this post - I am having another one of those bouts with all things tech today!
-
Leah, that poem brought such emotions out of me. I have always been a "static cling" friend. And believe it or not, our priest used a dryer sheet that clings to our clothes today in his Homily. I love it when things happen stance like this in my life. Thank you for sharing.
Now, as for Shakespeare, I really feel sad for him. He seems to be a bit lost in depression. I'm anxious to see what if anything will change his mood.
Barb, we finally got our downpour yesterday, but today is back to heat & humidity. Ho hum.... I went to church and back home and have no desire to go anywhere today. Unlike you, if we get any bad weather we are only seconds away from our corner in and out mart/gas station, and only five minutes to our grocery store. After growing up in a rural country side, I married and became a city suburbanite. I am so enjoying watching th Olympics, the USA have dominated the medals and Michael Phelps and Katie Ledecki have just out swam all others. 24 Gold, 18 Silver, and 18 Bronze, Total= 60. The next in line is China with 41. So proud of our athletes!!
-
We also had rain Bellamarie - even have a window open - unbelievable the temps are in the high 70s - yes, Leah's poem says much to us - seems we can all relate. And yes, we all see in this Sonnet, Shakespeare describing the mature lover trying to come to terms with his sadness - sadness over rejected and telling us how his love is experienced.
Leah this is wonderful information that is stretching my brain - I need to sit with it for a bit - there are many aspects of seeing that I had no clue and is altering many of my preconceived ideas on other things as to how we really all see something different because of our individual experiences - I've said that before but never realized it was on this physical level - I am struggling with 'truth' and in one breath a jury system but in another can we ever see what the accused saw. Lots to dwell on here - thanks for the link.
Back to the poem, something hit me this evening - Air versus Fire and Thought versus Desire - Fire needs air and if the comparisons in the poem is a true equation than, as fire needs and consumes air so, desire must need thought and consumes thought - fits for me... and so next question for me is what triggers desire - latest brain study shows a place in our brain (forgot the name, hippo something) anyhow, this place craves feeling good and is the wellspring for getting our needs met regardless, socially acceptable or not. And now, add to that this concept of electronics as life opens us up to re-looking and re-thinking how we function and what is life...
-
Shakespeare Sonnet XLVI
(http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-NJOyvaHLXVY/TWo_ad_sIcI/AAAAAAAAAc8/EcYMZDnhxt8/s1600/bleeding-heart-flower-1.jpg)
Mine eye and heart are at a mortal war
How to divide the conquest of thy sight;
Mine eye my heart thy picture's sight would bar,
My heart mine eye the freedom of that right.
My heart doth plead that thou in him dost lie --
A closet never pierced with crystal eyes --
But the defendant doth that plea deny
And says in him thy fair appearance lies.
To 'cide this title is impanneled
A quest of thoughts, all tenants to the heart,
And by their verdict is determined
The clear eye's moiety and the dear heart's part:
As thus; mine eye's due is thy outward part,
And my heart's right thy inward love of heart. |
William Shakespeare Sonnet 46https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=uA-5j6eqpjY
-
A few definitions to help... however this Sonnet may be more about sixteenth century associations making it a challenge to capture its meaning. If nothing else, we can enjoy the placement of words and the magic of their music.
This link explains the sixteenth century closet and its uses.
http://english.illinoisstate.edu/digitaldefoe/teaching/bobker/bobker.pdf
Well into the seventeenth century these huge "country" houses were designed so that the rooms opened to each other and often the room was completely opened to a hallway that ran the entire length of the house - privacy was behind the draping surrounding a poster bed - the article does a nice job of explaining not only the physicalities of a closet but also how the word was used to indicate other ways we cut ourselves off for privacy.
Moiety: 1. a half, Joint tenants own their estate by the moiety. - 2. an indefinite portion, part, or share. - 3. Anthropology. one of two units into which a tribe or community is divided on the basis of unilineal descent.
Moiety title is a legal term describing a portion other than a whole of ownership of property. The word derives from Old French moitié, "half" (the word has the same meaning in modern French), from Latin medietas ("middle"), from medius.
A quest of thoughts: today would be called an inquest.
impanneled: a body of jurors
-
Sonnet XLVI
Without over thinking or over analysing, I see Shakespeare struggle with how to deal with living without his love.
Mine eye and heart are at a mortal war
It appears Shakespeare is battling between his eyes and heart. As much as he wants to look at a picture of his lost love, his heart wants nothing to do with experiencing the pain it will bring him.
As thus; mine eye's due is thy outward part,
And my heart's right thy inward love of heart.
He seems to be struggling with the outward and inner feelings. Don't we all deal with situations like this.... It makes me think of when I am at the movie theater and previews of a scary movie begins and I hide my eyes so I won't see what is happening to protect myself from feeling those feelings of fright. Once I see something it is hard not to react to it emotionally. When I see a newborn baby, I immediately feel my heart swell with complete joy and love. When I see a picture of a snake, I immediately feel frightened.
As much as Shakespeare's eyes want to look at a picture of his love, his heart is warning him of what it will feel in seeing it.
-
That first line is telling isn't it Bellamarie - without it the metaphor to law would have led to lots of frustration - I do not know about you but the second half of this Sonnet was just words... pretty words and finding their meaning was nice but still did not make a smooth coherent comparison. He's hurting and so I can easily give him space but then it is 400 years later with all life's changes and changes to the use of words.
-
Shakespeare Sonnet XLVII(http://artintheblood.typepad.com/.a/6a0120a570a392970b0154337f0265970c-pi)
Betwixt mine eye and heart a league is took,
And each doth good turns now unto the other:
When that mine eye is famish'd for a look,
Or heart in love with sighs himself doth smother,
With my love's picture then my eye doth feast
And to the painted banquet bids my heart;
Another time mine eye is my heart's guest
And in his thoughts of love doth share a part:
So, either by thy picture or my love,
Thyself away art resent still with me;
For thou not farther than my thoughts canst move,
And I am still with them and they with thee;
Or, if they sleep, thy picture in my sight
Awakes my heart to heart's and eye's delight. |
William Shakespeare's Sonnet 47https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Z__o8QslU40
-
This sonnet is an extension, and almost a repeat of the prior one. He is trying to come to terms with dealing with his loss.
-
The poet, as observer, has been expressing thoughts unique to the heart and the eyes.
They seem to be moving from combat to a more inclusive stance - allowing that each is part of the whole instead of struggling for the ascendancy of one over the other.
-
For thou not farther than my thoughts canst move,
And I am still with them and they with thee;
Or, if they sleep, thy picture in my sight
Awakes my heart to heart's and eye's delight.
Shakespeare seems almost a bit desperate here. He is obsessing to the point of letting his day and night be filled with thoughts, of this lost love. He can't move on.
-
Haha our feast or famine weather - after almost slipping back into drought conditions we have had rain this week like several of you - so much rain the earth is not able to absorb it as quickly as it falls - plus we have always been prone to flash floods - so today the siren's and fire department trucks honking as folks are being pulled from one low water crossing after another and the roads are so wet that tires are slipping so that right here in our neighborhood some very serious crashes - been out using a hoe to clear a few channels I dug last spring that allow this torrential water to more easily spill to the side of the house and into the backyard - result - not much computer time much less poetry.
My two cents - after reading the poem that included the word eye I more than ever need to re-read the link Leah posted about how we see things based on our own history - the flash thought was we really cannot see the poem as Shakespeare since our frame of reference is so different - but like you Bellamarie I too see him repeating his pain and despair that has consumed him over how to handle his lost love - I like that Leah - seeing this Sonnet as evidence he is becoming more inclusive rather than continuing the mortal war.
Well for now I need to continue my mortal war with the elements or I will have a house full of unwanted water.
-
Shakespeare Sonnet XLVIII
(http://cdn.shopify.com/s/files/1/0760/6691/products/2908p_large.jpg?v=1426545608)
How careful was I when I took my way,
Each trifle under truest bars to thrust,
That to my use it might unused stay
From hands of falsehood, in sure wards of trust!
But thou, to whom my jewels trifles are,
Most worthy comfort, now my greatest grief,
Thou best of dearest and mine only care,
Art left the prey of every vulgar thief.
Thee have I not lock'd up in any chest,
Save where thou art not, though I feel thou art,
Within the gentle closure of my breast,
From whence at pleasure thou mayst come and part;
And even thence thou wilt be stol'n, I fear
For truth proves thievish for a prize so dear. |
William Shakespeare's Sonnet 48https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=HkJJbA0-Eqk
-
Sonnet XLVIII
Art left the prey of every vulgar thief.
Thee have I not lock'd up in any chest,
Save where thou art not, though I feel thou art,
Within the gentle closure of my breast,
I see Shakespeare saying his love could not be locked up, he has him in his heart but that would not prevent anyone from being able to steal him, and that he is free to come and go. It appears Shakespeare is learning that love can not be kept as treasure in a locked up chest. This reminds me of the saying,
"If you want something very, very badly, let it go free. If it comes back to you, it’s yours forever.
If it doesn’t, it was never yours to begin with."
The creator of this general saying is not known. Jess Lair helped to popularize one version starting in 1969. He was given the statement by an anonymous student.
http://quoteinvestigator.com/2012/04/08/love-set-free/
-
Barb, I pray you are able to manage no flooding in your home. I feel so bad for the residents in Louisiana. Our rains have stopped, but not before some flooding of streets and homes. We were very fortunate not to have any issues. Mother Nature seems to be very confused lately, I have a dogwood tree turning colors for Fall, an Easter Lily has rebloomed as though it's Spring, and my Rose of Sharon is in full bloom for Summer. My hubby said all we need is a snowfall and we'll have all four seasons at one time!
(https://scontent-yyz1-1.xx.fbcdn.net/v/t1.0-9/14055150_1367172413297801_3272016696345717781_n.jpg?oh=774f923702a8fbd28bec90382054604d&oe=58115792)
Please feel free to resize this pic. I just don't know how to make them smaller. So sorry. :-[
-
Bellamarie your photos are lovely - what a mixed up bit of nature in your area - I remember one year in August being in a the woods of New York state in a Girl Scout Camp for 2 weeks - it was after our camp season was over here so it had to be that session started Mid-August - but I do remember freezing - here I had come from sleeping in temps that went down into the low 90s and days of triple digits and there the days were in the 80s and the night's plummeted into the upper 60s or very low 70s - each of my first three nights (we slept on cots in tents) I had to ask for another blanket.
I had blankets beneath me and above me - borrowed a coat that was left in the lodge - never warmed up till lunch or after - and what was mouth dropping to me, there were definite signs of fall in the woods - nuts were falling, some leaves were turning and the one empty field was filled with golden rod... amazing - then of course funny, I get back home just before Labor day weekend to high 90s with summer still full throttle, knowing we have another month of summer and then balmy days and nights in October with signs of fall only starting in November.
And so with all of that I can believe the photo of your Dogwood showing color - have not seen a Rose of Sharon in years - had a neighbor that had one but it died some years back - the lily blooming is the amazing seasonal mix up - I thought they, like tulips, needed cold before they bloomed.
I had a dream last night as a result of this poem - strangest kind of dream for me - about a young man, collage age, cowboying and comes home between cattle drives. He is earning money to get his family ranch going after his father died. His mother died when he was a child - get this, even a backstory to this dream - anyhow very small town and he is invited to a sixteenth birthday party - sees how the girl interacts with all the guests from the youngest child and how she is helpful and and and of course falls for her and does not want anyone to notice he is looking at her while he chats with a couple of older men who drove cattle in their youth. He knows there is a 5 year age difference and she has a lot of growing up to do.
Now this next part is typical of my dreams - the age difference starts it followed by all the mental calculating of numbers - this time it was about plotting how many cattle drives he needs to get the ranch up and running, repairing the house etc. And how he meets and learns from a cowboy working for a large commercial spread what it takes to keep track of his expenses and how to make money work putting his earnings in the bank at the end of the drive so he is not robbed on the way home - and the numbers continue about how he has only 4 weeks left till the next trail drive and should he ask the girl to go out - and what can he do with her that costs little money - then the calculating of the cost of taking her out - the next town has a bowling alley and he wants to talk rather than sit silent in a movie - after bowling, she thinks she is being grown up and suggests a beer and he assures her she does not have to act with him and asks if she prefer a coke or an ice cream that he seldom even drinks beer - then she suggests they go to her home for apple pie her mother made and a glass of milk sitting on the back steps - parents overhear them talking and her mom knows this will be the one -
As he leaves the girl asks if he goes to church - he doesn't but knows she is asking him so she can see him - on and on till finally - yes, there is a finally - he is in a dilemma while night riding thinking and knowing he wants to marry her but cannot lock her up till she grows up and he is committed to his ranch which means being gone for months at a time - so when he returns with a gift of earrings, that presented another dilemma deciding a ring was not appropriate, he tells her he knows he cannot lock her in a box and knows she must date other boys and go to school dances but to know he is there and hopes after a few years when she is grown up she will marry him.
It was such a romantic dream that is not at all typical of my dreams - so what that was all about I have no clue - they say you work out your life in your dreams - all the calculating and facing dilemma's I understand where that comes from but to dream of a story with young love - my oh my - What I am doing today is seeing it as a message about a new commitment I either must make or I am already flirting with the idea and the commitment involves both responsibility as well as expressing what I love - yes, I do take dreams as signals to my life -
Now, today, my dilemma, I wonder if I would have had the dream if I had not read the Sonnet?
I am also playing around today with the thought of locking in a box all sorts of feelings rather than letting them loose - what is it about these feelings that I do not want to lose - some are sad and some are about being betrayed and some are about trust and some are about friendships that were really not in my best interests but something about them I lock rather than letting them free - yes, I found this Sonnet to be a ringer for me...
-
To add to the plant life chat -
You all will be gratified to learn that the Pointsettia I brought home for last year's winter holidays has been with me since last December and has been growing like an adolescent.
Right beside it in front of the picture window is a kelly green Shamrock in bloom.
The asparagus fern in the laundry/shower room is getting a big head from all the humidity.
AND! the organic avocado pits have finally developed roots (the 15 -20 generic avocado pits totally failed to "place" AT ALL - I suspicious that they might be GMO [genetically modified fruits]) that have been designed not to reproduce. That said, my only interest is in having an avocado houseplant - not to produce avocados.
With all this weather talk, I am wondering where everyone lives.
Leah
Driftless Area of SW Wisconsin
https://en.m.wikipedia.org/wiki/Driftless_Area (https://en.m.wikipedia.org/wiki/Driftless_Area)
As for dreams, I was trapped in JC Penney and no one I asked could explain how to get out.
-
Ha ha trapped in JC Penny oh my was that a nightmare or a virtual shopping spree - funny - Leah I live for the past 50 years in Austin, and I believe Bellamarie lives in Ohio on the lakes but I forget which city - Joan whose birthday is today along with her twin sister Pat live in California now although, for years she lived in DC and Pat has been on the move here of late - I believe she does have an apartment in Seattle or one of the areas of the Northwest - I have no idea where Karen lives - that is my knowledge of the geography associated with those who have posted.
Interesting we read about that last glacial are of the north and on into Canada when we read For Love of Lakes by Darby Nelson who along with his wife corresponded with us when we read his book.
-
Been an hour looking at photos on line for the Driftless area - looks like lots of hiking and lake activities in the area - Leah do you hike or fish?
Had no idea that GMO foods do not reproduce - even more reason to grow what we can from seeds as we can find them - I just wish I knew which fruits and veggies I buy are GMO produced and which ones are not - need to find out what is grown in Northern Mexico where we get most of our fresh foods except for our many farmer's markets that sell local grown and I think in addition to Whole Foods one of our grocery market chains, HEB buys Texas grown but that means little because we do not know where they are buying their seed. More stuff to research...
-
Shakespeare Sonnet XLIX
(https://kimberleymurray.files.wordpress.com/2013/01/losing-love.jpg)
Against that time, if ever that time come,
When I shall see thee frown on my defects,
When as thy love hath cast his utmost sum,
Called to that audit by advis'd respects;
Against that time when thou shalt strangely pass,
And scarcely greet me with that sun, thine eye,
When love, converted from the thing it was,
Shall reasons find of settled gravity;
Against that time do I ensconce me here,
Within the knowledge of mine own desert,
And this my hand, against my self uprear,
To guard the lawful reasons on thy part:
To leave poor me thou hast the strength of laws,
Since why to love I can allege no cause. |
William Shakespeare's Sonnet 49https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=2zw1P3ogr18
Sonnet 49 in song by Janusz Radekhttps://www.youtube.com/watch?v=G2PqMl6K87Q
-
It is good to hear the poet acknowledge the right of the beloved to dump him even as he stays grounded in his own self-regard or worthiness - at least that is what I think is going on. Sounds like progress and at least he does not sound so anguished. NO - that part about self-worth isn't right, but I do sense a hint of it as if he is being disingenuous in some subtle way. I just cannot hear "poor me" without seeing an accompanying pout.
Barb - the site link below might be a place to start your GMO education!
It has a list of retailers that can be filtered by state, and several other points that recommend it.
I do not know if seeds from GMO foods are actually non-viable - I just thought that might explain why all the non-organic avocado pits I tried to sprout showed no signs of life, but the organic ones did. 😗
I am not much of a hiker nor a fisher person; I do enjoy walks with our English Springer Spaniel - although that has taken a hit recently since I made the mistake of using the mini-trampoline (rebounder) while barefoot and will have to be patient for this bout of plantar fasciitis to heal - yeah, that's it: waiting for my heel to heal!
I will look into the title you mentioned, and also ask if you know the book Driftless by David Rhodes. Other titles are Jewelweed, The Easter House, and Rock Island Line.
So far, I've listened to the first one a couple of times, but have yet to read the rest. He is quite a philosopher - the feelings he bundles up in the expression of the characters really resonated with me.
http://www.nongmoproject.org/gmo-facts/what-is- (http://www.nongmoproject.org/gmo-facts/what-is-)
-
Leah, OMG a Poinsettia blooming in August! Now I know this world has gone upside down! My friend also said her Spring flowering bushes are now flowering again! I am so sorry to hear of your mishap on the trampoline. I hope your heel heals quickly! :)
Barb, I get a lot of my fruits and veggies from our grocery store and local market places. We have a few farmer's markets nearby as well. I am a avid health conscious eater, but I must say the GMO is not on my mind when purchasing fruits and veggies.
-
Sonnet XLIX
And this my hand, against myself uprear,
To guard the lawful reasons on thy part:
To leave poor me thou hast the strength of laws,
Since why to love I can allege no cause.
Well, it seems Shakespeare is finally beginning to accept and admit the time for he and his lover is no more. It seems he is beginning to prepare himself for the time they do bump into each other once again, and expect his lover to either greet him cooly or not at all. Shakespeare seems to be falling into a self imposed, self destructing mindset, feeling he was not deserving of his love.
-
Thanks for the healing energy, Bellamarie!
The easiest way to avoid GMO foods is to stick with organic.
This site looks like it could be really helpful per non-GMO sources.
https://gmo-awareness.com/shopping-list/gmo-free-brands/ (https://gmo-awareness.com/shopping-list/gmo-free-brands/)
-
Well there was no winning for loosing today on this site - here I was finally just after the noon hour ready to engage and lo and behold there is all this about GMOs - of course I had to check it all out and share it with my neighbors on facebook and then they had me share it further and we looked up more - that was just the first link Leah, then the second as we checked the parent companies and realized other aspects of how and what political financing emanated from these parent companies - on and on for hours - sheesh all from two links, I am sure offered in a simple helpful mode. Me oh my...
Again, just proves to me how the same information can be handled by different folks - which takes me back to your earlier link about how our eyes pick up information based on our past experiences that help interpret what we see.
Bellamarie according to what we saw on various links this afternoon it seems that Fiji apples have been added to the list of apples the government has OKed to be grown as a GMO product which includes field spraying with dangerous chemicals. The other two that had been approved sometime ago are Golden Delicious and Granny Smith. All to say beware even at a farmer's market.
All this sidebar about eating food as grown reminds me of the last line of the Sonnet - instead of a caution about attempting a future love life in response to a hurtful experience with a loss, we are suggesting (" Since why to love I can allege no cause.") cause to allege for questioning, why purchase GMO produced foods.
Well after we are alerted to heal and heel we probably could do ourselves a favor and see how often Shakespeare includes a homophone in his Sonnets - Bellamarie had not thought of preparing himself for bumping into this love later after all is lost - hmm - I was seeing the love as the many loves that fade away during our lifetime without thinking on the immediacy of his possible experience - good thought.
-
Shakespeare Sonnet L
(http://www.dingosbreakfastclub.net/DingosBreakfastClub/BioMech/HistoryDressage/GreyHorseSaddled.jpg)
How heavy do I journey on the way,
When what I seek, my weary travel's end,
Doth teach that ease and that repose to say
'Thus far the miles are measured from thy friend!'
The beast that bears me, tired with my woe,
Plods dully on, to bear that weight in me,
As if by some instinct the wretch did know
His rider lov'd not speed, being made from thee:
The bloody spur cannot provoke him on
That sometimes anger thrusts into his hide,
Which heavily he answers with a groan,
More sharp to me than spurring to his side;
For that same groan doth put this in my mind,
My grief lies onward, and my joy behind. |
William Shakespeare Sonnet 50https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=sAsMT5-vqnw
-
Sorry, Barb and Bellamarie, guess I got off track with the link references.😘
Well, for my money, sonnet 50 is the most straight-forward and clearly stated one so far.
The reference to the spurred horse's groan brings to mind the parent saying to a child when punished: "This hurts me more than it hurts you," which I am absolutely certain depends on one's "point of view" (which could be interpreted as another example about how vision works, I suppose.)
It might also highlight how empathy for another's discomfort may go out the window when an individual falls into self-pity where their focus is ever inward.
The bloody spur cannot provoke him on
That sometimes anger thrusts into his hide,
Which heavily he answers with a groan,
More sharp to me than spurring to his side;
-
Hmm Leah this may be one of those bits that could be a lesson explaining folks who see themselves as victims, or those who today we call the "me" folks - "empathy for another's discomfort may go out the window when an individual falls into self-pity" - without digressing into politics I am seeing this play out among many who are more concerned how government affects them than how it affects the greater circle who benefit.
I have to laugh because here you saw this Sonnet straight on and I had more trouble making heads or tails till I could see all sorts of new messages and explained the speaker as if he had dissected himself, as we all do when we see our body doing what our brain is rebelling against and we talk to our body as if a separate entity.
What got me going thinking this way was;
The beast that bears me, tired with my woe,
Plods dully on, to bear that weight in me,
Who was tired with woe - the beast or me
Was the me plodding on or was the beast plodding on
Was me, my body bearing the weight or was the beast bearing the weight.
Something kicked in that I did not look up but I can almost still see Sr. Rose Imelda standing with chalk in hand writing and showing us across a large blackboard something about the last one referred to before a coma is what the next phrase is describing. Well this nonsense about who was tired and who was plodding along and who was bearing weight continues till; "His rider lov'd not speed, being made from thee:"
Then I did throw up my hands - who in the world is "thee" - so then I had fun with it as if he was talking about himself in three parts - a body, mind and spirit - and the horse/the beast was simply a reference point that came in handy -
However, what did catch me and had me nodding my head were the last two lines;
For that same groan doth put this in my mind,
My grief lies onward, and my joy behind.
Immediately thought of my putting off and putting off sorting all the numbers for the IRS - groan - grief ahead - no joy in Mudville - the joy of completing a job when I received the pay was behind me.
I also see this bit in myself as I age and various body parts do not work as well - groan - grief ahead as I learn to either compensate or do without - the joy of smoothly using that body part is behind me - then I have to snap to and make sure I'm conscious that other's are handling their secret groans.
Talk about fighting a war with yourself and then that was it - to me this poem is doing just that - he is fighting a war with himself regardless if he is talking to the horse or his body - he, or at least his body and the horse are all mixed together as if both are beasts of burden and his thoughts are outside himself, observing and complaining about his 'woe is me' and how he is so depressed he cannot spur himself forward acknowledging in his self talk that forward is nothing but more grief.
Been there, done that - nothing is going to change till he does - so get on the d___ horse and ride like the furies are after you and then rein in and realize it is what it is and if life is a rose garden then thorns come with it. Or at least that is how I handle it... ;) :D
-
I agree, Leah, this sonnet is straightforward, without those delightful wordplays, and even some of the lines are plodding to match the sense:
The beast that bears me, tired with my woe
Plods dully on
He's sort of accepting separation, but grumbling and dragging his feet. And Shakespeare certainly never was stabbed in the side with a sharp-pointed spur.
-
Our Poetry Page Reads
Shakespeare Sonnets
2016 the world commemorates
400 years since the death of William Shakespeare.
(http://d13a6ytc0s97c3.cloudfront.net/uploads/listing/image/67/event_RS556808_36980_ROY210915_010-lpr.jpg)
April, 1616. A man died, but a legacy was born; one which proved
so essential not only to the development of
drama and literature, but to language, to thoughts and ideas.
A Sonnet a Day
July 1, till December 1,
We read in order, from 1 to 154
A Shakespeare Sonnet each day.
Welcome
Please share your comments about the day's Sonnet.
Link: First Post of Our Discussion on July 1 (http://seniorlearn.org/forum/index.php?topic=176.msg283685#msg283685)
Shakespeare Anniversary Links
- Shakespeare400 (http://www.shakespeare400.org/)
- Shakespeare 400 at The Globe (http://www.shakespearesglobe.com/400)
- Shakespeare 400 Chicago (http://www.shakespeare400chicago.com/)
- Dame Judi leads Shakespeare Day gala finale (http://www.bbc.com/news/entertainment-arts-36111591)
- Turning Shakespeare’s sonnets into short films (http://[url=http://www.pbs.org/newshour/bb/turning-shakespeares-sonnets-short-films/)
|
Discussion Leaders: Barb (augere@ix.netcom.com)
-
Sonnet L
Oh my heavens!!! The first thought that came to mind after reading this sonnet was Eeyore who is woe is me......
(https://scontent-yyz1-1.xx.fbcdn.net/v/t1.0-9/14054955_10210557169508849_3136745963485724889_n.jpg?oh=26fa370ac40cbd5e4f339c694a0407a6&oe=5817A236) (https://scontent-yyz1-1.xx.fbcdn.net/v/t1.0-9/14064073_10210557169468848_8687657890029345084_n.jpg?oh=d795f10f8b07b0bb86ef705cc6592b46&oe=58509FF2)
I actually feel sorry for the horse because he has to trot on with Shakespeare on his back in his depressed state. Ugh...
PatH., We were posting at the same time and almost posted the exact same thought, just different words! ;)
-
To fill in some data from a few days ago: JoanK lives in Torrance, CA, which is part of what we call Los Angeles. I live in Bethesda, MD, a suburb of Washington, DC. I'm in the process of gradually shifting to Portland, OR, to be near my children and grandchildren. That's where I was last week, without much chance to think about sonnets. I missed some good stuff, too, which I'm poring over now I'm back.
Leah, I feel for you with plantar fasciitis. I had it for some years, controlled with proper shoes.
-
Bellamarie, we were posting at the same time again. It took me a while to stop laughing at Eeyore. That's perfect.
-
Thanks Pat for saving the space for the heading - plods dully on - don't you just like the sound of that - never think to use the word plod but it is a perfect word isn't it - glad you included it in your post. And dully - not duly but dully - love it - so descriptive of the dullness of plodding - glad you could come in today - hope you had a great time with family for your birthday.
Haha love it - Eeyore - YES, woe is me - love it Bellamarie
Pat thanks so much for filling us in where you and Joan live - are you finding any differences in weather between Bethesda and Portland?
-
Happy Belated Birthday PatH.!! So you are moving to Portland to be near your family, that sounds wonderful. Do you and Joan get many chances to see each other living so far away? I have a sister and daughter in Florida and I am in Ohio, and sadly we don't get to visit as much as I would like. I plan to go see them in the Fall if all plans work out. Yep, posting again at the same time, great minds think alike I hear. ;)
Maybe once Shakespeare gets to where he is traveling he will have shaken off his blues. I am ready for a change in attitude.
-
Barb: Portland weather isn't quite as extreme as DC. It only snows once or twice every other winter, and when it does, everything is paralyzed. Summers aren't quite as hot as here, and less humid, and the cool breeze from the mountains tends to cool things off at night. It rains a lot, but mildly, very few real downpours. So better some ways, worse other ways, but evens out to just as good.
Bellamarie: Joan and I don't get to see each other nearly as often as we would like, but we talk on the phone 4 or 5 times a week. I just got off the phone from talking for 1 1/2 hours.
-
Shakespeare Sonnet LI
(https://mimimatthews.files.wordpress.com/2015/07/two-horses-with-a-groom-by-george-stubbs-1780.jpg)
Thus can my love excuse the slow offence
Of my dull bearer, when from thee I speed:
From where thou art why should I haste me thence?
Till I return, of posting is no need.
O, what excuse will my poor beast then find,
When swift extremity can seem but slow?
Then should I spur, though mounted on the wind;
In winged speed no motion shall I know:
Then can no horse with my desire keep pace;
Therefore Desire (of perfect'st love being made),
Shall neigh, no dull flesh, in his fiery race;
But love, for love, thus shall excuse my jade;
Since from thee going he went wilful slow,
Towards thee I'll run, and give him leave to go.
|
William Shakespeare's Sonnet 51https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=e-LKOWbMluc
-
Hurray I found one - this Sonnet is a 'Persiflage' or whistle talk - meaning something written tongue in cheek - you can ID whistle talk if it combines irony, levity, and paradox, treating trifles as serious matters and serious matters as trifles which creates a light, bantering style, idle, good-natured raillery.
aha - that description of Persiflage/whistle talk, from the used copy I found on Amazon of, The Garden of Eloquence that includes portions of the first publication in 1577 by Henry Peacham which was used by Shakespeare (and Molière, 1622-1673). It is a book of rhetoric and grammar using figurative flowers and other creatures to "incarnate some figure of speech or trope."
In the Sonnet 'paradoxon' is easy to spot - then, according to Peacham, after spotting paradoxon you look for the irony and levity - and so, rather than 'woe is me' we are reading Shakespeare having fun with this guy's misery. It is a tongue in cheek poem. We would in the 21st century say and spell paradoxon as paradox.
The Garden... includes on the pages explaining paradoxon a poem that starts -
In artlessness I seek disguise;
In ugliness my fairness lies;
...
On feebleness I build my strength,
And measure brevity by length.
And from Sheakespeare's Sonnet we have several -
excuse the slow offence
... when from thee I speed:
...haste me thence?
Till I return,
When swift extremity can seem but slow
In winged speed no motion shall I know:
his fiery race;... excuse my jade;
...from thee going he went wilful slow,
Towards thee I'll run,
I'm sure in the book there is a definition for using in the last two lines - "from thee" - "Towards thee"
ahh and then we have it - after all that, the irony of ending with, "give him leave to go."
-
Sonnet LI
Towards thee I'll run, and give him leave to go.
All I can see is he is actually thinking he can return to this lost love swiftly, even though the horse is slow. What about the fact his love has turned to another????
It's kind of like the couple that breaks up and even though one knows it's over, the other starts imagining they will be getting back together. Me thinks Shakespeare could use some in depth counseling about now.
Barb, a paradox indeed! He is contradicting himself. Doesn't sound like tongue in cheek, sounds like delusional to me.
-
Bellamarie yes, perfect, delusional which is part of tongue and cheek - the impossible is spoken with exaggeration or extremes - the one that I saw as being the most extreme was difficult to show in a post, since the words were adjacent - "speed"-"no motion" - which does set up the scenario that you see of this yoyo type letting go that is all in his mind because she or he is really gone... shut the door, 7 miles made it to the front gate gone...
When you look up the explanations for Shakespeare's and other play-writers comedy, in a nutshell the explanation says, comedy is usually about some tragic hero engaged in his great purpose that is foiled by outside sources, a deception or his own weakness. It is about the collision between the hero and the ethical world.
I can see that understanding of comedy in the Seinfeld series and in Archie Bunker it was about his views on life that were at odds with current ethics and of course the dark humor of MASH - their purpose in life was to save lives while all around them are forces taking life. They, deceiving themselves that they could grab moments of joy often meant, being at odds with either social norms or army rules and regulations or just being at odds with the destruction that surrounds them.
OH Bellamaire look at this - great - this explanation uses your word delusional - fun...
The Comic Individual — He is, in one form or another, the victim of deception. He fights a shadow of his own mind, or pursues an external appearance; his end is a nullity, his plan an absurdity; he is always deceived; he really is not doing that which he seems to be doing. His object may be a reasonable one, his purpose may be a lofty one, but he is inadequate to its fulfillment; the delusion is that he believes in his own ability to accomplish what he wills. His object also may be an absurd one; he pursues it, however, with the same resolution. It may be called a foible, a folly, a frailty — still the essential characteristic is that the individual is pursuing an appearance, and thus is the victim of deception, though he may even be conscious of the absurd and delusive nature of his end.
... a madman is not a comic character. Reason must be present in the individual, though his end be absurd. A rational man acting irrationally is the incongruity which calls forth the laugh...
In Comedy of Situation, a person is placed in circumstances over which he has little or no control, and is made to pursue absurd and nugatory objects without any direct fault of his own... he must also collide... A person who undertakes his purpose, his delusion, must struggle with an opposite purpose... conflict with the institutions of the world — as Family, State, Church; or may disregard his own ethics which are the moral elements of society — as Honesty, Truthfulness, temperate Gratification of the senses...
OH my - this is good stuff - if you have ever been curious about how to see life through the eye of a comedian there are reams of sites on the web explaining all of this - wouldn't it be neat to be able to post the humor we are thinking without having to resort to various smiley faces to prop up our sardonic eye.
-
Okay, now you have me laughing out loud!!! :) :) :)
What a perfect find for this sonnet! I don't know if he is actually traveling, or if it's all imaginary in his own mind. I mean think about it, where is he actually going? He is all the above in The Comic Individual, and the In Comedy of Situation. All I can say is where ever he is going, if he is going anywhere at all, I hope he hurries up and gets there and gets beyond this depressive silliness. :) ;) :D ;D >:( :( :o 8) ??? ::) :P :-[ :-X :-\ :-* :'(
-
:) now you had me laughing - yep, where ever he is going 'not' - hadn't thought of mind travel - now that could be - all this as you say, silliness over love!!??!! Oh my - but then most teens do go through this phase - I bet there are similarities to some of his comedic plays - never have read one of his comedies - I wonder how they read - saw several as a movie but come to think of it never did see one of his comedies on stage either.
-
Shakespeare Sonnet LII(https://upload.wikimedia.org/wikipedia/commons/b/be/The_Lady_and_the_unicorn_Desire.jpg)
The Lady and the Unicorn entitled, "À mon seul désir"
Translation "My Only Desire"So am I as the rich, whose blessed key
Can bring him to his sweet up-locked treasure,
The which he will not every hour survey,
For blunting the fine point of seldom pleasure.
Therefore are feasts so solemn and so rare,
Since, seldom coming, in the long year set,
Like stones of worth they thinly placed are,
Or captain jewels in the carconet.
So is the time that keeps you as my chest,
Or as the wardrobe which the robe doth hide,
To make some special instant special blest,
By new unfolding his imprison'd pride.
Blessed are you, whose worthiness gives scope,
Being had, to triumph, being lack'd, to hope. |
William Shakespeare's Sonnet 52https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=3s1codyLmUU
-
Sonnet LII
Hmmm..... I am really trying to understand what this is all about. He thinks he holds the key to the treasure chest, yet does not want to open it just yet. He wants to anticipate how great it will be when he opens it, quite like a child on Christmas morning..... the wrapped gifts look so exciting, the brightness of the colors of the paper and bows just make the gift seem so much more enticing to open, yet the excitement may not last once it is opened, so you linger just a bit before tearing away the paper and bows to see what lies in the box. The joy once opened will remain in you for only a time, and then it will dissipate, just as Christmas will be gone til the next year. But... the gift remains as yours to keep!
My only confusion is............. if Shakespeare sees his lost love as a treasure waiting for him to open, how can that be his to possess, when in fact he no longer is his to love? Irony seems to be the element of this sonnet.
-
It is not an easy read is it Bellamarie - this is what I'm getting out of it - he sees this loved person as a locked up chest - OK that says, the person is precious therefore, locked away or not easily available - or maybe he/she has chosen to be distant and so, he sees this person as something that comes to him at certain special times because he does say, he will not every hour survey
Next, I get that there are rare solemn feasts spaced over a calendar year - we know this is during the time when feast days were celebrated as now we celebrate national holidays - and so I would imagine; Christmas - 12th night - probably the feast of St. Stephen - Candlemas Day - March 24, the start of the Year in England until the adoption of the Gregorian Calendar in 1752, which is also the feast day for the Annunciation of the Blessed Virgin Mary - Easter - Feast of St. George, patron Saint of England, in April - Pentecost or Trinity Sunday - Feast of All Souls and Feast of All Saints.
Reading this again it sounds more like these feast days are the stones of worth or jewels - and I think he is saying their meeting is a secret or maybe his love for this person he only sees on feast days is a secret - something is a secret that he keeps locked up and hidden and because it is locked up and hidden it is even more special.
Sounds to me as if he is being a victim to his own feelings - not a memorable Sonnet is it Bellamarie... however, finding the tapestry that came to mind was a nice trip down memory lane - they hang, all six of them, in the Cluny which I think they renamed - it was the house in Paris for the Cluny Abbots which was the monastic order of St. Benedict and the house was turned into a museum holding all things Gothic with one large room devoted to these tapestries -
They were one of the holy grails to see of those of us involved in needlework - all the wildlife and flowers in the empty space around the scene was as valuable to see how the shading was done in stitches that did not curve but everything is as if a square dot and also the shapes in the design were of interest - the other 5 hangings are each devoted to one of the 5 senses and this one, the 6th is depicting desire. The photo is not easy to see but she is holding in her vail a cornucopia of jewels spilling from the chest.
-
The secret could represent his sacred memories that only he possesses. I see the feast days as something special, to anticipate happening throughout the year so he can keep the treasures/memories locked up until then. I think Shakespeare has finally come home, the end of his journey. It seems he is dealing now with the acceptance of his life going on without his love, and is holding their memories as locked jewels in his heart, to bring out occasionally to remember. Only he would hold the key to unlocking his memories in his heart.
-
Makes sense Bellamarie interesting how we box up or lock up what is precious to us - we want to protect from harm or change - I've been thinking of that concept since the other day when we had the Sonnet about a locked chest and the tendency to lock up families members - how some keep children close to home - we have safety deposit boxes and chests for our sterling place settings - of course jewelry boxes or chests - then I smiled remembering Hope Chests where as young women we embroidered pillow cases and guest towels, napkins and tablecloths which represented our hopes for our own home and even land, we fence in with a sense of ownership - and then thinking on it what is a home but a huge box containing our loved ones lives being lived that the openings can all be locked - interesting...
-
Shakespeare Sonnet LIII
(http://117.img.pp.sohu.com/images/blog/2007/7/8/9/29/1143c992fda.jpg)
John Gibson 1790, Helen of Troy
What is your substance, whereof are you made,
That millions of strange shadows on you tend?
Since every one hath, every one, one shade,
And you, but one, can every shadow lend.
Describe Adonis, and the counterfeit
Is poorly imitated after you;
On Helen's cheek all art of beauty set,
And you in Grecian tires are painted new:
Speak of the spring and foison of the year;
The one doth shadow of your beauty show,
The other as your bounty doth appear,
And you in every blessed shape we know.
In all external grace you have some part,
But you like none, none you, for constant heart. |
William Shakespeare's Sonnet 53https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=rDBZ8z7CdNA
-
Some of the sonnets seem less worth the trouble of teasing out the meaning than others, and 52 is that for me. I agree with your interpretations.
The pleasure and value we see in something is enhanced by enjoying it sparingly. The rich man opens his treasure chest only occasionally; great festivals are far apart. The time that separates him from his love, allowing mostly absence, with only occasional meetings (if that) serves the same purpose as the chest. He values his love even more.
-
Barb, thanks for reminding us of that beautiful tapestry. I saw it once too, and even without any needlework expertise, I wanted to sit and stare at it for a long time--so rich in detail and beautiful in design. Even spotting all the little animals takes quite a while.
-
Sonnet LIII
Shakespeare like anyone else in love, is seeing his love more beautiful than anything or anyone of great beauty, be it art, person, season etc.
PatH., I agree, some of these sonnets are a bit contrite, no need for over thinking them.
-
Ha! Suddenly the beloved has constancy!!??
Is the poet getting resorting to flattering the beloved and just hoping it will stick?
-
Or trying to reassure himself?
This one is a nice graceful compliment, though. Most people have only one shadow, but you, my love, have many. Adonis is a pale shadow of you. Helen of Troy is a pale shadow of you. Everything beautiful in the world is just a shadow of your qualities. But you're like no one else, and no one else is like you for constancy.
-
Leah that totally confused me. He has lost his love, yet he says his love has constant heart. More delusions, or as you suggested, flattery will get you somewhere?
-
I thought I might be the confused one, but to my mind this sonnet comes on the heels of a few previous ones where the poet was bewailing the opposite trait.
As for sonnets, I read this somewhere recently:
"For it is the tradition of sonneteering that all cruelties by the beloved must be forgiven by the lover."
-
Very different today compared to the recent Sonnets as you too agree Pat, yesterdays Sonnet 52 had little - ;) almost like some days - not even a day of resting after a wonderful day, just a blah day :D so yesterday we had a blah Sonnet. Oh fun and games... Yes, seeing those tapestries was one of those memorable experiences.
Did you go to the Goblins to see them making Tapestries? My French is not that good and so I was not able to get the full understanding since the tour was all in French but I did luck out with a woman in our small group who if I asked she translated. However, I did not want to seem a pest plus the tour guide seemed to be the only one talking. I bet they have lots of refugees now doing the work since they come from the part of the world where tapestry weaving is part of life for many.
What blew me away was how they follow the design - nothing on the warp that is strung on upright looms and that all these thousands of knots are tied, the cartoon is on a small paper on the wall behind them. Dangling in front hanging from one of the loom beams is a small, and I mean small, maybe 5 inches by 7 inch mirror, they separate the warp threads to look in the mirror which reflects the cartoon and here these minute areas of the tapestry are knotted to the design with this primitive way of following the design - amazing.
Brought home the many stories we learn about how those sumptuous lace collars were made - Cromwell and the puritans were really saving the eye sight of thousands of girls with their plane dress - Candle light was all and it was not till Tudor times that glass windows were imported from Vienna so that bottle glass was the window material or a waxed parchment was stretched over the opening therefore, most houses other than the buildings of royalty were inadequately lit by daylight through a window. If you are into paintings it is why you see so many woman stitching while sitting outside their cottage - it was for the light.
Well the making of lace was a big industry without any industrial space - cottages were commandeered by those manufacturing and selling lace and young girls starting at age 10, till their fingers became too large for quick work at about the age of 20, were on straight chairs encircling the room. As many as 20 or so girls and in the center of the room was one candle on a table with a drinking glass turned upside down next to the candle. The candle light was fractured into these pinpoint dots of light and each girl placed her chair so she could work using one of those pinpoint dots of light to light her work. Some lace is made using a cushion with lots of bobbins and just as much lace is made by pulling threads from a very fine (36 to 64 threads per inch) piece of woven linen and then the remaining threads are tied together in various patterns using a needle and thread. No magnifying glass to help. Result, most lace-makers soon had severe eye problems, many becoming blind in their early twenties.
Well onward to our Sonnet - looks like more discussion while I was writing this so let me start a new post...
-
Learning so many of the stories about the life and work of the average person - circumstances that most of us would never imagine, brought home to me this Sonnet had to be written about a woman of means which during the seventeenth century would be limited to the upper class or royalty having the advantages that would allow a woman to appear beautiful and to delay her marriage till her late teens or even her early twenties -
Here are examples of the upper class women and the average woman.
(https://s-media-cache-ak0.pinimg.com/736x/6b/5b/5a/6b5b5a4fe8623fc77a416ea01f455fb4.jpg) (https://annaking969.files.wordpress.com/2015/01/costume-1666002.jpg)
Taking this Sonnet as a stand alone poem - not following the story we see in proceeding 'woe is me', 'I cannot get her to love me' Sonnets - what he says, yes, is flattering but then can you imagine instead of one of these play acting tones of the many on Youtube who quote this poem but rather, said as a man in love spilling his admiration for her beauty as he holds her hands or kneeling before her - it is really quite a moving bit of admiration - to be compared to Helen and Springtime and Adonis as less than - whow - and as Leah you noticed the words constant heart meaning steadfast affection - again, wow - can you just feel what that must be like to have someone say that to you, But you like none, none you, for constant heart. - could be manipulative flattery or as Pat suggests, he is reassuring himself - my romantic heart prefers that he is complementing her - we can all dream can't we... ::)
Interesting quote Leah - "For it is the tradition of sonneteering that all cruelties by the beloved must be forgiven by the lover." Maybe that is part of the magic of Shakespeare's Sonnets - each Sonnet about love expresses the gamete from minimizing the cruelty felt, to accepting what he sees as cruelty and bemoaning how he feels - always turning the rejection on himself and continuing to elevate this person loved, regardless how he feels and as we read it, with our twenty-first century eyes, we think he is often expecting too much. Or, is that what he would have us believe, his misery? - only by reading a book studied during the seventeenth century of rhetoric, logic, and grammar was there direction that he was making fun at his own expense, using tongue and cheek for his message.
Maybe this is the poem of forgiveness that makes up for all the 'woe is me' Sonnets - but as a stand alone it sure marks a jaw dropping ability to speak in adoration to this woman - Didn't y'all get a kick out of every one, one shade, followed by, And you, but one, can every shadow lend. - sounds like there were no women around whose skin was other than the one shade ;) obviously not multi-cultural.
Now Bellamarie I can go there where he is seeing his lover "more beautiful than anything or anyone of great beauty, be it art, person, season" Had not thought but yes, he is comparing her to art and a season as well as the natural shadows that show on her face. He really includes it all doesn't he... he is making her into almost an alter of adoration - a museum is seldom filled with candles and flowers but a church alter where there is art and seasonal flowers and the natural shadows of light through magnificent windows - hmm for comparisons that would work.
Well as a continuation of a theme there is the forgiveness of cruelty - then the discussion if the cruelty was real or imagined since he was spurned or at least his expectations were spurned or is this a stand alone Sonnet that is showing an admiration for the beauty of this beloved person. I'm imagining the next few Sonnets will clear that up for us - Now we have a task that who knew would become a task - don't you just love it with us having our various viewpoints -
-
Shakespeare Sonnet LIV
(http://i.ebayimg.com/00/s/MTI1NFg5Mjk=/z/MPMAAOSwLa9UXL~P/$_35.JPG)
O how much more doth beauty beauteous seem,
By that sweet ornament which truth doth give!
The rose looks fair, but fairer we it deem
For that sweet odour which doth in it live.
The canker-blooms have full as deep a dye
As the perfumed tincture of the roses,
Hang on such thorns and play as wantonly
When summer's breath their masked buds discloses:
But, for their virtue only is their show,
They live unwoo'd and unrespected fade,
Die to themselves. Sweet roses do not so;
Of their sweet deaths are sweetest odours made:
And so of you, beauteous and lovely youth,
When that shall fade, my verse distills your truth. |
William Shakespeare's Sonnet 54https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=aJhqXntTB1U
Shakespeare Heptet Sonnet 54https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=eOK0PY84Gu4
-
And so of you, beauteous and lovely youth
When that shall fade, my verse distills your truth.
His choice of the word 'youth' seems to my mind a reference to his male beloved.
Not that it is essential to appreciating the sentiment: that the poet's 'distills' the beauty of his beloved's 'truth' or admired essence (?) into verse even when that essential beauty has faded just as the faded rose petals are distilled into a perfume that memorializes the original flowers.
I really like that last line.
-
Yes, I like it too. Such a graceful, lovely poem.
Back to the previous theme that poetry keeps the beloved alive even when old and faded, or gone. Of course it's true in this case. We can't put a name to the beloved (scholars argue over different possibilities) but he's been remembered for centuries now, with more to come.
-
Sonnet LIV
So Shakespeare is going to preserve the youth's beauty after he is gone, much like the beautiful rose is preserved into a sweet fragrance once it dies off.
Interesting how he sees this:
The canker-blooms have full as deep a dye
As the perfumed tincture of the roses,
Hang on such thorns and play as wantonly
When summer's breath their masked buds discloses:
But, for their virtue only is their show,
They live unwoo'd and unrespected fade,
Die to themselves. Sweet roses do not so;
Since I wondered what he meant by canker-bloom, I decided to look for a picture of one. It is nothing like the rose, it does not have the shape of a rose nor the deep dye as a rose.
(https://encrypted-tbn2.gstatic.com/images?q=tbn:ANd9GcSwCGvvn0rnJHa5SN-z1IcE4jt-bW8oXgVW7LEaeSGBbcSFkYq84w)
By accident I happened to click a link and found this, stating it's possible Shakespeare was color blind.
I found this interesting https://www.jstor.org/stable/519062?seq=1#page_scan_tab_contents
Any way the poem seems to say the wildflowers (other people) are inferior to the rose (his young love), which he will preserve through this poem.
And so of you, beauteous and lovely youth,
When that shall fade, my verse distills your truth.
Leah, I agree with you, when he refers to his young love, or youthful love, I sense he is speaking of his male youth. He is more direct if and when he addresses a woman, at least from my point of view.
-
I like this sonnet too (sorry I've been AWOL for a while).
He says "O how much more doth beauty beauteous seem,
By that sweet ornament which truth doth give!"
So "truth" is the equivalent of the smell of the rose? By truth, does he mean his love is true?
-
This Sonnet was a lovely change wasn't it - you too Bellamarie looking up canker-bloom - one site seemed to lead to another - I thought at first they were the wild roses we used to see along the roads and wire on the other side of ditches but evidently not - they are a Dog Rose - rosa canina - and they do not have the color or the scent of the roses that are dried for potpourri or made into perfume. From what I read, the dog rose is a popular rose in Europe - and the hips on a dog rose have been used for many cures and is still used to make a health tea - the photo you found is a good one for a white dog rose - they also do come in a pinkish color.
Leah that last line as Pat also comments, is especially lovely isn't it - could be a male youth - I tried it and it seems to work either way - the idea that this Sonnet will remain as acknowledgement of his youthful beauty sure did turn out to be a truth. Glad you shared how the last line as one of your favorites, you bring needed attention to the line since the poem contains several great mind picture lines.
So glad you popped in Joan, you always add to our enjoyment of these Sonnets. Now you have me questioning truth - need to re-read yet again and share how I see it... what thought about truth does the most for you, the idea of the scent or his feelings of love?
-
"beauty beauteous seem" OK that could be just beauty. not necessarily a particular beauty as in a person.
What sweet ornament is he talking about - whatever the "ornament", he says, truth tells us the ornament is sweet or maybe the poem is saying the ornament exists.
The rose in not only fair but fairer yet is the sweet odour which it exudes.
Now we know the canker-bloom is a dog rose that is pale in color and when they die they do not retain their color but show the typical brown of many flowers that die on the vine and dog roses are not used to make potpourri or perfume since they have very little scent - play as wantonly suggests to me they are grow profusely and that fits - evidently they are all over Europe in every kind of soil imaginable from seaside sand dunes to mountains -
summer's breath suggests they bloom in summer and with their prolific thorns they redeem themselves because of their show of flowers.
Since they are a wild flower that grows profusely they are not as desired and admired as a 'sweet rose' - they die hmm dye and die - I doubt that was by accident - these wild flowers die to themselves suggests to me they die on the vine rather than be collected for color or scent.
Comparably a sweet rose after death maintain their sweet scent - I know he says odour but that word does not to me bring up a pleasant mind picture - odour is rotting fish, bad breath, out houses and low tide. So scent it is...
OK it seems to me he is saying that the beauty similar to the scent of the sweet rose that do not die without being wooed or fade into obscurity or alone in death - and when this beauty similar to his description of the sweet rose fades, this verse, his poem will bring back the essence of the beauty of this lovely youth.
It is 'your' truth - that suggests to me the truth of the beauty of the lovely youth - therefore, for me I do not see this Sonnet as talking about love as much as, creating a word photograph describing the beauty of this youth comparing the youth to the sweet rose in comparison to the dog rose.
Ah I get it now - the sweet ornament is the youth in all its beauty. I say 'it' because I am still not clear reading this if the youth is male or female.
Neither right or wrong just what I get out of the poem as I read it.
-
Shakespeare Sonnet LV
(https://s-media-cache-ak0.pinimg.com/736x/31/c1/8c/31c18c42dc4b29107ad5400d09ba4535.jpg)
Not marble, nor the gilded monuments
Of princes, shall outlive this powerful rhyme;
But you shall shine more bright in these contents
Than unswept stone, besmear'd with sluttish time.
When wasteful war shall statues overturn,
And broils root out the work of masonry,
Nor Mars his sword nor war's quick fire shall burn
The living record of your memory.
'Gainst death and all-oblivious enmity
Shall you pace forth; your praise shall still find room
Even in the eyes of all posterity
That wear this world out to the ending doom.
So, till the judgment that yourself arise,
You live in this, and dwell in lovers' eyes. |
William Shakespeare Sonnet 55https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=FehmnV_78bk
-
Sonnet. LV
Doesn't get any easy than knowing Shakespeare is saying his love for him/her will outlast the test of time.
-
Yes, this one is pretty straightforward. And the poem will outlast both of them, and through it the beloved and their love will be admired until Judgement Day.
-
Well he sure hits the points that we consider timeless doesn't he Bellamarie and yes, till Judgment Day Pat - although I had a difficult time realizing that is what he was saying with his, "till the judgment that yourself arise".
It did not occur it meant Judgment Day and I was thinking it was till she or he judged, so that it was her or his judgment that arose - should have seen it with the preceding line talking about the ending doom. Glad you posted or it would have gone over my head - and of course we are talking seventeenth century when the end of the universe was a given with God coming to judge us all.
Love the use of "sluttish time" - it so fits and I cannot remember hearing or reading time described as sluttish by any other author... that one will stick with me for awhile.
-
Thought this was quite lovely and a nice background to reading the day's Sonnet
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=2DEHiA6H6zk
-
Our Poetry Page Reads
Shakespeare Sonnets
2016 the world commemorates
400 years since the death of William Shakespeare.
(http://d13a6ytc0s97c3.cloudfront.net/uploads/listing/image/67/event_RS556808_36980_ROY210915_010-lpr.jpg)
April, 1616. A man died, but a legacy was born; one which proved
so essential not only to the development of
drama and literature, but to language, to thoughts and ideas.
A Sonnet a Day
July 1, till December 1,
We read in order, from 1 to 154
A Shakespeare Sonnet each day.
Welcome
Please share your comments about the day's Sonnet.
Link: First Post of Our Discussion on July 1 (http://seniorlearn.org/forum/index.php?topic=176.msg283685#msg283685)
Shakespeare Anniversary Links
- Shakespeare400 (http://www.shakespeare400.org/)
- Shakespeare 400 at The Globe (http://www.shakespearesglobe.com/400)
- Shakespeare 400 Chicago (http://www.shakespeare400chicago.com/)
- Dame Judi leads Shakespeare Day gala finale (http://www.bbc.com/news/entertainment-arts-36111591)
- Turning Shakespeare’s sonnets into short films (http://[url=http://www.pbs.org/newshour/bb/turning-shakespeares-sonnets-short-films/)
|
Discussion Leaders: Barb (augere@ix.netcom.com)
-
Shakespeare Sonnet LVI
(https://s-media-cache-ak0.pinimg.com/236x/03/f6/26/03f626e9a430c10f1e3dd22c01b85ebd.jpg)
Sweet love, renew thy force; be it not said
Thy edge should blunter be than appetite,
Which but to-day by feeding is allay'd,
To-morrow sharpen'd in his former might:
So, love, be thou; although to-day thou fill
Thy hungry eyes even till they wink with fullness,
To-morrow see again, and do not kill
The spirit of love with a perpetual dullness.
Let this sad interim like the ocean be
Which parts the shore, where two contracted new
Come daily to the banks, that, when they see
Return of love, more blest may be the view;
Else call it winter, which being full of care
Makes summer's welcome thrice more wish'd, more rare.
|
William Shakespeare's Sonnet 56https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=uWgjVxTALpk
-
Sonnet LVI
Let this sad interim like the ocean be
Which parts the shore, where two contracted new
Come daily to the banks, that, when they see
Return of love, more blest may be the view;
It seems Shakespeare is anticipating what it would be like to see his lost love again.
The early sonnets dealt with procreation, his youthful male love, describing the beauty of these and then came the betrayals, the pain and anguish of his youthful male and mistress hurting him, then he goes off on a journey of self imposed depression and pain, he returns and now here he is imagining what it will be like if and when he may see his lost love again. I suppose you could see these different phases he is going through as the steps you go through when a loved one dies. Not necessarily in this particular order, or of these emotions, but similar with the exception I think he is fantasizing of reuniting with his lost love. Much like loved ones think of when they will be reunited with the lost loved on in Heaven.
1. Denial/ Isolation
2. Anger
3. Bargaining
4. Depression
5. Acceptance
http://psychcentral.com/lib/the-5-stages-of-loss-and-grief/
Just when I thought Shakespeare was coming to the acceptance stage of his lost loss it seems he is reverting to denial, imagining when they may reunite.
-
Interesting Bellamarie - never thought of the stages of grief but I can see them now over the course of these Sonnets - now I am wondering if they meant to be a stream of consciousness or if someone after his death put them in this order - not in a research mood today but that will be something I would like to find out - how these poems were published - I wonder if there is still information about where they were found and if the same folks who put together the first folio of his plays also published the sonnets.
For me my favorite line is the last - Makes summer's welcome thrice more wish'd, more rare. although, the sentiment for me would be reversed with summer being the season of care and winter being more rare. Last significant snow fall was in 2008 unless you count this last year - which believe it or not was enough to cancel school :) no one knows how to drive in the stuff so it was a good decision.
(https://pbs.twimg.com/media/BewrP16CUAAIMAn.jpg)
-
Shakespeare Sonnet LVII(http://frenchmoments.eu/wp-content/gallery/rouen/gros-horloge-1-copyright-french-moments.jpg)
Being your slave, what should I do but tend
Upon the hours and times of your desire?
I have no precious time at all to spend,
Nor services to do, till you require.
Nor dare I chide the world-without-end hour
Whilst I, my sovereign, watch the clock for you,
Nor think the bitterness of absence sour
When you have bid your servant once adieu;
Nor dare I question with my jealous thought
Where you may be, or your affairs suppose,
But, like a sad slave, stay and think of nought
Save, where you are how happy you make those.
So true a fool is love that in your will,
Though you do any thing, he thinks no ill. |
William Shakespeare's Sonnet 57https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=7bTcUPnSfcw
-
Oh Barb, that is a very interesting thought..... who did decide to publish the sonnets and did they choose this particular order to place them? That would have been a huge project to take on, but not impossible to go through them all and place them in the order they read as happening in real time of his life experiences. I'll leave that to you to go on a hunt for, if you so chose to accept this mission. :) If you are a huge Tom Cruise fan and have watched his Mission Impossible movies, which I have, you'll know that comes at the beginning of each movie when he is given his mission and then is given the option to choose to accept it, or not. :)
-
Sonnet LVII
Being your slave, what should I do but tend
Upon the hours and times of your desire?
Whilst I, my sovereign, watch the clock for you,
But, like a sad slave, stay and think of nought
Ughh...... this one really is a bit creepy. He seems like he is so obsessed with his love for this person he can not move on. He is a slave to his love and desire for this person. This reminds me of a dark opera where the person ends up killing himself because he realizes he can no longer exist without the love of this person. I can visualize him taking some form of poison or pills and letting himself slowly drift off into death.... all the while dreaming of the perfection of this lost love, who can do no wrong and he will not be jealous of him going on with someone else.
Time to call for help.... "Hello this is 911, do you have an emergency?"
-
OH, Oh, oh was that tempting to start to research all about the hows, whens, whats, where and who first published Shakespeare's Sonnets - did learn they were published without Shakespeare's approval in 1609 Then I caught myself - stop, in the name of love - the tune was in my head ;)
Anyhow went back to the beginning on page 98 that explains what reading these Sonnets together is all about and here is the starting post...
OK --- PLEASE - share YOUR reaction - we all have access to and can read the hundreds of analysis in books and web sites by the Shakespeare specialists and poetry gurus. We really do not need to repeat what we can all pour over first hand.
Pundits, soon after the death of Shakespeare started ruminating in their attempt to identify the lady Shakespeare was writing to or about. Some call her the 'Dark Lady' others the 'Secret Lady'. Please, let’s forget about doing the work of scholars who spent the greater part of their education and life coming to grips with how and for whom these Sonnets were created.
Instead, let’s enjoy these Sonnets for what they are - love poems - Make believe you are the recipient of the love expressed in these poems or the poem is describing a secret lover's impression of you.
We are not reading the Sonnets to identify theme or meter, interpretation or intention. Let's just enjoy the work of this gifted poet afresh, without any concern to the tons of material attempting to explain the work so that we do not lose the immediacy of the beauty expressed, the turn of phrase, so we can be astounded anew with the flow of thought and the lovers argument for accepting his love.
In these 154 Sonnets there are only three things the lover is expressing - the brevity of life, the fleetingness of beauty, and the trappings of desire.
Tell us about your first reaction – After your second read were you moved – Did you catch something you did not catch in the first reading - was there a particular phrase that caught you as you read - Then after your third read, what emotions within yourself did the poem touch. Did Shakespeare pull you in? What did you find appealing about the 14 lines declaring an aspect of love - - -
-
Bellamarie creepy is right - sure does not feel like love does it - a slave/master relationship - why does this make us so uncomfortable - to be that dependent on a love or is it suggesting the lack of a love returned - not sure what it means but the point of these 14 lines summed up as all Sonnets in the last two lines that he is a fool in love almost minimizes - we think of a fool much as we do a clown - I just want to turn my back on this sentiment.
Maybe the definition for 'fool' was different in the sixteenth century - I've read how the court jester is a fool and can get away with saying anything - even the most controversial subjects can be made into a joke by the court jester - is this then a poem that is one big haha joke do you think?
Not seeing any paradox which we learned in an earlier read was an ID for tongue in cheek - here we see exaggeration and an inanimate object representing either a feeling of devotion or the one to whom he is devoted. All these references to time... hmm appears to be replacing the one who makes him happy... time appears to be a personification for the beloved... in fact the words around the 'time' word added together probably suggest more about his feelings - Upon, precious, world-without-end, watch.
Upon the hours and times
no precious time
world-without-end hour
watch the clock
Then he does repeat a word - slave - Being your slave, - like a sad slave - and servant being close to slave - bid your servant
Sounds like he is saying, being a slave to time is really saying, time is also a personification representing his beloved one while slave/servant is the personification representing him and his love -
OH I am just making this too hard - the poem does not feel good and I want to make a silk purse out of it - he is obviously devoted to her almost like a parent to a child since a parent would love a child regardless the child's demands or behavior. I get it - the sonnet is saying she/he could do anything for any length of time and he would still be devoted - OK, well not sure it is a 911 call Bellamaire but it sure sounds like he is being fool in today's vernacular unless, maybe this beloved one is his child - hmm could be since these words fit more with a parent child relationship - Upon, precious, world-without-end, watch. Well we just do not know so the whole thing is a mystery... ah so.
-
Barb, I am not seeing a parent/child relationship whatsoever. It's simply creepy. No tongue in cheek. He is over reaching, over obsessing, and over the top! Nope, no silk purse here. 911 can I help you?
-
haha the glories of deciphering what we read - need to find that link again to the article - forgot even the name of it - something about how we envision what we read based on our life experiences - again, no right or wrong we each get what we will from these poems - and :D for you 911 it is... a fool bordering on deranged should we say??? but a 911 call for sure... fun...
By the way have you noticed it is getting dark a bit earlier - these are the kind of evenings when I would like a dog to take for a walk but oh I just do not want the responsibility of caring for one more anyone or animal - taking care of others has been my middle name - enough.
-
Shakespeare Sonnet LVIII
(https://encrypted-tbn2.gstatic.com/images?q=tbn:ANd9GcQDiVb8BkjrtJ66IKAO9-0PbO9kMJ3cV_Z-VKoGQhvMjNV0lRRb)
That God forbid, that made me first your slave,
I should in thought control your times of pleasure,
Or at your hand th' account of hours to crave,
Being your vassal, bound to stay your leisure!
O, let me suffer (being at your beck),
Th' imprison'd absence of your liberty;
And patience, tame to sufferance, bide each check,
Without accusing you of injury.
Be where you list, your charter is so strong
That you yourself may privilege your time
To what you will; to you it doth belong
Yourself to pardon of self-doing crime.
I am to wait, though waiting so be hell;
Not blame your pleasure, be it ill or well. |
William Shakespeare's Sonnet 58https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=36DOHTOKiyI
-
Yes, Barb, no right or wrong answers to what we individually see. I guess I was bringing a bit of humor into Shakespeare dark drama with 911. :) We have a Shih Tzu and have been taking walks in the late afternoon and yes, it's cooling down and is wonderful feeling that last bit of summer and anticipating Fall, as the days get shorter on daylight. My flowers are loving this, and bursting even more with fullness!
-
Sonnet LVIII
That God forbid, that made me first your slave,
I should in thought control your times of pleasure,
I am to wait, though waiting so be hell;
Not blame your pleasure, be it ill or well.
This is a continuation of the last sonnet, he is still in the woe is me mood. He feels enslaved to his love for this person, does not want the person to feel guilty for going on with his life without him, yet he is wallowing in self pity. God forbid is right....get over it already! He has created his own hell. I've never been a very patient person listening to or trying to deal with a person who refuses to help themselves. I understand it takes time to heal a broken heart, but this has been going on long enough, he not only is depressing, but he seems to be enslaved to his self inflicted pity party. Ugh....
-
Bellamarie it sure is isn't it a continuation - this sounds like he is saying he enjoys making his life a misery - either I do not want to accept he is into a 'woe is me' and therefore, I want to imagine there is an affectation of rhetoric here that is going over our heads... or these two Sonnets, that are not joyful, telling us the writer is stuck on a self inflicted merry-go-round and enjoying it suggesting, he is so self centered he thinks he can hijack our feelings so that we accept his sacrificing his life for another and deem it as a noble act.
I do not want to accept the idea it is laudable to feel sorry for yourself however, as a poet, manipulating the feelings of others at least deserves beautiful language - but this - I need to read something else to get past this awfulness. Awful in thought, reason and wording describing his victim status. Needless to say this poem made me feel uncomfortable.
Appears the beat of the changing season is different for each of us - not enough coolness yet for flowers to recover regardless all the rain - two weeks of heavy rain has everything mixed up - the deer are already bulking up and snorting at the male yearlings to leave the band - they are showing signs of pre-rut that we usually do not experience till the end of September on into October but it may start early this year.
And our real sign of autumn - school marching bands can be heard practicing on every campus Monday through Thursday and boys are seen running, pushing, jumping, throwing, tackling practicing to do themselves and their team proud Friday nights. With the growth in the city we now have so many high school Friday night football games that some teams have selected to play on Thursday night - not sure how they manage class on Friday all aches and pains and not sure how the moms will alter the traditional booster cakes and cookies seldom eaten other than on Friday night but I am sure they will work it out. First games were played last night with the local news a half hour longer bringing us up to date with scores and exceptional plays.
It will be another month before it is cool enough to open all the windows - waiting like a kid before Christmas - I am determined this year to really tackle the clearing I started the last couple of years - I do some - feel successful till a few months later and realize there is so much more I am no longer useing and so another clear out must be scheduled.
Well off to read and clear out this poem from my thinking - grrrr - just do not like this message of feeling put upon and his accepting it as his due...
-
Shakespeare Sonnet LIX(https://abeautifulbook.files.wordpress.com/2014/01/etienne.jpg)
If there be nothing new, but that which is
Hath been before, how are our brains beguil'd,
Which, labouring for invention, bear amiss
The second burthen of a former child!
O, that record could with a backward look,
Even of five hundred courses of the sun,
Show me your image in some antique book,
Since mind at first in character was done!
That I might see what the old world could say
To this composed wonder of your frame;
Whether we are mended, or whe'r better they,
Or whether revolution be the same.
O! sure I am, the wits of former days
To subjects worse have given admiring praise. |
William Shakespeare's Sonnet 59https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=lKcYNFPljT0
-
Sonnet LIX
Shakespeare is wondering if he could look back years ago, possibly as far back as the beginning of time when writing first began, if he would see others saw the same beauty as he is seeing and writing about today, or is it just an imitation of prior writings. I just posted in the Library about something very similar to this sonnet, about a book I am reading called "...And Ladies of the Club" I will copy and paste to save me time from rewriting it, as Shakespeare so seems to think he is repeating the past writings from centuries ago, feeling he may be just an imitation of what has already been written.
I am truly loving ".....And Ladies of the Club" It is a real treat. Oh how it is so similar with today's political arena. They have just discussed why on earth did they fight the Civil War if not to free the Negroes and give them their right to vote. One soldier responded "To save the country. To stop its being torn limb from limb. To keep the flag flying over the whole of it." They are all looking forward to General Grant being elected and state, "When General Grant is president, the country will be safe and at peace and united again?" And then this statement just jumped right out of my book at me...."That's why, when Dock says 'God Knows,' like he did, it sounds as if he thought the war hadn't been worth fighting, when it's only he doubts whether the country has been saved, in spite of all the bloodshed, because those of its saviors who have been governing it haven't been so very wise."
This is back in 1868, and here we are in 2016, almost one-hundred and fifty years later, and saying the same things just months before a very racially charged election in November. Congress has the lowest trust rating in history, or maybe not, but still as the statement above said, "haven't been so very wise." One thing I have learned through reading the Old Testament and the New Testament in the Bible, and reading books as far back as the 19th Century, nothing really changes much with politics, religion, and power. There are changes in Presidents, Leaders, Kings, etc., but the bottom line is, they all govern for control of power of the people. We look back and see how far we have come with the emancipation proclamation, the women's suffrage, and the 14th amendment to the constitution, yet today, still candidates debating these issues so many years later, still the two major parties attacking each other and not necessarily putting the will or good of the people first. It could make your head spin!
I found myself asking the same question as Shakespeare is pondering..... is this an imitation, has it gotten better, worse or stayed the same? It was a little creepy for me to post in the Library first, then come read this sonnet and see such similarity. He questions of repeating 500 yrs ago, and I question repeating 150 yrs ago.
-
Startling, Bellamarie.
Well at last he's stopped sitting around, lonely, waiting for a few meager crumbs of comfort to drop into his lap.
Back to the author's perpetual problem. If everything has been said before, how do you say it again in a fresh way, or is that even possible? By now, he's not just competing with the past, but with his own earlier sonnets.
-
The lines that I think you picked up on Pat - the wits of former days To subjects worse have given admiring praise. I am thinking it ties in with what Bellamarie you are saying when you summerize, as far back as the beginning of time when writing first began, if he would see others saw the same beauty as he is seeing and writing about today, or is it just an imitation of prior writings.
I am thinking after reading your excerpt for the book Bellamaire, you are into, haven't been so very wise. We keep in front of us in story after story and statues and art work the glorification of the same behavior - who or what we think are winners are perpetuated as the ideal - and so to be not just on the "right side of history" but to be considered successful the closer we can come to the iconic ideal the more laurels in life and death but the less change is sought.
I am thinking there may be more tongue and cheek in these Sonnets than we are capable of seeing - The times, expressions, the language itself have changed enough that my concern is 'stuff' is going over my head - personally, I think many a Shakespeare scholar is also allowing the humor to go over their head since their reputation is built on scholarly examination of the minutia written, which does not include scholarship with equal sensitivity to the feelings and fears, except the blanket understandings written. This limited understanding does not include how the feelings and fears are unconsciously communicated.
I am thinking how folks today don't realize before WWII there was no penicillin and during the war when it was available the limited production sent it all to the troops so that folks were dying on the homefront because they had no access - but what I remember that is not written describing adults is the stark fear that bordered on terror in the eyes of parents when their child became ill - even with a bad cold - you saw it in the eyes of hurried shoppers and dads hurrying home from work to be with the child that they and the doctor was helpless to cure even using the meds available, most of which were simply bottled versions of various herb extracts.
If a family lost a child that fear defined how they hovered over their other children and were over protective so their children were not permitted to swim or play in the rain or whatever the parents decided was the cause of their child's illness - or how some parents developed a brusque demeanor to hide their feelings of loss and were thought by the neighborhood kids to be the neighborhood crank.
No wonder churches were full of little old ladies wearing black including every weekday morning - they knew the pain of loss but more they knew the fear of who is next. They had no idea how to stop 'whatever' from happening again and all they could do was turn to what they believed was more powerful than any human or any illness.
And so when I read the analysis for instance of F. Scott Fitzgerald I do not hear any mention of that fear that hung over the heads of parents - and how that fear was one of the uninvited guests to the tug of war over his daughter much less, how that fear oozed into decisions made by royalty or what it did to the parents living in poverty - You have to wonder, what fears are not addressed in the history we continue to read. As Shakespeare says in this Sonnet.
how are our brains beguil'd,
Which, labouring for invention, bear amiss
The second burthen of a former child!
-
Repeat of; Shakespeare Sonnet LV
(http://mw2.google.com/mw-panoramio/photos/medium/6024776.jpg)
Not marble, nor the gilded monuments
Of princes, shall outlive this powerful rhyme;
But you shall shine more bright in these contents
Than unswept stone, besmear'd with sluttish time.
When wasteful war shall statues overturn,
And broils root out the work of masonry,
Nor Mars his sword nor war's quick fire shall burn
The living record of your memory.
'Gainst death and all-oblivious enmity
Shall you pace forth; your praise shall still find room
Even in the eyes of all posterity
That wear this world out to the ending doom.
So, till the judgment that yourself arise,
You live in this, and dwell in lovers' eyes. |
William Shakespeare Sonnet 55https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=2oVVrzcwd7Q
-
Sonnet LX
These two lines stand out to me. Shakespeare is once again saying he will keep his lost love alive forever through his sonnet and his heart/eyes.
The living record of your memory.
You live in this, and dwell in lovers' eyes.
-
Yes, Barb, I was referring to ... haven't been so very wise. That seems to be the consensus of the majority of the American people today with congress and this president, and for centuries or even longer. But I also was tuning into the anticipation of the people back in 1868, comparing them to the people of today wanting, hoping and ready for the next president to make their America better. My observation is that nothing really does change, from as far back as the Old Testament to the New Testament, from the 19th Century to the present 21st Century. We have made progress, we have seen technology advance, we have had periods of peace, etc., etc., but ultimately like Shakespeare's thoughts..... this all seems to be imitations of before. A bit like the movie Groundhog Day...... but then isn't that what life is?
-
There's been a pasting glitch. That's sonnet 55 over again, not 60. I'm not sorry, though. Somehow it seems better the second time around.
-
Maybe it is Groundhog Day.
-
Oh lordy -somehow I got mixed up last night - in fact had the correct one on the work page and changed it thinking I was wrong - OK I will get this repaired - sorry - yep a repeat oh oh oh well maybe we had to hear it again
-
Shakespeare Sonnet LX
(http://freephotooftheday.clientk.com/wp02/wp-content/uploads/2011/01/gouyave-grenada-pebble-shore.JPG)
Like as the waves make towards the pebbled shore,
So do our minutes hasten to their end;
Each changing place with that which goes before,
In sequent toil all forwards do contend.
Nativity, once in the main of light,
Crawls to maturity, wherewith being crown'd,
Crooked eclipses 'gainst his glory fight,
And Time, that gave, doth now his gift confound.
Time doth transfix the flourish set on youth,
And delves the parallels in beauty's brow,
Feeds on the rarities of nature's truth,
And nothing stands but for his scythe to mow.
And yet to times in hope my verse shall stand,
Praising thy worth, despite his cruel hand. |
William Shakespeare Sonnet 60https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Ay0AqPN7vas
-
whew - fastest I ever did one but then it is partly remembered from what I actually changed last night - ah so - maybe the powers that be decided we needed a repeat - now I need to review the others - I try to be 4 Sonnets ahead in preparing them.
-
I kinda like that image of waves bringing pebbles to a shore as a way of measuring our lifespan - I smile thinking how, darn it all, some years I wish the ocean did a better job of breaking the boulders sent to me down to pebble size :)
Pebbles I can handle - I can collect them - I can play with them, polish them, display them, build things with them, put them in the bottom of pots for drainage, line a garden path with them, hold down my papers on a windy day, hold down the beach towel also on a windy day - lots of uses of pebbles and lots of different colors to admire. I can even write on them.
But a boulder - now that is a different story - it either just sits there obstructing the view or you tackle moving it or break it into bits - ah ya ya ya - lots of 'sequent toil' goes into handling a boulder and transfix the flourish set on youth when everything and anything seemed possible - not sure about a scythe to mow on either pebbles or boulder - is this a mixed metaphor do you think?
-
Not so much mixed as moved on to the next metaphor, I think. It's a nice sonnet, isn't it.
-
ah - OK so the next one is being foreshadowed - nice - thanks Pat - yes, I do like this one...
-
I didn't mean the next poe is foreshadowed; he moves on to a different metaphor in this sonnet. First the waves, each lapping a tiny bit farther up the shore, obliterating the previous wave, representing our moments passing by. Then a description of changes with time, slowing down of youth's vigor, creases in the brow. And finally, we are all mowed down by time's scythe, the grim reaper.
-
Yes Pat, I can see the metaphor to maturity -
Crawls to maturity, wherewith being crown'd,
Crooked eclipses 'gainst his glory fight,
but did not get the scythe as a metaphor for age - makes since, waiting for death.
I'm still preferring the idea the poem invokes for me that the ocean like uncontrollable luck - something that comes from outside our own control - flushes pebbles as a measurement of time and this very ocean wears away or washes away what hides the boulders that are our life challenge - may not be what other's see or what was intended but that is for me a message that explains life without thought of death.
The next couplet where he talks of the poems future without the restraints of time I saw as our lives also being universal throughout time - we may only be a pebble on the beach rather then the entire beach but we add to the structure of ocean, beach, waves and pebbles - more of a timeless universal theme than a lifespan theme.
I guess I see one lifespan as rather pitiful - few of us individually affect the course of history or capsulize nature or mankind in an art-form - we add our voice, support artists, nurture or ransack the earth as we exchange our energy both physically and mentally, and if we have children pass on a line of DNA - and so our value is in my thinking, universal, as if we are the building material for tomorrow rather than, a measure of what we accomplish during our one lifetime. It appears I must claim the audacity to disagree with Shakespeare ;)
-
OMG PatH., I am laughing out loud..... I never should have brought up Groundhog Day!! :) :) I thought that poem seemed so familiar and what a huge jump I thought from pity party to back to keeping his love's beauty alive. Phew... this Shakespeare has me coming and going.
Barb, I love the pics you choose for these sonnets. You do a great job in bringing them into the poem.
Sonnet LX
And yet to times in hope my verse shall stand,
Praising thy worth, despite his cruel hand.
Shakespeare is seeing "Time" is not very nice. In the end it destroys all, and yet his poem will withstand the test of time. This poem made me a bit sad, it's a realization of there is no denying the end will come to each of us.
I like pebbles as well, they seem like the babies of the rocks, mountains, boulders etc.
-
Thanks Bellamarie for noticing the headings - they are fun to do and trying to pick a photo based on some aspect of the Sonnet has made this an enjoyable project. What was even funnier with last night's mixup the youtube link was for 60 even if the Sonnet printed was for 55.
Yes, the end comes doesn't it - have not yet decided how I feel about it but regardless there is nothing I can do to accommodate the reality - Saw a wonderful version of Henry VIII and Ann on PBS tonight that showed at that stage in life he was a tall, good looking, athletic, man rather than, the aging overweight painting we see duplicated so often and there was a real passionate love between them - It looks like from all their research it was gossip that did her in along with some major losses to Henry's image - the part that is difficult - regardless taken to a tower or today, a jail or for many elders, a hospital with no idea it will be permanent and 10 days later you are dead - to me that would be the worst scenario.
-
Shakespeare Sonnet LXI
(https://3.bp.blogspot.com/-j1szG-zhejo/VugFy-aq1mI/AAAAAAAFfeQ/2zqFVXscs8AzSVQTBuVV9WW25-UiblKmw/s1600/Franz%2BChristoph%2BJanneck%2BThe%2BAngel%2BAppearing%2BTo%2BThe%2BSleeping%2BElias.jpg)
Is it thy will thy image should keep open
My heavy eyelids to the weary night?
Dost thou desire my slumbers should be broken,
While shadows, like to thee, do mock my sight?
Is it thy spirit that thou send'st from thee
So far from home into my deeds to pry,
To find out shames and idle hours in me,
The scope and tenor of thy jealousy?
O, no! thy love, though much, is not so great:
It is my love that keeps mine eye awake;
Mine own true love that doth my rest defeat,
To play the watchman ever for thy sake:
For thee watch I whilst thou dost wake elsewhere,
From me far off, with others all too near.
|
William Shakespeare's Sonnet 61https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=AT_SqW6yeMc
-
Sonnet LXI
Is it thy will thy image should keep open
My heavy eyelids to the weary night?
To play the watchman ever for thy sake:
I'm not sure who Shakespeare is speaking about in this sonnet, if it is his lost youthful love, or even a child of his. Regardless, he is having sleepless nights. This sonnet reminds me of how I felt when my children were teenagers in high school or college, and out with friends. I could not sleep at night for wondering about where they were, and if they were okay. Staying out of mischief.
-
That is what I see as well Bellamarie - and yes, it too reminded me of when my children were teens and actually if they were facing some big issue as adults - there were many a restless night -
these are the lines that speak to me - lots of folks fit for me the description of my own true love including a few very good friends.
Mine own true love that doth my rest defeat,
To play the watchman ever for thy sake:
More rain and babying myself with lots of naps today - throat scratchy and eyes all watery - I am sure it is allergies that you would think the rain would wash away but one of my biggies is mold and the mold spurs I bet are as high as can be with all this rain. Would like to spend the evening reading but my eyes won't let me - hate filling my body up with meds but I may just have to succumb. Hah - I guess if this is all I have to complain about I am pretty lucky - watery eyes, oh my what a catastrophe ;)
-
I am dealing with itchy eyes, dripping nose and scratchy throat, I am certain is allergies. Until this summer I have never been diagnosed with allergies. They wreck havoc on my eyes, not to mention I have dry eyes as well. Our humidity & heat has been so constant lately I can't go out and appreciate my beautiful flowers. My daughter lives in Port Richey, Florida and it seems the hurricane watch is going to include her area. She is about 3 miles from the ocean so she may get some bad weather. So I'll keep vigil for the next few days for her.
-
It is hurricane season isn't it - forgot about that - I think it lasts till November - hope your daughter's experience with the storm is not too bad.
Last day of August today - not actually the last day of summer but September seems to say a new season - We have a happy accident with our timing on reading these Sonnets - it appears that Sonnet 73 is about the Fall of the year and our next read is Sonnet 62 - so next week, just about right for most areas of the country I should think - we will still be in mid-summer simply with a redder afternoon and evening sun and longer shadows but everything will be as summer.
-
Last post for the page- do not want to put our Sonnet on this last post - it gets lost trying to refer to it when we share our thoughts and feelings - found another poem written by Shakespeare that not only fits his thoughts on time and lifespan but perfectly fits with our recent Sonnets - so for your pleasure, a nice read and then we'll go on - the Sonnet for the day is on the next page.
Fear no more the heat o' the sun;
Nor the furious winter's rages,
Thou thy worldly task hast done,
Home art gone, and ta'en thy wages;
Golden lads and girls all must,
As chimney sweepers come to dust.
Fear no more the frown of the great,
Thou art past the tyrant's stroke:
Care no more to clothe and eat;
To thee the reed is as the oak:
The sceptre, learning, physic, must
All follow this, and come to dust.
Fear no more the lightning-flash,
Nor the all-dread thunder-stone;
Fear not slander, censure rash;
Thou hast finished joy and moan;
All lovers young, all lovers must
Consign to thee, and come to dust.
No exorciser harm thee!
Nor no witchcraft charm thee!
Ghost unlaid forbear thee!
Nothing ill come near thee!
Quiet consummation have;
And renowned be thy grave!
|
-
Our Poetry Page Reads
Shakespeare Sonnets
2016 the world commemorates
400 years since the death of William Shakespeare.
(http://d13a6ytc0s97c3.cloudfront.net/uploads/listing/image/67/event_RS556808_36980_ROY210915_010-lpr.jpg)
April, 1616. A man died, but a legacy was born; one which proved
so essential not only to the development of
drama and literature, but to language, to thoughts and ideas.
A Sonnet a Day
July 1, till December 1,
We read in order, from 1 to 154
A Shakespeare Sonnet each day.
Welcome
Please share your comments about the day's Sonnet.
Link: First Post of Our Discussion on July 1 (http://seniorlearn.org/forum/index.php?topic=176.msg283685#msg283685)
Shakespeare Anniversary Links
- Shakespeare400 (http://www.shakespeare400.org/)
- Shakespeare 400 at The Globe (http://www.shakespearesglobe.com/400)
- Shakespeare 400 Chicago (http://www.shakespeare400chicago.com/)
- Dame Judi leads Shakespeare Day gala finale (http://www.bbc.com/news/entertainment-arts-36111591)
- Turning Shakespeare’s sonnets into short films (http://[url=http://www.pbs.org/newshour/bb/turning-shakespeares-sonnets-short-films/)
|
Discussion Leaders: Barb (augere@ix.netcom.com)
-
Shakespeare Sonnet LXII(http://www.artble.com/imgs/2/e/d/116588/narcissus.jpg)
Sin of self-love possesseth all mine eye,
And all my soul and all my every part;
And for this sin there is no remedy,
It is so grounded inward in my heart.
Methinks no face so gracious is as mine,
No shape so true, no truth of such account;
And for myself mine own worth do define,
As I all other in all worths surmount.
But when my glass shows me myself indeed,
Beated and chopp'd with tann'd antiquity,
Mine own self-love quite contrary I read;
Self so self-loving were iniquity.
'Tis thee, myself, that for myself I praise,
Painting my age with beauty of thy days. |
William Shakespeare's Sonnet 62https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=REoIZtmtXkc
-
Sonnet LXII
'Tis thee, myself, that for myself I praise,
Painting my age with beauty of thy days.
It appears Shakespeare is seeing himself through the beauty of his young love. Then he looks into the mirror and sees his real self, not quite the beauty he expected. I can relate to this, I have a granddaughter who is going to be twenty-one in a few days. She and I have been so close since her birth. When I am with her she just radiates of youth, life and beauty which I feel casts onto myself. I do feel beautiful in her presence, and yet when I look into my mirror the reality of being a grandma is reflecting back at me. My sweet eight year old grandson said to me the other day, "Nonnie, you don't look like a grandma, you look like a Mom." I said, "Why thank you Zak." He said, "No really Nonnie you do look like a Mom, you don't have hardly any wrinkles at all like grandmas." God bless his heart! So, getting back to Shakespeare's sonnet, I can very well see how being around love and youth, can make you feel beautiful and youthful. I really like the last two lines in this sonnet, I like the idea of painting myself with a brush of another's beauty.
Again Barb, I LOVE the picture you chose for this sonnet. It reminds me of when I was a Brownie Leader and we had the mirror for the Investiture Ceremony .
“Twist me and turn me and show me the elf. I look in the water and saw . . . “
The Brownie looks into the mirror and says “Myself”.
-
Isn't it amazing Bellamaire how as we age we do not age within - I've finally accepted I was old when I turned 80 and it is still a shock when I look in the mirror because by and large I do not think of myself as old and easily get quite annoyed with myself when this hurts or that does not function as easily as it did when I was 40 or 50 or even as when I was 70 - most often I end up scolding myself saying things like - this will not do - no this is not going to be, that is for old people - I still have a difficult time accepting that I have arrived at being old - looking in the mirror is always a surprise. As the art work shows, I'm unconscious of my age, till I see the reflection of an old person staring back - everytime it is such a jolt it takes me a minute to straighten out what's true or not, what is the year or often in the morning I'll question if I am still dreaming.
And here you have this almost out of body experience because you have your beloved granddaughter that makes you feel young as if her qualities of youthful energy and her beauty fall like a veil over you. Your eight year old grand sounds precious - reading your experiences with your grands suggests that we just need to surround ourselves with not only youth and beauty but enliven our homes and create a beautiful environment so that we continue to live to our fullest.
Amazing such a little everyday happening becomes to topic of Shakespeare's poem that here over 400 years later and we still experience a similar happening - I like the topic of this Sonnet so I think it will stick with me - need to make an effort to remember the number of this Sonnet and at least one line.
I thought of the Beated and chopp'd line but decided not the line I need to remember and maybe use as a motto for a bit is the last line - Painting my age with beauty of thy days.
-
Shakespeare Sonnet LXIII
(https://upload.wikimedia.org/wikipedia/commons/thumb/b/b0/King_James_I_of_England_and_VI_of_Scotland_by_John_De_Critz_the_Elder.jpg/220px-King_James_I_of_England_and_VI_of_Scotland_by_John_De_Critz_the_Elder.jpg)
Against my love shall be, as I am now,
With Time's injurious hand crush'd and o'er-worn;
When hours have drain'd his blood and fill'd his brow
With lines and wrinkles; when his youthful morn
Hath travell'd on to age's steepy night,
And all those beauties whereof now he's king
Are vanishing or vanish'd out of sight,
Stealing away the treasure of his spring;
For such a time do I now fortify
Against confounding age's cruel knife,
That he shall never cut from memory
My sweet love's beauty, though my lover's life:
His beauty shall in these black lines be seen,
And they shall live, and he in them still green. |
William Shakespeare's Sonnet 63https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=kKeFj5URmbc
-
I can feel the melancholy in this poem - to be king of a youthful morn that is vanishing or vanish'd out of sight - not an erupt end but a slow vanishing of assets - like a creek slowly drying up over the summer where as in spring it supported so much life and vegetation. At least with a creek drying you know it will be renewed with the next rainstorm or rainy season where as in life, when physical assets vanish they are gone with no return.
I've been feeling that, not about physical beauty or ability, as the lessening of exuberance to start a project and how eagerly I had in the past started so many projects and read so many books that the treasure I have tucked in my memory have drawn lines in my thinking and the projects are remembered more for the way and hours of work rather than for the outcome.
This Sonnet took a few readings outloud to really get the message - defiantly about a 'he' - His beauty however, I am still struggling to get something out of those last two lines. When I read them separately they make perfect sense however, when I read them with the entire poem I get caught in words and thoughts and the last two lines are not exactly summing up the intent of the poem for me which is typically the job of those last two lines.
Well maybe coming on it fresh later today... till later...
-
Barb, I agree, I think Sonnet LXII is going to stay with me. I am going to type the last two lines, print it out and put it on my fridge.
Sonnet LXIII
Against my love shall be, as I am now,
His beauty shall in these black lines be seen,
And they shall live, and he in them still green.
Eeeekkkk..... this sonnet is a bit dark. He is speaking of when time will do to his youthful love the same as it has done to him. He decides he will not allow the changes to rob him of seeing his love's beauty any other way than it is now, so he will write these words to keep his youthful beauty alive forever.
It is interesting how Shakespeare seems to speak so much of the outward beauty and wanting to preserve it.
-
That is interesting isn't Bellamarie - I wonder since he is a playwrite and producer he would be conscious of outward beauty which is what allows his discretion full sway when he is choosing actors for parts - Thinking on it, all this youth and beauty within a 'he' - really fits since all the parts were played by men and any young man playing the part of a women had to have finer features and be beautiful to keep the play from becoming a comedy of deception.
All in all though don't you find it rather easy to see these Sonnets as a metaphor to other aspects of our life. That sense of universality is probably why his work continues to be read and studied.
-
Shakespeare Sonnet LXIV(http://www.geography-site.co.uk/pages/physical/coastal/images/wave_breaking02.jpg)
When I have seen by Time's fell hand defac'd
The rich-proud cost of outworn buried age;
When sometime lofty towers I see down-razed
And brass eternal, slave to mortal rage;
When I have seen the hungry ocean gain
Advantage on the kingdom of the shore,
And the firm soil win of the wat'ry main,
Increasing store with loss, and loss with store;
When I have seen such interchange of state,
Or state itself confounded to decay;
Ruin hath taught me thus to ruminate --
That Time will come and take my love away.
This thought is as a death, which cannot choose
But weep to have that which it fears to lose. |
William Shakespeare's Sonnet 64https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=o9OUfmlH61I
-
Sonnet LXIV
Ughhh..... he seems to have returned back to his dark place. The sonnet made me think of the great flood in Genesis in the Bible, where all things are being destroyed. I wonder if the rest of his sonnets continue with his anguish and obsession of this lost love? That's a long time for a person to spend his days longing for someone who he may never really had in the first place.
Yes, Barb, these sonnets are clearly words and images of today's world as well. How many people besides scholars, professors or English Lit teachers do you think bother reading Shakespeare today? My guess is not many, I think the artists today who sing of these love longings hold the attention of the people today. It's interesting in the book I am reading "....And Ladies of the Club" which takes place in 1868 and beyond, one of the female characters writes poems, and a male friend who teaches music, asks her if he could put her poems to music. Do you suppose poetry put to music can be more attractive, than simply reading words as difficult as Shakespeare's are and trying to comprehend them? For me I think I can relate, and feel more emotionally connected to poetry made into a song, ballad, or play.
-
Not sure either how many read Shakespeare Bellamaire however, he is still a big deal in England with their all out celebration of 400 years since his death - I think his plays have more attendance than reading his Sonnets but then there are few who read, borrow books of poetry or buy poetry books - Our Poetry festival held each April in Austin draws quite a large gathering - usually over a 1,000 but not like the multitude of thousands for SXSW. And so I think the popularity of Shakespeare is as high as ever however, the popularity of poetry and even theater is limited.
A group of us were only talking how the Austin we knew is no longer with so many of our favorite restaurants and shops gone and replaced with a new huge building that accommodates multiples of condos and high dollar leases for commercial which helps of course to raise prices in order for an enterprise to afford the lease. Reminds me of the line in this poem, "When sometime lofty towers I see down-razed" the Austin property razed is not lofty but rather being replaced with lofty.
Time may come to take his love away but from where I sit I can easily say that Time will come to take what I love away. Yes, we do weep inside fearful that what we love we will lose and yet, life is birth and death and still we weep - memory keeps them in a special place but memory is not a living breathing actionable experience is it.
I do like a mighty wave though - like to see them and be near them - observing them I never think of the grinding off the wave is doing to rock, sand or earth - I never have felt fearful of a large crashing wave although I have not been where a tsunami came ashore or at sea during a storm where waves crashed over a vessel. I do prefer to think of death as a large wave crashing over me versus a dark figure holding a scythe creeping up on me and leading by the hand - rrrr chills - my best fantasy is a golden chariot speeding in having me on board as with great excitement, a crack of the whip and off we go flying in an adventure that pierces the sun. Haha what is that a quickening of the heart with a high fever to the end... at least none of this sneaking around stuff...
-
I don't care too much for high waves, my daughter, son in law, sister, cousin and friends live in Florida and hurricane Hermine just came ashore with storm surges as high a 7 ft., flooding homes and streets. So while a few waves in the ocean are nice to watch, I can do without the large crashing ones. I worried all day yesterday glued to the weather channel, stayed up til 1:00 a.m. when it hit landfall, and called my daughter first thing this morning. Luckily they only got an enormous amount of wind and rain but no damage to their home or neighborhood. I have had people posting aerial videos of places that are destroyed from the flooding. They certainly need our prayers.
I'm not yet ready to picture or image my death..... I suppose that could be considered ignore it and it won't ever happen. :)
-
Ok with troubles in the workroom I was lucky to get this heading completed - it is going up early so I do not loose it - what follows is tomorrow's Sonnet, Saturday September 3 - good grief the days are flying by - already three days into September - now his sonnets featuring the ravages of time make complete sense...
-
Shakespeare Sonnet LXV
(http://collation.folger.edu/wp-content/uploads/2013/03/CollierVAM.jpg)
Since brass, nor stone, nor earth, nor boundless sea,
But sad mortality o'er-sways their power,
How with this rage shall beauty hold a plea,
Whose action is no stronger than a flower?
O, how shall summer's honey breath hold out
Against the wreckful siege of battering days,
When rocks impregnable are not so stout,
Nor gates of steel so strong, but Time decays?
O fearful meditation! where, alack,
Shall Time's best jewel from Time's chest lie hid?
Or what strong hand can hold his swift foot back?
Or who his spoil of beauty can forbid?
O, none, unless this miracle have might,
That in black ink my love may still shine bright. |
William Shakespeare Sonnet 65https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=tRjja5_8tmY
-
Well, yesterday, as Bellamarie said, he really was in his dark place, afraid even to enjoy the present with his love because he's so sad that it will inevitably be taken away. Today he lightens just a little, remembering again that he can make his love last forever in his writing, the only way to cheat time's ravages.
-
"remembering again that he can make his love last forever in his writing," Seems so doesn't it Pat - he really had an expectation didn't he that writing lasts or at least his writing would last forever or maybe at least last long enough to "cheat time's ravages"
Became more and more curious about Brass - included in both days Sonnets - could find nothing online so turned to my trust Encyclopaedia of Traditional Symbols by JC Cooper and there it is: Brass; Venus, the sensuous world of unregenerate man, embryonic in the womb of the earth.
Unregenerate: Not spiritually or morally reformed; sinful or unrepentant. Persistently unwilling to accept change; obstinate
Wow this reference to Brass is serious - a persistent, obstinate, basic to the essence of the earth representing; Venus, a morning and evening star representing the union of opposites, she follows the moon and precedes the sun, as the drawer of bow and thrower of javelin she launches the new moon on the sea of night and defends the moon against all monsters of darkness, the passions, desires, creative mother if imagination.
That is a lot all in one word Brass - and the next, Stone is equally saying more than something on the surface that we can mean as timeless.
Stone; durability etc. indestructibility of the Supreme Reality, the cosmos in its entirety, the Philosopher's stone, the supreme quest, the reconciliation of all opposites, unity. Ovid "the bones of mother earth". Associated with the cult of Apollo, associated also with Saturn.
Earth; the corruptible body, with salt as the immortal spirit. The Great Mother, universal generatrix, the Nourisher, the nurse, inexhaustible creativity and sustenance.
Sea; primordial waters, chaos, endless motion, the source of all life, containing all potentials, the sum of all possibilities in magnifications. the unfathomable, the anima mundi, the Great Mother, the sea of life that must be crossed, exoteric knowledge.
And he is saying "sad mortality o'er-sways their power" Sounds like he is suggesting Love is the source of all and the power of Brass, Stone, Earth and Sea is wiped away with our mortality - lots of words, an entire Sonnet of words to say, the essence of life is love and within his black ink, love is timeless. His love could even represent a person but it is still love and only a miracle could change the swift boot of time - the ravages of time appear as the mitigator of power, recognized among the living as the powers represented by Brass, Stone, Earth and Sea.
This sonnet can sure be read on several levels can't it...
-
Shakespeare Sonnet LXVI
(http://www.ralphmag.org/IV/depression700x470.jpg)
Tir'd with all these, for restful death I cry,
As, to behold desert a beggar born,
And needy nothing trimm'd in jollity,
And purest faith unhappily forsworn,
And guilded honour shamefully misplaced,
And maiden virtue rudely strumpeted,
And right perfection wrongfully disgraced,
And strength by limping sway disabled,
And art made tongue-tied by authority,
And folly (doctor-like) controlling skill,
And simple truth miscall'd simplicity,
And captive good attending captain ill:
Tired with all these, from these would I be gone,
Save that, to die, I leave my love alone. |
William Shakespeare Sonnet 66https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=JtAhmM1JJak
-
This one gives us a change in sound, to emphasize its message. After two lines stating his weariness and longing for death, look at the next ten lines. They're the same iambic pentameter as the other sonnets, but they sound different. They all start with and, and have the same two-part structure, and are quite regular. So we get a stronger rhythm than usual, pounding, repetitive, a series of hammer-blows driving home how everything has turned to ashes in the poet's mind--faith abandoned, honor lost, etc. In line thirteen, he repeats how tired of it all he is, wants to die. But wait! He can't die, he would leave his love! I'm not sure if that's a happy change of thought or not. What do you think?
That's a particularly apt picture.
-
OH, Oh, oh "pounding, repetitive, a series of hammer-blows driving home how everything has turned to ashes in the poet's mind--faith abandoned, honor lost," he sure does sear our psyche doesn't he Pat - you can hear him mentally pounding in tune with his heartbeat the futility of it all.
Your description of a series of hammer-blows reminds me of saying a litany -
Lord, have mercy on us.
Christ have mercy on us.
Christ hear us
Christ graciously hear us.
Mother of Christ, pray for us.
Mother of divine grace, pray for us.
Mother most pure, pray for us.
Mother most chaste, pray for us.
Mother inviolate, pray for us.
Mother undefiled, pray for us.
Mother most amiable, pray for us. |
I could hardly read today's Sonnet more than the one time - I immediately went into a note of irony or sarcasm - wanted to protect myself from the assault of cheerless desolation - after reading I just said to myself - depression , depression, thou name art depression. Hehehe in fact when I did a search for an appropriate graphic that is what I looked for, a photo depicting depression.
Thank goodness the sun is out today and having a different slant it is a softer look rather than, the early morning sun that usually looks like a blacksmith has pop opened the door to a blast furnace - for sure the new season is upon us and the sun definitely looks like a fire that was banked and glowing red than the searing bright yellow and gold of summer.
They say to rid your system of any negative it takes 10 positives - In fact come to think of it, we did read one of Shakespeare's Sonnets that mentioned happiness - haha maybe he just needs a good night's sleep and with all his dreaming he has not had a good restful sleep.
But here is what we read earlier Sonnet XXVIII
How can I then return in happy plight,
That am debarr'd the benefit of rest?
When day's oppression is not eased by night,
But day by night, and night by day, oppress'd?
And each, though enemies to either's reign,
Do in consent shake hands to torture me;
The one by toil, the other to complain
How far I toil, still farther off from thee.
I tell the day, to please them thou art bright
And dost him grace when clouds do blot the heaven:
So flatter I the swart-complexion'd night,
When sparkling stars twire not thou gild'st the even.
But day doth daily draw my sorrows longer
And night doth nightly make grief's strength seem stronger. |
Which by the way if you are not in the habit of listening to the Sonnet reading linked at the bottom, this rendition is backed by a C major largo Vivaldi played on pipes and the accompanying photos are quite moving.
-
Shakespeare Sonnet LXVII
(https://streetsofsalem.files.wordpress.com/2012/05/eglantine-young-man-among-roses-hilliard.jpg?)
Ah, wherefore with infection should he live,
And with his presence grace impiety,
That sin by him advantage should achieve,
And lace itself with his society?
Why should false painting imitate his cheek,
And steal dead seeing of his living hue?
Why should poor beauty indirectly seek
Roses of shadow, since his rose is true?
Why should he live, now Nature bankrupt is,
Beggar'd of blood to blush through lively veins?
For she hath no exchequer now but his,
And, proud of many, lives upon his gains.
O, him she stores, to show what wealth she had
In days long since, before these last so bad.
|
William Shakespeare's Sonnet 67https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=cvcbwxQ1nU0
-
Barb,
They say to rid your system of any negative it takes 10 positives
I remember a quote Dr. Phil Mcgraw says to parents who are negative to their children, "It takes 1,000 ‘atta boys’ to erase one ‘you’re an idiot."
Shakespeare is really overdoing the depression, woe is me, and how exquisitely beautiful he sees his youthful love, it is wearing thin with me, and it may just take the remainder of his sonnets to gain back favor with me.
Sonnet LXVI
Tired with all these, from these would I be gone,
Save that to die, I leave my love alone.
He almost comes over to me as narcissistic. Thinking nothing is as it should be according to HIM, and he would like to just die and not deal with it, except for the fact he would be leaving his love alone. HELLOOOOOO.... his love has left him alone!
Sonnet LXVII
Why should he live, now Nature bankrupt is,
This is yet a continuation of his rambling on about how nothing is as beautiful as his youthful love, and even if Mother Nature dares to change him like she happens to do to all, he will never see anything but beauty. I appreciate Shakespeare undying love for this youthful love, I appreciate how he is able to express himself in his poems, but who ever compiled these sonnets and placed them in this order must not have realized the monotony of them in this particular order. He is repeating himself over and over and over again. I was thinking how miserable he must have been all these days writing these sonnets of his lost love and wonder if it lifted his spirits to write about his idea of the never ending beauty he will have of this lost love.
-
Yes, LXVI is really a downer isn't it Bellamarie - considering all the fear and sadness in his life I tend to give the guy a break - his beloved and only son dies at age 11, his uncle, a Catholic is quartered, in order to apply his craft he must live where there is patronage which meant leaving his wife and children in Strafford upon Avon and movign to London. Having been already called out by the monarchy for his writing he had to write with caution and suppress his creativity, plus he is working in the shadow of the very authority that so horrifically kills known Catholics that included the uncle and then he has been under a cloud since childhood. I forgot the details but his father was not of sterling character and during Will's childhood he lived with the gossip of his father forced from his position - and so I see a lot on this man's plate that appears to be feelings he brings to his craft writing these poems.
Shakespeare's tragic plays are epic to this day and if these poems are tragedies than the speaker, as hero would have a tragic flaw that circumstances beyond his control, often supernatural in nature, would bring to a head that would lead to his down fall -
Out of curiosity I googled for Shakespeare poems about happiness - there just is not much - the poems including happiness are laced with loss or sadness, there are a few plays with silliness but I have not read the comedies to learn how he expresses happiness, if at all - when a play ends with a 'they-lived-happily-ever-after' scene that is all it takes to be considered a comedy -
I'm thinking Shakespeare's comedies are based on a comedy of errors and mistaken identity that was typical of the seventeenth on up through the twentieth century with the likes of Noel Coward. The only difference Noel Coward, as did Oscar Wilde before him, brought comedy into the drawing room and did not depend upon fairies and fake horse's heads.
But as you say, he sure like a drum beat knows how to describe the lose of a loved one - regardless if the loss is a woman, man, child or even the patronage of a queen that is described as beauty - we'll never know and Shakespeare scholars have been quibbling over the object of these poems for a few hundred years - and so the Sonnets are downers - about loss that, as you point out, so many following one another sure puts a reader's spirit in the dumps.
I think what is amazing to me is how many who sound like they know what they are talking about still label these Sonnets as love poems - hmm now that we have been reading them and we have read over a third I just do not see it - Do you Bellamarie? Makes me wonder about some of these so called professional pundits.
-
Ok today's Sonnet - I'm not reading it as a part of the drum beat of loss of a lover that we've been reading the past days - I'm getting an almost political question of why should a man have to live amongst corruption. I could not escape the word 'exchequer' which is more a government collection of money or the auditing of money than a personal collection of money - if Shakespeare was attempting to show a woman's dependence on a certain man for her financial support there would be other words that would be more telling but he uses 'exchequer' - and so from that it was a case of rereading -
Each line on this one is an independent thought, adding to the over all - not an incomplete sentence as a continuation of the preceding line - and so, "That sin by him advantage should achieve," whatever his sin, it is an advantage and should achieve something - His sin appears to be his grace - I take as gracefulness or beauty - He is hiding his natural grace, his 'poor' beauty, minimizing his beauty as poor, however, as true as a rose, he is hiding in roses of shadow - Makeup artists still refer to Roses of Shadow when they talk about the color nude - So, he is hiding his natural beauty, his grace, by nullifying it, blending into a colorless nude as if no blood went through his veins that bring his natural coloring which is rose colored.
To me here is the kicker - "For she hath no exchequer now but his, And, proud of many, lives upon his gains." I think he is talking about how he brings revenue to the queen in both taxes and in his plays support her legal views that no one but Shakespeare, if he is the speaker in this poem, regardless of the many she is proud, he brings her what others do not or cannot. Therefore, she is living well because of the gain she receives from his writing.
I get with the first part he is saying his writing is not from blood rushing through his veins but, nullified to a nude to satisfy the monarchy. I see this Sonnet as a plea for either forgiveness or begging for approval to continue after he said something that was not supporting her... "before these last so bad."
Seems to me I vaguely remember there was a problem of his being cast aside because of some war or something - would have to look it up but, I remember the Michael Wood PBS series showing something about him seeking favor again to be able to perform for the queen because at the time no play could be performed for the public until is was seen and approved by the queen.
Anyhow that is my take on this poem...
-
I saw the "she" as Mother Nature he is referring to.
-
Could be - we all get something from these poems as they hit something within us - As I say, for me the word exchequer said something greater than a relationship with an average person and so that was how I saw it in another light.
If she is nature - and 'nature' is metaphorically the national treasury - it could be... The Brits do and always have set great store in their natural surroundings so it really could work.
Exchequer: noun, a royal or national treasury.
British
the bank account into which tax receipts and other public monies are paid; the funds of the British government.
British historical
the former government office responsible for collecting revenue and making payments on behalf of the sovereign, auditing official accounts, and trying legal cases relating to revenue.
Again, a poem hits all of us differently bringing to the surface something from within - poems are not just telling stories as other literature so a poem can be very individualized.
Now a long poem we know is to tell a story but even the long poem is not a straight narrative - yes, many say the rhyme and meter is to help memorize and many other explanations about the structure however, it sings to our soul and brain in a way that music cannot reach and helps to paint pictures in our heads as well as, causes us to see relationships with words.
The Sonnet is not a long poem and the only thing I've ever read that it's structure accomplishes is that the last two lines either sum up or most often rebuke everything said in the preceding 12 lines. And yes, 'she' could work as nature - let's look at it - we know that between each coma is a thought.
O,
him she stores,
to show what wealth she had In days long since,
before these last so bad.
The two proceeding lines work - the question then is do these two lines. Is Nature all of nature or is it his nature - is the blood...
Why should he live,
now Nature bankrupt is,
Beggar'd of blood to blush through lively veins?
To verify the meaning of Beggar'd found this...
"Marc Antony's friend Enobarbus describes Cleopatra as he and Antony first saw her, sailing in pageant down the river Cydnus. While words might do justice to her barge, the queen herself "beggar'd all description." The verb "to beggar" dates only from the sixteenth century, and originally meant "to make a beggar of, to impoverish." In its figurative use here, "to beggar" means "to exhaust the resources of": to describe Cleopatra as she sailed by in her burnished throne is impossible because language is too poor."
And so the entire Sonnet could be a metaphor suggesting there is an unseen vein of blood in Nature that is too impossible to explain 'because language is too poor' - that Nature has been bankrupted and that affects the rose since, blood in a vein of Nature gives roses their color. It really could work... but then one thing more - the rose is the symbol of the Tudors and we know from an earlier Sonnet it is the wild, single petaled rose that is very pale in color - hmm
Wait, I am being logical - nope a poem provides an emotional response and so we each see this poem saying something different.
-
Shakespeare Sonnet LXVIII
(http://s3.crackedcdn.com/phpimages/article/2/3/9/73239_v1.jpg)
Thus is his cheek the map of days outworn,
When beauty liv'd and died as flowers do now,
Before the bastard signs of fair were borne,
Or durst inhabit on a living brow;
Before the golden tresses of the dead,
The right of sepulchres, were shorn away,
To live a second life on second head;
Ere beauty's dead fleece made another gay.
In him those holy antique hours are seen,
Without all ornament, itself and true,
Making no summer of another's green,
Robbing no old to dress his beauty new;
And him as for a map doth Nature store,
To show false Art what beauty was of yore.
|
William Shakespeare's Sonnet 68https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=vFvkRB5hzDo
-
My book has a footnote that helps make this poem clearer. "Line 3: signs of fair, imitations of beauty, here specifically, wigs.
So what he's saying, is that now the fashion is to try to improve beauty with wigs (often made with the hair of the dead) but his beloved (clearly a man in this one) scorns this, and shows his true, natural beauty, a model of the real, not the artificial.
For me, sometimes the archaic language gets in the way of the meaning and makes me have to work very hrd on the poems.
-
Ha his strong language sure had me sit up and take notice - looks like Pat you got the meaning and how he was not in favor of this practice - Lucky Shakespeare had his own hair even if it appears in the few paintings we have that his crown was growing very thin - thin or not, he at least had some hair and so he was not feeling this need to follow fashion.
I laughed out loud reading this line "Ere beauty's dead fleece made another gay." Thinking of all these middle aged men as projecting gaiety - in the many paintings they all look like they are self aggrandizing to me and the few historical movies I have seen of this time they look like they are looking down their noses at everyone - and the makeup and beauty spots - boy have times changed - their fashion sure does not seem attractive but then, I am sure they would see us all as dull as a wet plaster on a new cut.
Oh you said it Pat the language is a challenge - I do not have an annotated version but so far Googling a word has worked giving me the old definition each time. Saw a PBS drama depicting the love story between Henry and Anne - they were talking in the same vernacular as we are reading - amazing how it all rolled off their tongues and I realized how natural it was for them to communicate in this old version of English.
-
After reading it 3 or 4 times, I understood and concurred with his preference for True beauty as opposed to False - or artificial, as Pat said. Imagine if the poet were confronted with a commercial touting plastic surgery! Ha!
I may be dropping in and out for awhile; my recent absence has been, in part, due to an abundance of zucchini, and being seduced by too many books, the biggest being Mary Beard's Rome Tome: "SPQR." History has always been difficult read for me and it is slow going.
-
Sonnet LXVIII
Yes, I see Shakespeare wanting to articulate on his love's natural beauty, and point out how other's resort to fake things such as wigs to help enhance themselves, but his love needs nothing of the sort. His love has natural beauty.
Lo and behold the artificial enhancers bring The Kardashians to mind. That entire family of females has brought a whole new meaning to this sonnet of fakeness, and vanity.
-
Ha love it Bellamarie - the Kardashians - they sure have affected or maybe its infected many with their elevated performance of the fake...
Leah zucchini??!!?? What do you do with an abundance of zucchini that evidently takes time whatever it is you do - not cucumbers but zucchini - cucumbers I know means time for pickling but zucchini? And it would be a treat if you would drop into the library and share what you are reading - sounds like you found a bevy of good books - glad you popped in -
-
Can someone explain what work the word 'bastard' does in line 3?
Oh, let's see: Zucchini fritters or pancakes, Z & blueberry bundt cakes, Z Au gratin casserole, and today 6 dozen Z & Oatmeal cookies. Next year I will vote for more rhubarb and less Z!! Also tried patty pan (flying saucer) squash for the first time. Then somehow I ended up with 2 large bunches of organic broccoli and cauliflower that demanded prompt attention when, serendipitously, I was listening to a show on WI Public Radio just when they described how to make a roasted B & C Soup. Boy, that was good!
Earlier this year I found Teresa Greenway's excellent online instructions w/ accompanying videos and learned to make a sourdough starter. The bread gets better and better. 🤗
Soon the Latin classes will begin, and I am finally making discernible progress on my first quilt project - it is really a quilt top to cover up the falling-apart one on a Martha Stewart bedspread. A friend of mine raises sheep and showed our knitter's group how to Pick the fleece clean, wash it, comb and process it, and to top it off, she even made each of us a spindle from a dowel and a used CD so we could practice spinning the wool into yarn. That was great fun! Am also learning to groom our English Springer Spaniel plus we practice donning her winter boots so we won't have any excuses for not going for winter walks.
-
"bastard" modifies "signs of fair", which means imitations of beauty, in this case wigs. So he's calling them bastard wigs, referring to the fact that they aren't legitimate beauty.
I didn't work that out until you asked the question, Leah. This sonnet almost seems like more trouble than it's worth, but at least it's good practice for the other ones.
Leah, can I come to dinner at your house? ;)
-
Well, you make it sound easy, Pat! Thanks for flipping the switch:) 💡.
Dinner would be great, Pat!
-
Leah, you sound like one very busy lady. I'm feeling lazy and exhausted just reading all your recipes and activities. I'm imagining how wonderful your home smells with all those zucchini baked goods! Mmmmmm..... Since my hubby retired he has gotten into baking and I love all the aromas that come from my kitchen. I bake at Christmas time with the grandkids, but not much throughout the year.
Pat, I agree, Shakespeare goes such a long way around with his words, but I suppose back then everyone did as well.
Barb, you make me laugh out loud with Kardashians, "infecting". They have brought a whole new meaning to Shakespeare's "bastard" imitation of beauty. 😱😱
-
Wow - now that ended up being worth it - at least I thought so - so used to hearing folks roll off 'Bastard' when they express their anger so that the word lost all meaning other than the voice of anger - yes, there was a time when some words that have been 'bastardized' had their intended meaning - after reading your post Pat I realized I hadn't heard the word used in its proper sense since I was a kid! And it gave his thought explanation rather than as I read it which only gave it an extra zing.
Well I asked about the zucchini - oh my - did you end up preserving or freezing any of it Leah? One of my favorite ways to eat it along with yellow summer squash is to slice it in with pasta, usually spaghetti, and sauce them both as if one. How were your tomatoes this year? Oh and you have a rhubarb set maturing - reminds me of my grandmother who made stewed rhubarb and black bread her summer breakfast. Between new recipes, garden produce, quilting and preparing for winter walks you sound like you've a Tasha Tudor lifestyle going. When do the trees start to turn in your area?
Ha, I just thought Pat - yep, work... all to read a rant on wigs but Bellamarie you nailed it, how often folks have a similar rant today over the Kardashians - funny...
Thought of that the other day - reading these Sonnets one a day could be a count down to the start of Christmas - here I had grand ideas of using the Sonnet a day idea to walk a new trail each day - well it did not happen - I know, I know I should not give up - there is still 12 weeks which they say is just enough time to see a difference in anything we decide to do. Hmm giving myself a break - walking trails in 97 and 98 degree heat is not really fun - amazing, it cooled down early this year and the weather says we are in for a colder fall - need to rethink this - Leah all your activity is infectious... thanks. And Bellamarie your mentioning Christmas wow... it will be on us before you know it.
-
Interesting, on my home page today - I wonder if Shakespeare set the bar as to how to approach a topic - Yeats, born 250 years after Shakespeare died and his poem When You are Old is an echo of these Shakespeare Sonnets about aging.
When you are old and grey and full of sleep,
And nodding by the fire, take down this book,
And slowly read, and dream of the soft look
Your eyes had once, and of their shadows deep;
How many loved your moments of glad grace,
And loved your beauty with love false or true,
But one man loved the pilgrim soul in you,
And loved the sorrows of your changing face;
And bending down beside the glowing bars,
Murmur, a little sadly, how Love fled
And paced upon the mountains overhead
And hid his face amid a crowd of stars.
-
Barb, we have had excoriating temps also. Today the heat index had to be way over 100 degrees. This summer I started walking in the mornings with my neighbor before the extreme heat each day. She is a school teacher and is now back in school and now I'm walking with my hubby in the late afternoon with our dog. He was a mailman with a walking route for forty years before he retired, so he walks at a fast pace. Phew... I have to struggle to keep up with him. It's never too late to begin, start when your temps fall a bit. Yes, before you know it Christmas will be here. I just put up all my Fall decorations today.
Pat, I have only ever heard the word bastard used in a foul angry manner, and only knew it to mean a child born out of wedlock, so you sure taught me something new.
Yeats is so much easier to understand.
-
Shakespeare Sonnet LXIX(http://shakespearehiscontemporaries.northwestern.edu/shc/resources/images/faed.jpg)
Those parts of thee that the world's eye doth view,
Want nothing that the thought of hearts can mend:
All tongues (the voice of souls) give thee that due,
Uttering bare truth, even so as foes commend.
Thy outward thus with outward praise is crown'd;
But those same tongues that give thee so thine own
In other accents do this praise confound
By seeing farther than the eye hath shown.
They look into the beauty of thy mind,
And that, in guess, they measure by thy deeds;
Then (churls) their thoughts, although their eyes were kind,
To thy fair flower add the rank smell of weeds:
But why thy odour matcheth not thy show,
The solve is this, that thou dost common grow. |
William Shakespeare's Sonnet 69https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=E3ltttfxDKo
-
OUCH! That must have hurt!
Pretty flower on the outside, but a common weed on the inside AND EVERYBODY KNOWS IT because they see what you have been doing and it ' churls' their thoughts about the whole of you.
'Churls' - At first reading I misread this as 'churns' which created an image of curdled thoughts, and it still brought me to the notion of 'ungracious' (churlish) thoughts.
Such pretty, flowery language highlights both the outer beauty AND reveals the noxious internal weedy nature of the target.
Tomatoes were a bust! There was a late frost and even though the lone cherry tomato plant I had got burned (so to speak) and although it produced pretty well, the tomatoes were a depressing maroon color and most of them split on the vine. The few I tried lacked flavor. Interestingly, I didn't think it was going to be viable early on, so I bought an heirloom cherry tomato plant to replace it. Strangely enough they look identical even though they are different varieties. I'm chalking it up to "sympathetic pains." It's just weird.
-
Our Poetry Page Reads
Shakespeare Sonnets
2016 the world commemorates
400 years since the death of William Shakespeare.
(http://d13a6ytc0s97c3.cloudfront.net/uploads/listing/image/67/event_RS556808_36980_ROY210915_010-lpr.jpg)
April, 1616. A man died, but a legacy was born; one which proved
so essential not only to the development of
drama and literature, but to language, to thoughts and ideas.
A Sonnet a Day
July 1, till December 1,
We read in order, from 1 to 154
A Shakespeare Sonnet each day.
Welcome
Please share your comments about the day's Sonnet.
Link: First Post of Our Discussion on July 1 (http://seniorlearn.org/forum/index.php?topic=176.msg283685#msg283685)
Shakespeare Anniversary Links
- Shakespeare400 (http://www.shakespeare400.org/)
- Shakespeare 400 at The Globe (http://www.shakespearesglobe.com/400)
- Shakespeare 400 Chicago (http://www.shakespeare400chicago.com/)
- Dame Judi leads Shakespeare Day gala finale (http://www.bbc.com/news/entertainment-arts-36111591)
- Turning Shakespeare’s sonnets into short films (http://[url=http://www.pbs.org/newshour/bb/turning-shakespeares-sonnets-short-films/)
|
Discussion Leaders: Barb (augere@ix.netcom.com)
-
Oh dear, as you say Leah, "AND EVERYBODY KNOWS IT" - "OUCH" indeed -
Had to laugh at these lines that unusual and a first that I can recall of all the Sonnets we have read so far - a three line sentence -
But those same tongues that give thee so thine own
In other accents do this praise confound
By seeing farther than the eye hath shown.
I laughed because it sounds like my downfall - just never know how to stop - a stream of thoughts erupts and flows with no dams constructed with a period now and then... ;) ah so.
Sad Leah on the tomatoes - nothing like a freshly picked tomato scarfed down before you even leave the garden. Was there too much rain this year do you think? Never tried cherry tomatoes but never liked planting those beefy sized tomatoes either. Have you always gardened or is this a new endeavor?
For sure fall has started - amazing - the rain of acorns hitting the roof, patio and pinging off the metal ACs - sounds like a rain storm. The deer are having a field day.
-
Leah, this is interesting about your tomatoes. We planted four tomato plants, two of the big ones, and two cherry. Our tomatoes did not do well either. My neighbor also planted tomato plants and her tomatoes are exactly as you described yours, a maroon color with splitting. I picked our green ones and placed them on my kitchen window sill and they are finally getting red after days of being there. My neighbor gave me one of her huge maroon/split ones and the red juice from it almost stained my plate which is very weird. I have never seen such a red dye in tomatoes, and my family planted gardens for years and years. What I also noticed this year was the overabundance and brilliance in all my flowers, annuals and perennials this Spring and summer. All my friends noticed the same with theirs. Our season flowers bloomed beautifully, went into their dormant stage afterwards but then bloomed again which has never happened. I do wonder if climate change has something to do with it.
Barb, I laughed because it sounds like my downfall - just never know how to stop - a stream of thoughts erupts and flows with no dams constructed with a period now and then... ;) ah so.
This made me almost spit my coffee out laughing when I read it. You do have some lengthy posts, Shakespeare would be proud.... lololol
-
Sonnet LXIX
But why thy odour matcheth not thy show,
The solve is this, that thou dost common grow.
Ughh..... this entire sonnet wreaked of pompous a prejudice as far as I am concerned. Shakespeare as always is going on about the outward beauty and says friends can well see it, but once they begin to secretly think of what is inside they then don't feel it matches the outside beauty. So he determines they are nothing but commoners, who in his judgement would fail to know greatness and beauty if it bit them in the nose.
This sonnet reminded me of the Plato's quote, "Beauty lies in the eye of the beholder."
My dear Shakespeare, I am afraid to disappoint you but, not everyone sees the beauty as you do.
-
Ouch is right.
For most of the poem, it looks like he's going to end up with a compliment. He calls the beloved's detractors churls for saying bad things about him, and you think he's going to say those churls just don't understand you. But no--he turns it all around in the final couplet. The answer to "why thy odor matcheth not thy show"? is "thou dost common grow".
Whatever the beloved did must have really ticked off the poet.
-
Interesting the symbolism of how we associate 'weeds' with the peasants front yard versus, the manicured lawns of the right and noble which promotes the idea that it is right and noble behavior that brings success. So a weedy yard is someone not trying and someone who is not a success regardless if it a weedy front yard or the weedy gossip they engage - and darn it all I do not enjoy looking at manicured lawns - prefer the wild woods look that encourages birds and wildlife - me or my - I must scare the heck out of my conservative Republican neighbors...
Sounds like Shakespeare is similar to my neighbors, wanting from his acquaintances manicured lawns in spirit as well as in their small talk - now that would be interesting - I wonder if there are any scholars who have studied the man and his writings to learn his political philosophy - If he was hiding his Catholic faith, as some scholars propose he sure had to have a manicured lawn approach to life. Hmm I wonder if that was his fear since his livelihood depends on a stamp of approval from the crown he dances on thin wire with plays he wrote that risked so much that he just could not also risk gossip that would cast him as anything but a loyalist.
Looks like gossip was high stakes that could lead to death - Two wonderful history links that give a good account first, of how the Globe on the South Bank came about and Shakespeare's second theater that we seldom hear about. Much push and pull here with gossip, loyalty to the queen, individual power all come into play.
http://www.historyextra.com/article/culture/shakespeare-london-playing-dangerous-game-globe
And then, this startling short essay also from the BBC History Magazine with lots of prints telling us of the shove and push between Elizabeth and any discovered Catholic which is a window to how many of Shakespeare's connections had to secret their lives.
http://www.historyextra.com/article/elizabeth-i/elizabeth-i%E2%80%99s-war-england%E2%80%99s-catholics
-
Shakespeare Sonnet LXX
(http://www.piranesiselection.com/upl/lely-medium.jpg)
That thou art blamed shall not be thy defect,
For slander's mark was ever yet the fair;
The ornament of beauty is suspect,
A crow that flies in heaven's sweetest air.
So thou be good, slander doth but approve
Thy worth the greater, being woo'd of time:
For canker vice the sweetest buds doth love,
And thou present'st a pure unstained prime.
Thou hast pass'd by the ambush of young days,
Either not assail'd or victor being charg'd;
Yet this thy praise cannot be so thy praise,
To tie up envy, evermore enlarg'd:
If some suspect of ill mask'd not thy show,
Then thou alone kingdoms of hearts should'st owe. |
William Shakespeare's Sonnet 70https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=fZR0Snhn8gk
-
Barb,
and darn it all I do not enjoy looking at manicured lawns - prefer the wild woods look that encourages birds and wildlife - me or my - I must scare the heck out of my conservative Republican neighbors...
I have quite a few liberal Democrats for neighbors who have perfectly manicured lawns and use lawn service to make sure they have no weeds, so I don't think we can stereotype people political views, by their lawns. But I am beginning to see Shakespeare as a pompous ass regardless of his political, religious or sexual preference. :)
Sonnet LXX
Yet more of Shakespeare babbling on about the beauty and how others are jealous so they try to mar the beauty with gossip. I so hope this takes a turn because for me it is becoming repetitious and annoying.
-
The poet could not just say nothing in defense of the beloved, so completely enamored is he. His obsessive attentiveness to criticisms of the beloved's beauty is as much in defense of the worthiness of the beloved as it is of his own unstoppable passion for the one he, too, has accused of wronging him in previous sonnets.
Give him a break, Bellamarie, the guy just cannot rein it in! 😍💋🌹🌠💎💌❤️💔💜💙💚💛
-
Leah, You made me laugh out loud!!! :) :) :) I would love to give him a break, but there is a limit to my patience. These sonnets began with his undying admiration and endless thoughts of the perfection of procreation and his love for his young male love, went into the depression of losing said love, then now we are back to the endless beauty, and chastising those who do not see it his way. Grrr..... ::)
-
Really?!? ??? Hopelessly in Love?!? ::) Yup...! :) Awwww 8)
(https://encrypted-tbn0.gstatic.com/images?q=tbn:ANd9GcQjep9wHa3ze49zH70J9c2ZIHGwG1IjbsGfp-ORCdb1bjJ2te3e) (http://www.nbs.or.jp/stages/2016/royalballet/images/ro01.png)
-
Where is Pat in all this?! We need her measured voice to calm us all down! 👀
-
Aww just when we were having some fun -
-
Shakespeare Sonnet LXXI
(http://www.tampabay.com/resources/images/dti/rendered/2011/09/per_collapse_091111_190453a_8col.jpg)
No longer mourn for me when I am dead
Then you shall hear the surly sullen bell
Give warning to the world that I am fled
From this vile world, with vilest worms to dwell:
Nay, if you read this line, remember not
The hand that writ it; for I love you so
That I in your sweet thoughts would be forgot
If thinking on me then should make you woe.
O, if, I say, you look upon this verse
When I perhaps compounded am with clay,
Do not so much as my poor name rehearse.
But let your love even with my life decay,
Lest the wise world should look into your moan
And mock you with me after I am gone.
|
William Shakespeare Sonnet 71https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=EOmGLvOpHuk
-
Sure makes a difference the circumstance that words are said - Each generation has its own catastrophe and so these words continue - they remind me of someone in the tower making their last call...
If you have not been listening to the poems on youtube, today you may want to take a look just to see the video photos that are quite moving.
-
Sonnet LXXI
No longer mourn for me when I am dead
Why is it whenever I hear these words it makes me feel like the person is really saying the opposite? It just seems mute, because if a person mourns someone there is nothing that can prevent it. It is a natural stage. What seems ironic to me in this sonnet is that Shakespeare has spent days writing about his depression for this young love who has left and betrayed him, yet for some reason assumes he needs to write to tell him not to mourn him once he is gone. Does that not seem a bit presumptuous of him? I ask this rhetorically.
-
Bellamarie - my thought is he is not himself - if you are filled with fear - fear of death or fear that the solution to what ever has a hold on him is death - anyone filled with fear is not thinking - the fear fills your whole being. Part of aging is coming to terms with your own death. Many are filled with fear as they struggle to accept their mortality. They do think of their loved ones with the only conclusion they can imagine which they hope with words they can minimize their loved one's pain of mourning.
It reminds me of going through the stages of grief that has been the process for those who have experienced the death of a loved one - so that to face your own mortality is as if grieving for your own life and of the steps in grief one of the steps is bargaining... (denial, anger, bargaining, depression and acceptance)
When he says, 'do not mourn me' he could be feeling the fear this love interest will not mourn him and so he is protecting himself from that possibility by saying upfront do not mourn me - or another possibility is - he wants to imagine this love interest to be as he pictures the person in good spirits looking as beautiful as he has been describing them.
I could imagine a loved one making his or her last call from the Tower on 9/11 saying some of the same thing - his or her last wish is to say, please stay happy and live life fully - do not to waste it by mourning me - I know since my life is about to end is what the person is thinking therefore, they see the waste of a life lived in mourning. So maybe it is a sincere request.
Again, we each see these poems differently - and so you may be seeing something that supports your thoughts about how people communicate what they want.
-
This is one of the really good sonnets. Does he really want the beloved to forget him? Who knows, probably not, he's hoping that won't be possible. But look how beautifully he says it:
No longer mourn for me when I am dead
Then you shall hear the surly sullen bell
Give warning to the world that I am fled
and the ending:
Lest the wise world should look into your moan
And mock you with me after I am gone.
That's so poignantly true.
-
Shakespeare Sonnet LXXII
(http://il8.picdn.net/shutterstock/videos/9041083/thumb/1.jpg)
O, lest the world should task you to recite
What merit lived in me, that you should love
After my death, -- dear love, forget me quite,
For you in me can nothing worthy prove;
Unless you would devise some virtuous lie,
To do more for me than mine own desert,
And hang more praise upon deceased I
Than niggard truth would willingly impart:
O, lest your true love may seem false in this,
That you for love speak well of me untrue,
My name be buried where my body is,
And live no more to shame nor me nor you.
For I am sham'd by that which I bring forth,
And so should you, to love things nothing worth.
|
William Shakespeare's Sonnet 72https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=VQSlEDzryho
-
Oh my now it seems Shakespeare is beating himself up and doesn't see himself worthy of being thought of or spoken about in a good light after he is dead. I suppose he could be feeling ashamed of the love he has for this young male, knowing it could never be known publicly.
Sorry, I just am not seeing these after I am gone, forget me because I am nothing, type of sonnets in any positive light. Nothing beautiful in these sonnets for me, if anything I see he is extremely depressed and could even be considering suicide, while writing these words. I don't think he is fearing death, I think he is contemplating taking his own life as a way of ending all his pain. These sonnets sound like suicide letters for his young love to find after he is gone. Suicide occurs thirteen times in his plays, more often than any other of his contemporaries. I see it highly possible he could have considered it in his real life. I read just four weeks prior to his death he made out his last will and testament leaving everything to his daughter Susan, not his wife Ann Hathaway. The cause of his death is unknown.
Yes, we all see things differently, and this is what I see.
-
How low can you go? He's doing the Limbo, all right.
Although he seems to be expressing that his sonnets are lacking in worth (possibly because they have not been very successful in 'buying' the beloved's affection?), they remain his primary medium of exchange. Perhaps he is depressed, but apparently not depressed enough to have lost the "Will" (pun) to write. Bipolar, maybe - like Sylvia Plath.
-
Golly... nothing... just nothing whew - Leah sure sounds like depression beyond the ordinary doesn't it...
Ashamed does not fit the Shakespeare we know today but it sure sounds like that in this poem doesn't it Bellamaire - not much else to add - have to agree this one is a real downer.
As to leaving everything to his daughter - makes sense - he wife was even older than he was and she had no legal authority so that who knows upon her death how or if his daughter would benefit - he had another daughter that from what I've read, separated herself from the family or, others say he separated himself from her - so who knows but by leaving everything to Susan her husband would then be able to legally pass on any wealth. Could be he could depend on this daughter to take care of his wife and maybe the other daughter was so estranged there was no assurance she would care for his wife in her old age or maybe the other daughter was married to a putes who would squander all the wealth. Then there is the whole legal issue of women in the seventeenth century.
Well whatever - enough - not a memorable poem except for its lack - this is when the best thing is we do one a day and tomorrow is a new day... ;)
-
Let's hope he's hit bottom here. I agree; he seems to be talking about his poetry when he says don't try to inflate my worth after I'm gone. You'll have to lie in order to say anything good.
-
Oh yes, Pat let's hope this is the bottom and from here on there will only be up - we can only hope...
-
Shakespeare Sonnet LXXIII
(https://thumbs.dreamstime.com/x/autumn-leaf-zen-4274469.jpg)
That time of year thou may'st in me behold
When yellow leaves, or none, or few, do hang
Upon those boughs which shake against the cold,
Bare ruin'd choirs, where late the sweet birds sang.
In me thou see'st the twilight of such day,
As after sunset fadeth in the west,
Which by-and-by black night doth take away,
Death's second self, that seals up all in rest.
In me thou see'st the glowing of such fire
That on the ashes of his youth doth lie,
As the death-bed whereon it must expire
Consum'd with that which it was nourish'd by.
This thou perceivest, which makes thy love more strong,
To love that well which thou must leave ere long. |
William Shakespeare's Sonnet 73https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=SpVEqXZzK18
-
This Sonnet reminds me of these words by Russian author Yevgeny Zamyatin, even more poignant since he was a very early 'Orwell', writing books about one State as the great Benefactor, there are no individuals, only numbers and then this... that also can be a metaphor to aging.
But you can’t plead with autumn.
No.
The midnight wind stalked through the woods,
hooted to frighten you,
swept everything away
for the approaching winter,
whirled the leaves.
-
Barb, thanks for that excellent poem; I didn't even know Zamyatkin was a poet. (He wrote We, a forerunner of 1984.)
-
This is another of the good ones. He's still talking about death, but I don't see it as depressed. He says first, that his beloved can see in him the marks of aging. There are three examples, one for each of the three quatrains. The first is trees, with most of their leaves dropped; bare ruined choirs. That phrase makes my hair stand on end. I think of a path through bare trees, with the uplifted, intersecting pattern of their branches mimicking the stone tracery of cathedral windows with the glass gone.
Then he says he's like the twilight of a day, the sunset fading. I had trouble with "Death's second self", but I guess it means that darkness takes away as death does.
But the third one really got to me. He's the glowing fire, now dying down:
"Consumed with that which it was nourished by." The same flame which fueled his brilliance is now using up his remaining substance.
And finally,
This thou perceivest, which makes thy love most strong,
To love that well that thou must leave ere long.
-
PatH that was the line I also had the most difficult time trying to dope out - I never really did -
Death's second self, that seals up all in rest.
Not understanding what is a Death that is a second self I decided that one line did not subtract from the overall Sonnet and its metaphors -
It is quite a poignantly worded poem that captures the end, not just of life but our many naive and youthful ideals and experiences. To me the Sonnet was so delicate it reminds me of dancing on tissue paper.
OH and yes, Bare ruin'd choirs like an echo of the past with birds nesting in the skeleton of a ruin or in winter's empty tree branches. It is so delicate I hate to let it go and yet, it almost hurts to hang on.
-
Shakespeare Sonnet LXXIV(http://65.media.tumblr.com/bac0412238c6cb0a18ca6dd856a896f6/tumblr_o8tre6CzFN1si53zno1_1280.jpg)
But be contented: when that fell arrest
Without all bail shall carry me away,
My life hath in this line some interest,
Which for memorial still with thee shall stay.
When thou reviewest this, thou dost review
The very part was consecrate to thee:
The earth can have but earth, which is his due;
My spirit is thine, the better part of me:
So then thou hast but lost the dregs of life,
The prey of worms, my body being dead,
The coward conquest of a wretch's knife,
Too base of thee to be remembered.
The worth of that is that which it contains,
And that is this, and this with thee remains. |
William Shakespeare's Sonnet 74https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=1NOrVO2Mi4E
-
Except these Sonnets are about the writer' death if they were about another I guess they would be Elegies -
-
Sonnet LXXIII
I like this sonnet even though he is referring to his death. If you read it without thinking of him dying, I like all that fits into this particular time of year, it actually almost fit perfectly with my granddaughter's bonfire birthday party Saturday evening. Before the party began, I was sitting out on our swing in our backyard watching the birds in the trees that have been turning Fall colors, I actually saw many groups of birds flying in the V formation and thought about how it won't be long before they fly south for the winter because it will be too cold for them, and the barren trees will not provide them safety from the snow. Then as Shakespeare mentions the embers still burning on the ashes, I thought of the last embers in our fire pit slowly burning out after all the kids had left and my hubby and I sat watching the last embers dying out. As all the kids left from the party I thought about how my sweet fourteen year old granddaughter Avery will have these memories to last her a lifetime. She could not thank me and my hubby enough times for letting her have the party at our house. And the best part of the night was when about thirty teens all ended up jumping in our inground pool with all their clothes on. They said the water felt like bath water, but when they got out into the chilled night air they were freezing wrapped all up in beach towels, afghans and blankets I ran into the house to collect. Oh how fun it was to see these youthful teens being so crazy and impulsive. Then it was roasting marshmallows to make s'mores, and next they decided it was ding dong ditch time..... they go around to my neighbors ringing their doorbells and running away. Luckily I alerted my neighbors ahead of time about the party so they didn't mind at all.
This thou perceiv’st, which makes thy love more strong,
To love that well which thou must leave ere long.
Yes, my dear Shakespeare I fear no one really does realize how valuable a person's love is, until they have lost it, especially to the person dying.
Instead of seeing this sonnet in a sad light, after enjoying watching the teens at the bonfire party, living life to the fullest, I saw this sonnet in a complete different light than he wrote it.
(http://66.media.tumblr.com/50793da311618d44b9a75187f4a1185c/tumblr_muo3vdeOhp1qevqz6o1_320.jpg)
p.s. Yes, I am up in the wee hours of the night from overactive partying, and too much cappuccino tonight. Yawn... ready to go back up and try to sleep again, we have one more day of birthday celebrations, Avery's sister Kenzie turns 21 today and we are meeting her at the casino for lunch and her first legal gambling and alcoholic beverage. Hope she doesn't lose all her $20.00 in one slot machine!
-
SONNET 73
Death's second self - I thought this was a reference to sleep; I remember from High school English class hearing it referred to as "the little death."
As for "bare ruined choirs" I was reminded of a book I read a while back called "Dissolution" (author C.J. Sansom) that takes place during Henry VIII's reign (I think it was) when the monasteries were being shut down or something to that effect. I don't even know if that would fit the timelines involved - but I bet Barb and Pat know!! 🤓
-
SONNET 74
The dark cloud over the poet's preoccupation with the approaching end of his life seems to have moved on for now, he has at least returned to taking pride in the worthiness of his verses. . After the demise of his body (I am choosing to interpret Time as the "coward conquest of a wretch's knife"), the verse remains as a memorial to both the poet and the beloved.
"The worth of that is that which it contains,
Both the worth of the body as the vehicle for the poet's soul/spirit - the memorable essence of him that will continue to reside in his poetry AND the worth of the verse as praise and testament to the beauty of the beloved.
As if the body as carrier of his soul will morph into, or dare I say? - be resurrected in his poetry.
His 'body of work' so to say.
And that is this, and this with thee remains."
And that which is "this" and "that" will also stay with the beloved.
-
That timeline would fit. Henry VIII died in 1547, and was indeed the one who shut down the monasteries during his wrangles with the church. Shakespeare was born in 1564, when Elizabeth was queen, and died in 1616, by which time James was king. So there were plenty of ruined church buildings around.
-
Sonnet LXXIV
When thou reviewest this, thou dost review
The very part was consecrate to thee:
The earth can have but earth, which is his due;
My spirit is thine, the better part of me:
He is leaving his spirit/poems, which he sees the best part of him, to his lost love.
-
Been out of pocket today - they've been building two additional lanes on the highway nearby and the wind was such that the fumes blew into the house all day - oh oh throat raw and sick to tummy - not into anything more than my pillow much less Shakespeare - Air in house clearing out thank goodness -
In the meantime such a great group of posts - Bellamarie love the quote just perfect... and what a lovely memory for your granddaughter - so perfect reading how you associated the embers in the dying fire with the end of a wonderful evening that is a theme included in the Sonnet - now that is living poetry isn't it.
Leah looks like Pat answered - sure was in the time of church destruction - thinking about it, most churches, especially in rural England, would have been the largest most prominent building so it must have been traumatic to see them destroyed and then for years seeing these burnt out structure dominating the landscape. Almost as if 15 years later the remains of the twin towers stayed as the day after picture etched in our memory similar to the iconic photos showing the tilting outside walls - Talk about 'dark clouds', how devastating that would be to live with these hulking remains dotting the countryside as tense reminders of this black time in history. I would think easy to associate them with death.
Those two lines seem to say it all don't they about his consecrating to her or him the better part of himself
The very part was consecrate to thee:
My spirit is thine, the better part of me:
Wow and that last line almost sounds like a tongue twister or a children's jump rope game - that this, this thee.
-
From Shakespeare's Romeo and Juliet
(https://s-media-cache-ak0.pinimg.com/564x/3a/29/ce/3a29ceff71a9005914375572cdff0d7a.jpg)
-
A fairly well known longer piece from As You Like It about aging - the seven ages of man... which fits these few Sonnets about aging and death.
All the World’s a Stage
All the world’s a stage,
And all the men and women merely players;
They have their exits and their entrances,
And one man in his time plays many parts,
His acts being seven ages. At first, the infant,
Mewling and puking in the nurse’s arms.
Then the whining schoolboy, with his satchel
And shining morning face, creeping like snail
Unwillingly to school. And then the lover,
Sighing like furnace, with a woeful ballad
Made to his mistress’ eyebrow. Then a soldier,
Full of strange oaths and bearded like the pard,
Jealous in honor, sudden and quick in quarrel,
Seeking the bubble reputation
Even in the cannon’s mouth. And then the justice,
In fair round belly with good capon lined,
With eyes severe and beard of formal cut,
Full of wise saws and modern instances;
And so he plays his part. The sixth age shifts
Into the lean and slippered pantaloon,
With spectacles on nose and pouch on side;
His youthful hose, well saved, a world too wide
For his shrunk shank, and his big manly voice,
Turning again toward childish treble, pipes
And whistles in his sound. Last scene of all,
That ends this strange eventful history,
Is second childishness and mere oblivion,
Sans teeth, sans eyes, sans taste, sans everything.
-
Trying to fill in these last 3 posts so we can start fresh with the Sonnet for the day on the same page as the page we share our thoughts about the Sonnet...
Archived and protected are items from Shakespeare's house - among the items is the book John Gerarde, The Herball, 1597 Below is a copied page from The Herball illustrating; the King Apple - the Quining or Queene Apple - the fommer Pearmaine - the winter Pearmaine.
A Pearmaine is An old English variety with uncertain origins, primarily a cooking apple but sweetens in storage.
(http://www.keepers-nursery.co.uk/imagelibrary/products/tydeaw.jpg)
A fommer Pearmaine is also known as a Pippin. Apples, at the end of a meal are mentioned in Shakespeare's "The Merry Wives of Windsor"; I will make an end to my dinner: there’s pippins and cheese to come.
(http://caliban.mpipz.mpg.de/gerarde/screen/IMG_1139.jpg)
-
Our Poetry Page Reads
Shakespeare Sonnets
2016 the world commemorates
400 years since the death of William Shakespeare.
(http://d13a6ytc0s97c3.cloudfront.net/uploads/listing/image/67/event_RS556808_36980_ROY210915_010-lpr.jpg)
April, 1616. A man died, but a legacy was born; one which proved
so essential not only to the development of
drama and literature, but to language, to thoughts and ideas.
A Sonnet a Day
July 1, till December 1,
We read in order, from 1 to 154
A Shakespeare Sonnet each day.
Welcome
Please share your comments about the day's Sonnet.
Link: First Post of Our Discussion on July 1 (http://seniorlearn.org/forum/index.php?topic=176.msg283685#msg283685)
Shakespeare Anniversary Links
- Shakespeare400 (http://www.shakespeare400.org/)
- Shakespeare 400 at The Globe (http://www.shakespearesglobe.com/400)
- Shakespeare 400 Chicago (http://www.shakespeare400chicago.com/)
- Dame Judi leads Shakespeare Day gala finale (http://www.bbc.com/news/entertainment-arts-36111591)
- Turning Shakespeare’s sonnets into short films (http://[url=http://www.pbs.org/newshour/bb/turning-shakespeares-sonnets-short-films/)
|
Discussion Leaders: Barb (augere@ix.netcom.com)
-
Shakespeare Sonnet LXXV
(http://www.terriwindling.com/.a/6a00e54fcf7385883401b8d1cb2a7e970c-800wi)
So are you to my thoughts as food to life,
Or as sweet-season'd showers are to the ground;
And for the peace of you I hold such strife
As 'twixt a miser and his wealth is found;
Now proud as an enjoyer and anon
Doubting the filching age will steal his treasure,
Now counting best to be with you alone,
Then better'd that the world may see my pleasure;
Sometime all full with feasting on your sight
And by and by clean starved for a look;
Possessing or pursuing no delight,
Save what is had or must from you be took.
Thus do I pine and surfeit day by day,
Or gluttoning on all, or all away. |
William Shakespeare's Sonnet 75https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=lTKCMCZFsQI
-
Poor Anguished Fellow cannot find the Middle Way out of All or Nothing.
Reminds me of a song lyric: do I stay or do I go?
Do I starve or binge? - Do I dare show you off, for fear of losing you to another?
This emotional SeeSaw will have him back in that dark cloud in no time.
Must not have hear of the notion that 'if you love someone let them go; if they don't return it was never meant to be; if they return, love them forever.'
-
Yes, he's full of simultaneous contradictory emotions, prettily expressed.
for the peace of you I hold such strife
wanting to be alone with his love, but wanting to show off the love to the world
feasting on the love, then starved for a look, etc
I couldn't make much of the last line:
Or gluttoning on all, or all away.
but my book's note helped. The first or means either:
either gluttoning on all, or, you being away, having no pleasure.
-
Oh Leah you nailed this one dead on, with the song, Should I stay or should I go?
Should I share my love, or keep him all to myself?
I'm seriously wondering how he survived his self inflicted torture writing these sonnets. NOT to begrudge him of his enormous talent in writing, but, yes, you knew there was a but coming, this poor soul must have lived in so much pain mourning the loss of his love, and spending so much time in solitude writing about his feelings, how could he not have contemplated suicide? I do fear the depression may settle in yet again, as well. Not to say it has ever left, he just goes from dark to light.
-
Hmm this one disturbs me - I know how easy it is to attribute his sense of ownership to being all in his head - and I also know his thinking was typical for hundreds of years till just more recently - but it sure reminds me of the place for a woman that was the needle to thread before the 1970s when my youth gave me appeal - we all made our choices in that landscape and this is such the reminder of how it was... when a guy could think
And for the peace of you I hold such strife
As 'twixt a miser and his wealth is found;
I am just having a difficult time being generous enough to even care if he is in the depths of depression - sorry - I know I am taking this too much to heart - but there it is...
The idea that a lover, that yes, I assume to be a woman is 'his' wealth. Pain... not even anger - just pain... followed by "will steal his treasure" and then not only 'his' treasure but, oh dear 'his' pleasure - "see my pleasure" taking it out of the realm of the personal this sure justifies the role model for women as being the Genie in the bottle as Barbara Eden in I Dream of Jeanne.
His relationship with this beautiful creature described only for her looks is as either the possessor or the pursuer and speaking of gluttony - whew... no wonder he pines - and beyond sad is that evidently this same concept of women is alive and well - Read this rather long article about a 20 years study and the number one reason that was found among men and boys caught for rape and interviewed for the study was that a women turned him down for anything as simple as a date and women should understand the pain that causes of being turned down after asking and therefore, a woman needs to be punished.
This revelation floored me - both the entitlement aspect and that there was something so all encompassing for a guy to ask - there is another whole level of meaning for many guys to ask - I would say someone pretty but in some cases it is not that the woman is especially pretty - it is something within the man that this poem highlights. Thinking on it, I see many a young girl still showing signs of possession - and certainly a ring on a finger is a sign of possession - and so now I question if we are fooling ourselves and we all look for possession as part of a relationship. Even one as inane as a relationship formed with loyalty towards a school or football team.
We certainly say things like My House and My Garden and My Children and I have heard some refer to their husbands with My Wade or George or whomever. hmm maybe we are looking at the concept of male ownership of a female from the wrong perspective; that we integrate the notion of possession in all of our relationships.
-
"My" can be possessive as well as beneficial to our growth if it is used by an individual to express how one feels/experiences alignment with "the other"; and also as an acknowledgement of the thee/thou relationships we recognize as important to our personal growth toward unity with the whole of humanity.
Whew!🙏
My Thanks to Shakespeare's sonnets AND "Our Gang of Four."!💜
-
Barb, I agree with your anger toward that type of male behavior, but that's not what I'm seeing in this poem. For one thing, I'm pretty sure it's still the nameless young man being addressed, and for another, I get the distinct impression that it's the unknown beloved who is calling the shots--in no way being controlled.
But that's one of the virtues of these sonnets. The wording lets us read all kinds of things into them, and no one can say who's really right.
-
OK Leah this has me by the tail as they say - because 'possession' highlights ownership and saying the possessive word 'My' is "beneficial to our growth" is that justifying the male concept of ownership that when you question to get to the nub, it is essentially about birth and the power structure over sperm versus ovary.
If as Einstein's law suggests that movement is more valuable then non-movement or receiving - the justification the church now uses for their stance on patriarchy and the right of the sperm over the right of an ovary - than keeping true to the thought equation would justify a guy acting, as some do when their boy girl requests are denied by a girl and further, it would justify this poem suggesting that beneficial to his growth is the poets belief that he can 'take' by possessing or pursuing.
Possessing or pursuing no delight,
Save what is had or must from you be took.
Maybe there is another side of possessing that I am not seeing other than ownership - and yes, I can see the value of ownership over 'things' that require our care - but I am struggling to see ownership over 'people', even infants. Is there a possessing without ownership? Does caring require or morph into a sense of possessing or ownership? Are individual rights and boundaries considered equal if not trump possession within a possessive relationship?
OK need to do some research here - hope all y'all can share some further views... sheesh Leah as you say, who would have guessed Shakespeare's poem could bring all this into question.
Pat you posted as I was writing - and yes, I see the unknown beloved calling the shots but I also see the poet believing he should be pursuing or possessing and be in control - since he is not, he is 'pineing' hmm how do you write that without it coming up as pining or is pining really pinning - hmm OK another tangent - ;) ::)
-
Maybe we have time for one or two tangents before falling asleep? ;) Though I'm only good for a little while.
-
:) :D ;D - but doesn't everyone ponder when they read - oh my the tangents I can get myself into it is a wonder I have a problem getting to bed - there are too many issues to better understand... How can we ever die with so many questions to ponder ;)
-
PatH., I am with you, I see Shakespeare still addressing the as you put it "nameless young man." He is obsessed with this young male love whom we have been given the impression has either betrayed Shakespeare with his mistress, or not returned or broken off their relationship. I'm beginning to see Shakespeare a bit unstable, and may be inventing this over the top love affair. These sonnets going on and on and on, is not and could not have been healthy for anyone back in the 1800s or modern day twenty-first century.
Barb, I don't see the same perspective where you question ownership. If you step back, I think you may see Shakespeare is writing out of fantasy hoping to make it a reality, and wanting this young male to see these sonnets after he is gone. Gosh, what makes him even think it would matter one way or another to the young man? If anything I see him secluded, depressed, unstable and over imaging the importance of the relationship, assuming there was one, and holding on to it through these sonnets. Who in their right mind would spend this much time writing these personal intimate lines hoping for this person to see them and it make a difference especially after he is dead and gone? As I understand it they were not meant to be published or publicly viewed.
-
Bellamarie:
Who in their right mind would spend this much time writing these personal intimate lines hoping for this person to see them and it make a difference especially after he is dead and gone? As I understand it they were not meant to be published or publicly viewed.
That's about right. Genteel people were expected to be able to write poetry, and wrote verses for their friends rather casually. The good ones were often passed around a lot, and might eventually be published by someone. These were collected and published by someone else, not Shakespeare.
Shakespeare wasn't a gentleman, but writers did this sort of thing too.
-
I cannot believe - whatever I did I lost an entire post and the word page where I collected the information - It is too late now but I will get this together again because it was an eye opener -
In a nutshell I started by researching the meaning for the seventeenth century word possessive - wow - the information starts explaining the Tudor period is a time of a huge land movement that involves dividing up the land held in common since the Magna Carta, into individual land holdings - I know - what has that got to do with possessiveness as describing a man's attitude toward a woman. Well..... just go with it...
This legal process of land consolidation and division was called the Enclosure Movement. This off-beat bit of history came up immediately and first in the research of seventeenth century definition of possessive which so confused me that I kept renewing my search.
Then next is the whole story of how Calvinistic views are included in the Church of England that included honorable individualism prompted by the Enclosure Movement establishing the concept of the individual not beholden to community or obligation but, to self - It was the Calvinistic doctrine of honor that became the cornerstone of individualism and took possessiveness out of the market place into a resurrection of the Code of Chivalry, including, satisfying an intense sense of personal honor that had the element of public satisfaction (dueling). The 12 point Code for men was a man's essential character. One point in the code was about his devotion to a woman. A man was supposed to be compassionate, loyal, and ennobled by the pure love of a woman.
Maybe it is just as well the post was lost - that was the short version - bottom line a man was not honorable or ennobled without the pure love of a woman and so, of course he had to possess or pursue - his selfhood, his very honor was at stake.
Taking possession out of the market place mentality of ownership, the idea of possession I see as closer to seeking or pursuing along the lines of today when folks seek to possess the love of a favored saint or their god - Not that a woman was the emulation of a saint or god but rather, it is the best way I can describe the difference in the meaning of possession during this time of Calvinistic Code of Chivalry that all society embraced. And yes, like it or not - the rules of war are part of the Code of Chivalry so that all the horror was carried out as honor and duty to the king or queen.
-
Shakespeare Sonnet LXXVI(https://s-media-cache-ak0.pinimg.com/236x/fc/57/69/fc5769bf9949dff3df249e1a97c0bcb8.jpg)
Why is my verse so barren of new pride?
So far from variation or quick change?
Why with the time do I not glance aside
To new-found methods and to compounds strange?
Why write I still all one, ever the same,
And keep invention in a noted weed,
That every word doth almost tell my name,
Showing their birth and where they did proceed?
O, know, sweet love, I always write of you,
And you and love are still my argument;
So all my best is dressing old words new,
Spending again what is already spent:
For as the sun is daily new and old,
So is my love still telling what is told. |
William Shakespeare's Sonnet 76https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=mZ5SvAujNT0
-
Sonnet LXXVI
O, know, sweet love, I always write of you,
So all my best is dressing old words new,
Spending again what is already spent:
I think he realizes he is in a rut.... he sees his writing is continuously in the same style and subject, his love for this young male. He sees he is saying the same thing over and over and over again, only using different words and descriptives to avow his love. Can we hope for a change now that he realizes what he is doing? Nahhhhh.... I fear not.
Barb, my best advice to you is to not get into over analyzing as we suggested in the beginning. You, like Shakespeare, may find yourself in a loop you can't get out of. :) :)
-
SONNET 75
...justification the church now uses for their stance on patriarchy and the right of the sperm over the right of an ovary
WOW, Barb - that interpretation TOTALLY turns the tables on the usual explanations I have heard to justify the "sanctity" of life. Very enlightening to me.
When I wrote about this last night, I was exploring an interpretation of "my" from a more heart-centered approach to tip the balance and see how it might differ from an ego-centered possessiveness of "my" which feels physical/body-centered to me. It is just where my thoughts went and how it affected me.
-
Sonnet 76
I gather from other sources that Shakespeare's sonnets made frequent use of puns, numbers thought to be significant, and medical and religious references, among other things. No doubt there is much more that could be mined (no pun intended) from them and it would take the time and attention of many Shakespearean scholars to exhaust the mine or drain the well of his cleverness.
But alas!...I can do no more than continue to venture forth with Friends Unseen, pursuing the Poet's Meanderings through his Realm of Unrequited Love! (I think this venture is affecting me in ways I could not have foreseen. 👀)
BTW, I am listening to a book by Louis Bayard titled "School of Night." Intriguing historical novel, "intellectual thriller" that floats b&f between present day and the 16th century. Really enjoying it.
-
Leah yes I can see now the different views but for me the ego viewpoint hit and took over all my thinking.
At the risk of over analyzing Bellamarie where I am coming from when I react to some of these sonnets ;)
As to the church - there are within the church many theologies - amazing also is the politics least talked about in secular media and least understood in parish churches owned and operated by the local Diocese.
The local Diocese are manned by priests on a political trajectory. ITheir education in church history and theology is weak so that before Vatican II got going there was a year of education to get the Cardinals up to snuff. A pyramid type of understanding of issues from the Bishop down is practiced in most parishes. The exception are those run by order priests not on a trajectory to Rome. The big issues are fought out between the members of the Curia versus the more progressive Cardinals or even the Pope.
A better picture of the variety within the church is found in the weekly Catholic Reporter. The issue of Birth Control has been a political football. Back, just before Vatican II a Papal Birth Control Commission was established that included 4 dozen men, mostly Cardinals and Bishops plus, 4 women that morphed into 6, two included because of their commission member husbands - at the time, the early 60s, including women was an extraordinary happening - upon meeting for a couple of years a large majority within the Commission determined a married couple can decide the number of children they are to have by using the pill.
Various reasons focused on the health and welfare of the children, that love is uniquely expressed and perfected through the marital act, the dignity of life, the health and welfare of the mother, the right over body, the economic welfare of the community and the increased population to the earth. By a ratio of 4-1 approved was the latest of several drafts on marriage and family that supported the use of birth control. Of the six clergy who disagreed, four were members of the curia. One especially was particularly vocal and particularly apt at the politics between, by then Pope Paul VI and the more conservative members of the Curia as well as, the more conservative Bishops and Cardinals.
The work of the Commission was the 'Summary Document on the Morality of Birth Control' to be discussed on the floor of Vatican II along with proofs from natural law (which is explained scientifically movement and non-movement) in consideration to change the teaching - Again, lots of politicking that is well explained by Father John W. O'Malley in his book, What Happened at Vatican II - The issue was sidestepped because the agenda was too long. Into the 2nd year Pope Paul VI decided to eliminate more of the work so that Vatican II would decide on 8 documents from a field of 16 that was down from well over 20. The cost of travel, absence from their duties at home, housing members of Vatican II in Rome became too expensive and the conclave was limited to 5 years of work.
Other issues eliminated from floor discussion that Pope Paul VI said, he did not want sex and birth in open floor discussion, included the 'Commission on Responsible Priesthood' as well as, the thorny issue of re-organizing the Curia that has operated as it was adopted directly from the Roman governing body.
Bottom line, using lots of supportive words to straddle the divide the decision was left, with the support of education each couple was to make their decision about the number of births - Since the Curia supported the historical viewpoint and the diocesan priest is within the system that includes possible promotion to a coveted position in Rome along with, an increasing drum beat added when Pope Paul VI wrote Humanae Vitae, education became the old official line of the church with the exception of those parishes included in the Alpine group led by the Archbishop of Cologne.
Finding the books and online web sites that explains the issues and what happened became increasingly difficult during the reign of Pope Benedict - only used books can be found except for O'Malley's What Happened at Vatican II. Others no longer in print by order of Rome are: The Lively Debate Response to Humanae Vitae by Father Wm. Shannon; Turning Point the Inside Story of the Papal Birth Control commission by Robert McClory, board member of Call to Action; Recently these two books published touch on the subject; Justice in the Church Gender and Participation by Benedict M. Ashley O.P.; Confronting Power and Sex in the Catholic Church by Bishop Geoffrey Robinson that is more about sexual abuse by priests however, touches on priests marrying and controlling birth.
;) I know, far more than you needed to know - to me the ankle bone is connected to the leg bone etc. And all of this comes rushing at me when I read which always presents a question.
Today's Sonnet - I see it as a question of excellence. I like that phrase - dressing old word new Also like the line For as the sun is daily new and old, - I really like that thought - daily new and old - nice...
-
So he's hoping his sonnets are both new and old, and sweetening it by saying that his continuing message is the most important thing there is to talk about.
-
Pat this Sonnet is closer isn't it to the concept of these being Love poems that we hear as the common definition of his Sonnets - I was surprised at the number of poems we've read that were decidedly not love poems - this one is sweet referring to his writing as lacking newness which I can almost see is a metaphor for himself being no longer young and new. Nicely done...
-
Shakespeare Sonnet LXXVII (http://66.media.tumblr.com/9b3d02ab7231413695fc6f85a345bcb9/tumblr_ob4p4vK4Jp1si53zno1_540.jpg)
Thy glass will show thee how thy beauties wear,
Thy dial how thy precious minutes waste;
The vacant leaves thy mind's imprint will bear,
And of this book this learning mayst thou taste.
The wrinkles which thy glass will truly show
Of mouthed graves will give thee memory;
Thou by thy dial's shady stealth mayst know
Time's thievish progress to eternity.
Look, what thy memory can not contain
Commit to these waste blanks, and thou shalt find
Those children nursed, deliver'd from thy brain,
To take a new acquaintance of thy mind.
These offices, so oft as thou wilt look,
Shall profit thee and much enrich thy book.
|
William Shakespeare Sonnet 77https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=jQP8tzBtl74
-
Sonnet LXXVII
Look, what thy memory can not contain
Commit to these waste blanks, and thou shalt find
Those children nursed, deliver'd from thy brain,
To take a new acquaintance of thy mind.
These offices, so oft as thou wilt look,
Shall profit thee and much enrich thy book.
I love every line in this sonnet. Shakespeare at his finest!!! He is telling whomever to write down their memories, keep a journal, so when they age and their memory may fade they will have these pages to look back on, to remind them of these days, and to possibly share these pages with their future children or grandchildren. Shakespeare seems to have come out of his doom and gloom in this sonnet. It is simply beautiful, and beautifully written!!! THIS is the Shakespeare works I so love.
-
This one is nice isn't it Bellamarie - did not realize the instruction how to save moments till you hit on it - good stuff - Did you receive and us a baby book to keep track of their early development when your babies were born?
I remember when my babies were born and it was still traditional to receive a baby book I did great the first year with my oldest but then I had a second baby before Peter was a year old - writing in books was the last on my list of things to do - after a series of miscarriages 6 years later I had my youngest and looking I cannot even find a book for him - amazing how we think at the time we will remember everything and now I find out you just do not - wish now I took more photos as well - I was of the school enjoy the experience rather than using the time to record what you should be enjoying. Now I do wish I had read this Sonnet back then and taken it to heart.
The part of the poem that struck me however, was how a pocket watch at the time only had an hour hand and not many could afford even that so that sundials were still used and there was a pocket version of a compass with a sundial made from wire - to me that was so appropriate - not only did you get a reading of the time using the sun but you also were pointed to direction - I love the metaphor of checking your direction and hourly time of your life.
-
Shakespeare Sonnet LXXVIII(http://65.media.tumblr.com/c6d56b7f60cd8b2c3f89750ff2d0bf8d/tumblr_mojo381Ptp1s89ubuo1_1280.jpg)
So oft have I invok'd thee for my Muse,
And found such fair assistance in my verse,
As every alien pen hath got my use,
And under thee their poesy disperse.
Thine eyes, that taught the dumb on high to sing,
And heavy ignorance aloft to fly,
Have added feathers to the learned's wing,
And given grace a double majesty.
Yet be most proud of that which I compile,
Whose influence is thine and born of thee:
In others' works thou dost but mend the style,
And arts with thy sweet graces graced be;
But thou art all my art and dost advance
As high as learning my rude ignorance.
|
William Shakespeare's Sonnet 78https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=mj4ELvaXQs0
-
Compared to other poets, S. cites their higher levels of education, status, and the 'learned' graces.
He is but an ignorant, unschooled ruffian whose superior poetry outstrips their 'poesy' (such a quaint word, eh?) by virtue of having come into being strictly due to the influence and inspiration he receives via his love for the beloved. HIS muse!
The rest are mere stylists playing with words informed mostly by their learning while claiming access to the beloved as their muse.
And that is what identifies their verse as inferior - it is not derived from the one true thing - TRUE LOVE!!! And he advises the beloved to recognize and remember that.
-
Yes, Barb I did keep baby record books on all three of my children. Being a writer, I don't have just baby books, but I have mother's and grandmother's books that I filled out for all my kids and grandkids. I wrote poems for each of my children and wrote a story to them about the day they were born, and have a gazillion pictures. They each had a photo book I put together for them from birth to high school graduation, I gave to them at their graduation parties. I also have individual photo albums for each of my grandchildren as well. When my first granddaughter graduated high school, I made a dvd with all her events she had participated in throughout her school years, put to her favorite songs. When we all viewed it as a family before showing it at the graduation party she simply cried, laughed and thanked me a thousand times. I hope to be able to do the same for all of the grandkids. I am the family photographer, no one else takes pictures or videos, so they rely on me. I have stacks and stacks of cds I have transferred all my digital pics onto, not to mention vhs tapes. I am preparing to submit my children's book I wrote about my first granddaughter. She did all the illustrations for it while she was in jr. high. It will be a treasure once published! I'm enjoying, recording as much as I can. Thank God I did, because when my daughter had a mental breakdown at the age of twenty-five we had to fly to Georgia to help with her medical care, I brought her photo album with me. Her psychologist and psychiatrist assigned to her case were absolutely overwhelmed with how my daughter responded looking at her pictures of her and our family. They called it a break through. I have heard pictures help alzheimer's patients with their memory. I have tons of journals I have written along the years, but I plan to destroy them, since they were my personal writings. Not so sure my kids or grands would care about them.
-
Ah his true love - his muse - with the high accolades we place on his writing it is difficult to think that Shakespeare would think of himself as a ruffian, but as a country boy compared to established London writers I guess so or Leah do you think he was being disingenuous or acting fey... What do you really think... this is not the first time we have read in these Sonnets that he has a lower opinion of himself as compared to others.
And this Muse - I wonder if he has someone in mind or is it some force almost like the Greek Goddess daughter of Zeus. Whom ever she is he sure penned a pretty 'poesy' didn't he - a lovely poem for as you day words that take us out of the ordinary. Love the line, "Thine eyes, that taught the dumb on high to sing" ...Wow
Bellamarie how special - very special - your story should be shared and the book sounds like the perfect way - wouldn't it be wonderful to get a grant so you could have the book distributed to all new moms at your local hospital. Today we so many photos of cutie activity with youngsters on facebook - seems to me there is a way of having a book put together with your facebook posts. How did you find the time?
-
Aha - OK Shakespeare was breaking with the times giving all this attention to his Muse and speaking of his love and admiration for another - of course of course had to get online and look up the seventeenth century definition for Muse - came across this bit that does show the other side of how the subject of love was usually written compared to what we are reading in these Sonnets.
"The appetite of English readers in the first half of the 17th century for sermons, devotional works, and commentaries on scripture was robust. They consumed information regarding the defects of their souls as avidly as we consume information regarding the defects of our appearances.
Concern with appearances was, of course, considered a defect of the soul. In the fallen world, the beauty of women was a reminder of Eve’s temptation, Adam’s fatal disobedience, and all the evil and suffering that ensued, down to the martyrdom of Christ.
Pierre Du Moulin’s devotional work Théophile ou l’amour divin describes women’s adornment as Satan’s most deadly weapon. The faithful eye sees through their costume to the Devil’s very image: A soldier having a sword that hath surely served him in many combats, will be carefull to scowre & polish it: and doe we marvell if the woman having served Sathan to overthrow Adam, bee carefully decked & embellished by him; and that women are curious in ornaments by the suggestion of the devil?
Other religious writers, like Jean Senault in Man become guilty, or, The corruption of nature by sinne, according to St. Augustines sense translated into English in 1650, represent love of particular women as slavery, an inversion of the natural order. In his Sixth Treatise, “On the Corruption of all Creatures”, Senault said: Love is an imperious passion, it subjects all those souls which it possesseth, it makes as many slaves as lovers, and reduceth them to a condition wherein having no longer any will, they are not Masters of their desires, they look pale, when in the presence of those that they adore, they tremble when they come neer them, and the Stars have not so much power over their bodies as those whom they love have absolute command over their souls: the object of their love is the cause of all their desire."
And here we have Shakespeare over and over - hmm just thought - many have said his first 100 or so Sonnets are to a man - I wonder - since on stage all the parts are played by men - I wonder if to be safe with his extolling the perfections and beauty about the one he loved if his way around the talk of the day that women were Satin's creature he had to address his passions to a male figure or he would have been tarred and feathered. hmm
Well again, we will never know so ;) fantasy works??? In the meantime we can see how women were considered in seventeenth century papers and books. Sorta remember that but too easily forgotten thinking it was so much bunk...
-
I propose that it is their own thoughts about the object of their love that is the cause of their desire. Also, that the (Catholic) church (and others, too, I gather) just cannot still the impulse to portray everyone as a sinner and recast an otherwise happy soul into a defective one. It's a control thing.
Perhaps, since The Creator who manifested Eve's beauty (in soul if not in body) to ensure the fulfillment of the Creator's "go forth and multiply" agenda, we might make Him responsible for creating the matrix of Adam's hormone-driven desirous impulses.
I think children learn to take on the characteristics that are suggested to them by the expressed thoughts, actions, and treatment received from their caregivers, teachers, religious persons,etc.
So, I think it is possible that S. learned to demean himself and his gifts. Happens all the time.
Necessity may be the mother of invention, but Repetition is the mother of memory Repetito mater memoriae. and blank slates are bound to be filled with whatever is close to hand.
-
:) :D ;D it is their own thoughts about the object of their love that is the cause of their desire. perfect - regardless seventeenth century or today - just perfect...
Had not thought of he being programed to think less of his ability - could be - right in line with the typical Catholic view of your value in life - the Mea culpa, Mea culpa thing that is still going strong. hmm something to think on Leah Thanks
-
Leah thought - as perfect as it is to assign proper responsibility I'm thinking we cannot ignore it was the way of things so that it would be the accepted way of thinking and if Shakespeare had other ideas, as his love poems seem to suggest, he could not brazenly say it openly without skirting the issue especially, since he required patronage to continue which means swallowing some of your ideas to please the accepted social viewpoints. And so, I still see him breaking the mold even if he disguised his muse behind a male love figure - Not sure exactly how though since Muse is a goddess however, Shakespeare scholars seem to believe the earlier Sonnets were written to a male love interest - ho hum - still think the guy was brave and original in his thinking about women rather than continuing the thinking of the day that women were like Eve and described as a child of Satan
hmm brings up the entire play The Taming of the Shrew - she does have a soliloquy that speaks of the current view as if it was the best thing since applesauce but then the play shows a more independent Kate and it is considered a Comedy.
-
Sonnet LXXVIII
Well, it seems Shakespeare has lifted this unnamed love to new heights in this sonnet. He attributes all his work, and the work of others to have been inspired by this one particular person's beauty and greatness. As you see in the definition it is a goddess/woman. He has nearly made her an immortal. So now who is Shakespeare speaking of? Most all his sonnets have been directed to his young male love.
muse1
myo͞oz/
noun
(in Greek and Roman mythology) each of nine goddesses, the daughters of Zeus and Mnemosyne, who preside over the arts and sciences.
synonyms: inspiration, creative influence, stimulus; formal afflatus
"the poet's muse"
a woman, or a force personified as a woman, who is the source of inspiration for a creative artist.
noun: muse; plural noun: muses
synonyms: inspiration, creative influence, stimulus; formal afflatus
"the poet's muse"
https://www.google.com/search?q=definition+of+muse&rlz=1C1RNRA_enUS507US507&oq=definition+of+muse&aqs=chrome..69i57.6155j0j8&sourceid=chrome&ie=UTF-8
Leah, I propose that it is their own thoughts about the object of their love that is the cause of their desire. Also, that the (Catholic) church (and others, too, I gather) just cannot still the impulse to portray everyone as a sinner and recast an otherwise happy soul into a defective one. It's a control thing.
Barb, Had not thought of he being programed to think less of his ability - could be - right in line with the typical Catholic view of your value in life - the Mea culpa, Mea culpa thing that is still going strong
Not sure this particular Catholic agrees with these views, if anything I see Shakespeare being over zealous and thinking this "muse"/woman, is the inspiration of all poetry, seeing himself pretty high for choosing to love this person. Just a different point of view, not right or wrong, just different.
-
He has nearly made her an immortal. He sure has hasn't he Bellamarie - I wonder if folks today when they casually suggest their Muse inspired them to write words or music if they even know Muse was a Greek and Roman Goddess -
Off the subject but I see Bellamarie you use Chrome - what made you switch and have you been using Chrome for awhile now?
And yes, do you remember - I read somewhere the number of these Sonnets that were to a dark lady and the number that were to a male lover - just do not remember - this one he seems to be referring to a Goddess so I am assuming it it written about and to a lady, dark or otherwise.
I purchased some years ago on sale a huge fat tome of all his work - I've read a few of the plays but not all of them and reading these Sonnets, getting more from them than I ever imagined I'm almost thinking that will be a project to take on - just to read the plays - not even go deeply into them but just to learn the storyline and which plays some of the great Shakespearian quote come from.
This has been such a great conversation mostly because we do not all think alike - I love this - who would have ever guessed these Sonnets would actually bring up topics to examine - this makes me smile - nothing better than getting a viewpoint you would never have thought of - OK onward - actually we have passed the half way point and haa... as of today there is 100 days till Christmas.
-
Barb, When I first started using the web I used Internet Explorer, I switched when I began using Facebook because most of the games I began playing worked best with Google Chrome. I have continued using it since. I do like it much better than any of the others. It is the #1 web browser being used.
http://beebom.com/best-google-chrome-alternatives/
I actually think I would like to delve into Shakespeare's plays at some later date. I have not read any of his plays, but have been eyeing a book on sale at Barnes and Noble that contains all of his works. I did not think I would like discussing his sonnets, but have been pleasantly surprised. Yes, I agree, it would be no fun if we all thought alike. 100 days til Christmas!!! Oh dear I don't want to even think of Christmas shopping.
-
Shakespeare Sonnet LXXIX
(https://36.media.tumblr.com/60c67b812fa51f8cdfd77329b2a4649a/tumblr_o1ico4aqdU1v17mh8o1_1280.jpg)
Whilst I alone did call upon thy aid,
My verse alone had all thy gentle grace,
But now my gracious numbers are decay'd
And my sick Muse doth give another place.
I grant, sweet love, thy lovely argument
Deserves the travail of a worthier pen,
Yet what of thee thy poet doth invent
He robs thee of and pays it thee again.
He lends thee virtue and he stole that word
From thy behavior; beauty doth he give
And found it in thy cheek; he can afford
No praise to thee but what in thee doth live.
Then thank him not for that which he doth say,
Since what he owes thee thou thyself dost pay. |
William Shakespeare's Sonnet 79https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=_-j8eVnp91M
-
Sonnet LXXIX
But now my gracious numbers are decay'd
And my sick Muse doth give another place.
I grant, sweet love, thy lovely argument
Deserves the travail of a worthier pen,
It seems Shakespeare is ready to move on, thinking writing about his muse is getting worse, and others who do write about her can not write anything other than what she is able to provide them with her beauty. Seems he feels all his best words have been written. He says she deserves a worthier person to write of her.
-
Barb- still on Sonnet 78:
"even if he disguised his muse behind a male love figure - Not sure exactly how though since Muse is a goddess..."
Might there be a 'literary device' that describes that type of disguise? Giving consideration to the strict definition of 'muse' as well as the "commonly understood cultural or emotional association" is helpful. The denotation of "muse" is as you say, a woman or goddess, while the connotation could easily stretch to include any feminine type (like a 'pretty boy') or anything or anyone that inspires. I still have the sense that the muse in this case is the male youth rather than a woman.
In the 'muse' vein, there is this http://ryuc.info/common/creation_process/muse.htm (http://ryuc.info/common/creation_process/muse.htm)
Bellamarie- The dedication and constancy you invested in compiling your numerous family memory albums is truly remarkable and inspiring. You have the quality of Muse!
My remark about the Catholic Church was born out of personal experience and so as you say, we have different views.
Blessed be.
Sonnet 79
Is the poet unable to see that another poet could have the same true depth of constant love - or at least admiration for the beloved that he has? "My verse alone had all thy gentle grace."
"Yet what of thee thy poet doth invent" - Might this be his way of drawing the distinction between his own verse and that of the other poet(s) - he does not need to invent anything about the beloved - what praise his verse contains is organically born of "thy gentle grace."
-
Leah, You may be on to something with the muse being disguised, or as he sees his young male love as feminine. The last few sonnets have felt as though he is speaking of a beautiful female figure, but who is to say it is not his young male love?
Thank you, for the kind words, and yes, I completely understand your personal views come from your own experiences. No offense taken. Blessings to you as well. 👼
I get the sense Shakespeare is possibly tiring of writing, and is concerned his poems are not doing him or his muse justice by comparing them to other poets. He does not seem to want to give other poets credit for their own works by saying they are but copies of his which come only from the inspiration of his muse. It's as if no one could have the talent to create such poems without the muse's beauty. For me I find him being a bit insolent.
-
I found this when searching for info about when the sonnets were published. Seems they might have been intended for a very private audience of friends.
http://www.wsu.edu/~delahoyd/shakespeare/sonnets.html (http://www.wsu.edu/~delahoyd/shakespeare/sonnets.html)
-
Our Poetry Page Reads
Shakespeare Sonnets
2016 the world commemorates
400 years since the death of William Shakespeare.
(http://d13a6ytc0s97c3.cloudfront.net/uploads/listing/image/67/event_RS556808_36980_ROY210915_010-lpr.jpg)
April, 1616. A man died, but a legacy was born; one which proved
so essential not only to the development of
drama and literature, but to language, to thoughts and ideas.
A Sonnet a Day
July 1, till December 1,
We read in order, from 1 to 154
A Shakespeare Sonnet each day.
Welcome
Please share your comments about the day's Sonnet.
Link: First Post of Our Discussion on July 1 (http://seniorlearn.org/forum/index.php?topic=176.msg283685#msg283685)
Shakespeare Anniversary Links
- Shakespeare400 (http://www.shakespeare400.org/)
- Shakespeare 400 at The Globe (http://www.shakespearesglobe.com/400)
- Shakespeare 400 Chicago (http://www.shakespeare400chicago.com/)
- Dame Judi leads Shakespeare Day gala finale (http://www.bbc.com/news/entertainment-arts-36111591)
- Turning Shakespeare’s sonnets into short films (http://[url=http://www.pbs.org/newshour/bb/turning-shakespeares-sonnets-short-films/)
|
Discussion Leaders: Barb (augere@ix.netcom.com)
Yes, the sonnets were not intended for public viewing. I wonder what Shakespeare would think of them going public?
I know I have personal writings and would feel it an invasion of my privacy, had someone found them and published them.
Didn't Harper Lee's lawyer give permission to have Go Set A Watchman published while Lee was not of sound mind? There was a big controversy over this because after Lee's sister/caregiver Alice died, the lawyer then took liberties to have the book published. No one will ever know for certain if Lee was of sound enough mind to give her permission. There were quite a few articles about this:
https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Go_Set_a_Watchman
http://www.independent.co.uk/news/people/harper-lee-the-controversy-that-still-surrounds-authors-lost-novel-a6884671.html
-
I like this Leah from the second link you found for us - "The poems are full of contradictions, forming together a kind of anatomy of the shifting moods of love" (Wells 128). The range of styles includes orderly meditations, enigmatic comments on particular situations, hyper-intellectual poetic conceits, tortured introspections. In a sense, the disorder and violent juxtapositionings are appropriate, but they are difficult to read as a sequence."
Ha looks like we are attempting the difficult... wonderful link about the Muse - as we have agreed all along we each bring our own thoughts etc. I was coming from the bit where we know while a school boy Shakespeare read Ovid and probably performed some of the tales as was typical at the time and also considered preparatory to being on stage. And so it was a easy jump for me to see him knowing and relating his muse to the goddess - I wonder if folks in the early seventeenth century thought of the muse with an interpretation of an unknown outside influence? What would really be great in my mind is to read this article again after reading the article you shared a couple of weeks ago about seeing - I'm wondering if there is a crossover and as we are selective in what we see based on our personal history how much of what we think and say is also selective and if so what are the influences... oh dear just writing that overwhelms in the amount of research and study it would take but it is a sincere reactive question...
I guess to read and enjoy the sentiment in today's Sonnet it really doesn't matter if it is a girl or boy he is speaking to or about. The word that caught my eye as if a stage light was highlighting it was the word 'cheek' - I guess some women had full cheeks as probably did some young men - I still think of a male, even an effeminate male as wanting to look lean and so the word cheek reminded me of a young teen or even a child and so I thought of the poem as being written to or about his beloved daughter. He had two but it seems he had a favorite.
Like you Bellamarie the lines that was telling is as you shared -
But now my gracious numbers are decay'd
And my sick Muse doth give another place.
Which I took to mean he was aging (decay'd) and therefore my take was that his Muse has moved on to another who has more life then he - I did not see sick as being unhealthy sick but only as if withered like a decay'd tree ready to be culled.
I grant, sweet love, thy lovely argument
Deserves the travail of a worthier pen,
Self effacing yes, but also, he truly pays homage to a love filled with sweetness - I thought travail was an interesting choice of word since I had associated it with pain - looked it up and yes, pain but more, it is often used to describe suffering the pangs of childbirth; be in labor. I thought how perfect because we often hear of a writer experiencing the pangs of childbirth describing as he brings his creative endeavor to life and thinks of the final contribution as his child.
And yes Leah, as Bellamarie shared, blessings to you - we all have our personal spiritual connection and religious practices and understanding - Poetry seems to tap into the personal and our spiritual connection. Thank you for being so gracious realizing we each represent other views. Here in this discussion we are free to share our thoughts without judgment that we are right or wrong - we are sharing our inner most feelings and reactions to words strung together within a system of 14 lines. We share at times why we think as we do and question what we read and it really has been a wonderful experience as we each bring our unique tone to the daily read.
-
Sorry Bellamarie but you got caught ;) - it happens every so often - the first post of every page is for a heading so we have to get into any post that was caught and add the heading - we try to leave enough space so that your post is still easily seen to be read.
-
Ollie, Ollie oxen free!! I've been caught!!! 😝🤓😜😳🙄😁😋
-
:) :D ;D 8) :-*
-
Shakespeare Sonnet LXXX(http://www.ibiblio.org/wm/paint/auth/avercamp/river-landscape-brussels/river-landscape-brussels.jpg)
O, how I faint when I of you do write,
Knowing a better spirit doth use your name,
And in the praise thereof spends all his might,
To make me tongue-tied, speaking of your fame!
But since your worth, wide as the ocean is,
The humble as the proudest sail doth bear,
My saucy bark inferior far to his
On your broad main doth wilfully appear.
Your shallowest help will hold me up afloat,
Whilst he upon your soundless deep doth ride;
Or being wreck'd, I am a worthless boat,
He of tall building and of goodly pride:
Then if he thrive and I be cast away,
The worst was this; my love was my decay. |
William Shakespeare's Sonnet 80https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=A5s5LJ1zjp8
-
The ships he is referring to that helps to explain the metaphors inferred...
Bark: A vessel square-rigged on all but the aftermost mast, which is fore-and-aft rigged. Also spelled Barque. Most were three-masted, some were four- or five-masted vessels.
(https://s-media-cache-ak0.pinimg.com/236x/da/9d/22/da9d2260d6e053a7845b6ea677c8395e.jpg)
As opposed to a square rigged schooner or the later clipper ships, with all masts equal in size and equal type rigging using square sails.
(https://encrypted-tbn0.gstatic.com/images?q=tbn:ANd9GcTx0hMqeoAIeTiH4FvNHpuLHXpUtD1AidsmKVJhyABahH79zKG4Zg)
Where as, still popular at the time was a square rigged wide mainsail on ships used for distant exploration. In spite of their size and deep ocean travel they had a shallower draft compared to a Bark - the Draft the vertical distance between the waterline and the bottom of the hull (keel), with the thickness of the hull included - the more shallow the draft the closer to shore the ship can sail but also, a shallow draft means the ship bobs around during a storm at sea.
A carrack and second its earlier version a caravel
(http://brethrencoast.com/ship/carrack.jpg) (http://brethrencoast.com/ship/caravel.jpg)
-
Shakespeare Sonnet LXXXI(http://www.theoi.com/image/K20.1CMousa.jpg)
Goddesses of music, song and dance, and the source of inspiration to poets.
Later the Mousai (Muses) were assigned specific artistic spheresOr I shall live your epitaph to make,
Or you survive when I in earth am rotten;
From hence your memory death cannot take,
Although in me each part will be forgotten.
Your name from hence immortal life shall have,
Though I, once gone, to all the world must die:
The earth can yield me but a common grave,
When you entombed in men's eyes shall lie.
Your monument shall be my gentle verse,
Which eyes not yet created shall o'er-read,
And tongues to be your being shall rehearse,
When all the breathers of this world are dead;
You still shall live (such virtue hath my pen)
Where breath most breathes, even in the mouths of men. |
William Shakespeare's Sonnet 81https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=opXAqhF108I
-
In 79 and 80, we have a new development. The poet has a rival poet.
79:
But now my gracious numbers are decay'd
And my sick Muse doth give another place.
"gracious numbers" refers to his verses, numbers being used here in the uncommon meaning of "verses". His poetry is faltering, being replaced by better stuff.
I grant, sweet love, thy lovely argument
Deserves the travail of a worthier pen;
In 80, he's definitely feeling replaced. One line,
Your shallowest help will hold me up afloat,
although it could just refer to the fact that his insignificant little bark is easily kept afloat, suggests to me that maybe the beloved is also a patron.
Thanks for the ship pictures, Barb.
-
Now, in 81, we get back to one of the regular themes, the beloved will live on in these immortal verses.
-
Yes, PatH., I do see Shakespeare is seeing the up and coming poets, and feeling he is failing in his words because his are repetitious and the new, possibly younger poets words are fresh and sounding youthful to him. He sees his aging by comparison.
I just was celebrating my first granddaughter's 21st birthday this past week, and I looked around the room of so many young people, and then of course their were those who were the ages of my son and daughter in law, and then came the few aged group of grandparents with of course me in that group, and I could not but feel a bit like Shakespeare is feeling.... the up and coming new, youthful generation is taking our place. Don't get me wrong, I am happy to be right where I am in life, but I can relate to Shakespeare's last few sonnets.
-
Just a note to say I have been focusing on Latin class with Ginny and the gang today. Hope to keep on with y'all.
-
Ok just a quickie - son-in-law emergency heart problem - he is very healthy so we are expecting the best - a little rough so that support needed by daughter and grandsons - no word but he was transferred to another hospital that specializes in the heart - he does not smoke, goes to the gym before work every weekday and eats very healthy - even doctors amazed at his condition for a 60 year old man - my son went through an incident a couple of years ago so he has been able to calm all of us.
Ok - again, we all see what we see and right or wrong is not an issue - all to say ;) - As I read today's Sonnet I saw him writing like a reverie to the Goddess Muse - and like all goddesses or gods or saints they live on in writings or as statutory -
These are the words that allowed me to romanticize the idea of him conversing with a Goddess - with the rhetorical question, 'what lives on when we have all passed' - writing yes, but also do the stars remain - who knows - are the gods and goddesses immortal - who knows - have we really identified the power that created the universe and man as the god of the bible - who knows - Until we die we will never know and what happens when man is no more - we will only find out when and if it happens and unless the earth burns to a crisp or vaporize at its ending what has been written will still be here.
When all the breathers of this world are dead;
You still shall live (such virtue hath my pen)
Yes, he could be writing about his earthly beloved or earthly muse but I just like the idea he is ruminating with and about the goddess muse.
OK I'll catch up with y'all tomorrow - I'm needed...
-
Shakespeare Sonnet LXXXII (https://s-media-cache-ak0.pinimg.com/564x/c6/dc/6d/c6dc6d8815eec907aa39c76b7570e7ff.jpg)
Erato, Muse of Poetry. Edward John Poynter (1836-1919) I grant thou wert not married to my Muse,
And therefore mayst without attaint o'erlook
The dedicated words which writers use
Of their fair subject, blessing every book.
Thou art as fair in knowledge as in hue,
Finding thy worth a limit past my praise,
And therefore art enforc'd to seek anew
Some fresher stamp of the time-bettering days
And do so, love; yet when they have devis'd
What strained touches rhetoric can lend,
Thou truly fair wert truly sympathis'd
In true plain words by thy true-telling friend;
And their gross painting might be better us'd
Where cheeks need blood; in thee it is abus'd.
|
William Shakespeare Sonnet 82https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=0DWlGlyrjQg
-
Sonnet LXXXII
Seems Shakespeare is saying that although these new fresh poets may have all these excessive styles and words to write about his muse, he is stating they can not write the trueness of her/his beauty because they have not loved this person as he has. I like thinking that although poets and writers can do well at creating their works they can not relate to the words as well as somone who have loved and lived them. A person could never know and feel the true meaning of being in love unless they truly do fall in love with someone, just the same as no one can know how it feels to lose a loved one unless you have personally experienced it.
-
Sounds the way I think as well Bellamarie - we all have to walk the walk as the saying goes -
Waiting on baited breath to find out the conclusion of all the tests on son-in-law - if it is the top two sections of his heart - he gets some meds and told to go home however, if the bottom two are the culprits then it is surgery - evidently it is something he inherited and the only reason he has not had any issue up till now is because of his good physical health and daily workouts - hope we find out today and not have to go through another night of not knowing. Found my 9 hour novena to the Infant Jesus of Prague that is on an old scrape of paper shared by a school chum back when we were in High School and before the novena became well known or popular - I can do a 9 hour one far easier than a 9 day... I've 3 more hourly prayer sessions to go...
-
Barb, I will be saying prayers for the best results for your son in law. It's the waiting for answers that can be very difficult in situations like this. God be with him and all your family.
-
Oh my Bellamarie - thank you - you are so kind and thanks for putting the blurb in the Library - one more day folks and I will be back in body as well as spirit - all the tests today and nothing conclusive so an MRI of Gary's heart will be done in the morning - one thing that is wonderful to hear - any really invasive surgery is now off the table - there may be some minor surgery and that will be better determined in the morning.
I'm telling you when it rains it pours - but not near the truama - turns out my son is have some surgery on Friday - I Know - unbelievable - but sometime over the years one of the three bones in his ear was broken and now causing such a tightened space it has been infection after infection - easy at best since they live just north of Houston that is so humid it is like a swamp - so Friday he has that bone taken care of with a plastic bone replacement - We are so blessed in just these little things - years ago, maybe even when it happened there would not have been such a thing as a replacement bone.
OK Poetry - My take on the first four lines is that if you do not embrace as he calls it marry your muse you will not have success with your writing - got thinking about that in a broader aspect - somewhere along the line the one muse was identified by Hesiod as 9 maidens, daughters of Zeus, all muses to various aspects of the arts including astronomy.
We have adopted a one god over the many but then we seem to have grown a legion or community of saints, all who show us a special gift or virtue in action and so they could be called muses but we Christians seem to prefer they be called saints - all to say there has been a special spiritual vibe for every aspect of life, not just the arts. Sorta like the idea of a special identity regardless if we call it a muse or a saint or simply a special energy that if we marry or embrace the attribute we will have a greater chance of success. I like that even if that is not what Shakespeare meant since he was writer specific.
Interesting statement to be as fair in knowledge as in hue - have to think on that - sorta has me feeling like I was a kid riding a rainbow of knowledge with the pot of gold at either end - hmm maybe the Irish were on to something associating the colorful rainbow with gold and now Shakespeare saying knowledge is as in hue or color.
OK I will really catch up with everyone tomorrow - fingers crossed but the worst is over and Gary may have less invasive surgery that we will learn is an aye or nay tomorrow hahaha and then get ready to call on God again for Paul - if you are not into God then, there is an energy that we call God so, just think on trying to very inadequately affect that energy - prayer probably does more for the one saying the prayers but then that is a whole other subject isn't it.
Tomorrow ---
-
Shakespeare Sonnet LXXXIII(http://www.woodfieldmscurtis.com/uploads/3/6/3/7/3637082/9307325_orig.jpg)
I never saw that you did painting need
And therefore to your fair no painting set;
I found, or thought I found, you did exceed
The barren tender of a poet's debt;
And therefore have I slept in your report,
That you yourself being extant well might show
How far a modern quill doth come too short,
Speaking of worth, -- what worth in you doth grow?
This silence for my sin you did impute,
Which shall be most my glory, being dumb;
For I impair not beauty being mute,
When others would give life and bring a tomb.
There lives more life in one of your fair eyes
Than both your poets can in praise devise.
|
William Shakespeare's Sonnet 83https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=gtC_n1oZNe0
-
Barb, so glad to hear the good news about no invasive surgery, and I will continue to pray for him as well as your son's surgery on Friday. It sure does seen when one thing goes wrong, expect yet another. I have seen many an answered prayer, so I believe it truly helps those we pray for, far more than ourself. But then as you pointed out, "but then that is a whole other subject isn't it." Just know you and all your loved ones are in my thoughts & prayers. :)
Sonnet LXXXIII
I never saw that you did painting need
And therefore to your fair no painting set;
There lives more life in one of your fair eyes
Than both your poets can in praise devise.
These particular lines have me asking if Shakespeare means literally, that he never saw the need for his muse to sit and be painted, because neither words or paint could ever capture her true beauty, as it is in real life?
-
OK son-in-law going home - no definitive answer yet as to why - pacemaker will not work - follow up with the heart speciesist is the course of action - so they will come off the trauma of the past few days at home but be living with the uncertainty that comes when you know there is a problem with no course of action yet...
So back to Shakespeare - Wow that is a lot of words - to me it appears like 8 lines of words all to say whom ever he is talking about he is inadequacy able to show, using arts (both visual and writing), the the wonders or beauty of this person who we can assume gender but not directly stated - next he talks of the worth of the principle by way of describing again more of the inadequacies owned by the writer which we assume is Shakespeare describing himself and his silent ability to write befitting the wonder or beauty of the principle.
Goodness I am as round the bush suggesting what I understand this Sonnet is describing that this phenomenon is summed up in the last two lines telling us of fair eyes beyond what both your poets can in praise devise.
Both - who, what, where, is both - is both the writer and his muse or another un-named poet - both - curious - both. I like your summation Bellamarie that he never saw the need for his muse to sit and be painted, because neither words or paint could ever capture her true beauty, as it is in real life - I am thinking you are referring to the human living muse rather than the Goddess we refer to as our Muse.
This sonnet is rather an understatement to my way of thinking - there were other Sonnets that had more meat or are we missing something - but then I read the other day how language is a metaphor, that all language does is describe what we see, hear, feel etc. If language is a metaphor than our descriptions are metaphors for the actual experience - thinking on that, it is an easy leap to realize for most of us when we describe anything we are often inferring a feeling that is not present in what we observe but we overlap what we see or hear or touch with our own feelings and therefore, our own interpretation of a description. hmm its a wonder we understand each other at all...
All to say I do not get any meaning from this Sonnet that has any impact on my life - sounds like someone pumping up their inadequacy of describing beauty to feed the ego of the beautiful one in question. Not a very kind thought on my part is it but I have a problem with folks who parade their inadequacy - we all have them so just get on with it... and to pump up another by describing you own inadequacy - all I want to do is shake my head and think the words I remember as a child used when someone complained or pouted - Oh you poor benighted creature... said with all the pathos you can muster.
-
Shakespeare Sonnet LXXXIV(http://eduscapes.com/bookhistory/commodity/job.png)
Who is it that says most? which can say more
Than this rich praise, that you alone are you?
In whose confine immured is the store
Which should example where your equal grew.
Lean penury within that pen doth dwell
That to his subject lends not some small glory;
But he that writes of you, if he can tell
That you are you, so dignifies his story,
Let him but copy what in you is writ,
Not making worse what nature made so clear,
And such a counterpart shall fame his wit,
Making his style admired every where.
You to your beauteous blessings add a curse,
Being fond on praise, which makes your praises worse. |
William Shakespeare's Sonnet 84https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=cFhU814Wex8
-
Yes, Barb I was referring to his muse as the real life human, be it male or female he sees so abundantly beautiful, that no pen or paintbrush is able to capture this person's beauty. I feel he uses the word muse in referring to his love because he sees this person as an immortal. Shakespeare over exaggerating, because he is in love with this nameless person, and thinks his/her beauty is beyond describable and can not be captured on paper or canvas. Ughhh.... I suppose some people who are desperately in love do feel this way.
So happy to hear your son in law is going home.
-
thanks for you good thoughts Bellamarie - looks like our man is still making mountains out of his ability of lack, to describe this person's beauty - now he seems to be saying if can do it, his poem will become the poem to end all poems and then he must worry that all the accolades will be for him and his poetry rather than for this beautiful creature he is so admiring... this line of thinking is too puffy of ego for me... I guess to write a metaphor in the form of a poem that describes extreme beauty is a challenge and maybe, we do not yet have a poem that does justice to the beauty that has existed but then, if the challenge was met, why would anyone ever write another poem - so all I do is shake my head again - this line of thinking is beyond me.
Never sure if the day of the equinox change is the first day of the new season or the day after the change is when you start to count the first day - either way we are in Autumn that poets since time immoral have done their best to describe - probably different places on earth and even different days down to the various hours show a special epitome of what is a picture of Autumn so that a poet has a lifetime smorgasbord of picture perfect moments to choose from to make his case and cases they have made by to scores.
Actually, we read Shakespeare's offering to Autumn - Sonnet 73 - I wonder if there are any areas that are seeing yellow leaves - seems a bit early but maybe not... a re-read is kind of nice - here it is - Sonnet 73...
That time of year thou mayst in me behold
When yellow leaves, or none, or few, do hang
Upon those boughs which shake against the cold,
Bare ruined choirs, where late the sweet birds sang.
In me thou see’st the twilight of such day
As after sunset fadeth in the west;
Which by and by black night doth take away,
Death’s second self, that seals up all in rest.
In me thou see’st the glowing of such fire,
That on the ashes of his youth doth lie,
As the deathbed whereon it must expire,
Consumed with that which it was nourished by.
This thou perceiv’st, which makes thy love more strong,
To love that well which thou must leave ere long.
-
Found a word that I think is fitting what he is saying that his ability to describe this beauty as beyond his ability to pen - a beauty beyond words - a beauty that is indescribable - the adjective for that is... ineffable.
-
My Dogwood tree has changed to it's Fall foliage, and my front porch is all decked out for this beautiful season. I posted a couple of pictures in the Library section.
Perfect word choice, "ineffable" I like it! A re read indeed!!!
-
Shakespeare Sonnet LXXXV(http://i.huffpost.com/gen/1782938/images/n-ERATO-628x314.jpg)
8th-century-bce poet Hesiod, names the 9 Muses;
Clio, the “Proclaimer,” Euterpe, the “Well Pleasing,” Thalia, the “Blooming,” or “Luxuriant,”
Melpomene, the “Songstress,” Erato, the “Lovely,” Polymnia, “She of the Many Hymns,”
Urania, the “Heavenly,” Calliope, “She of the Beautiful Voice,” Terpsichore, “Delighting in the Dance.”
My tongue-tied Muse in manners holds her still,
While comments of your praise, richly compil'd,
[Rehearse thy] character with golden quill,
And precious phrase by all the Muses fil'd.
I think good thoughts while others write good words,
And, like unletter'd clerk, still cry 'Amen'
To every hymn that able spirit affords
In polish'd form of well-refined pen.
Hearing you praised, I say "'Tis so, 'tis true,"
And to the most of praise add something more;
But that is in my thought, whose love to you,
Though words come hindmost, holds his rank before.
Then others for the breath of words respect,
Me for my dumb thoughts, speaking in effect.
|
William Shakespeare's Sonnet 85https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=3Uu8_Vrq0UY
-
Over and over we are told that Hesiod named the muses - curiosity suggests a bit of research - this is a site with the translation of Hesiod's book that includes Hesiod's writing about the muses.
The work, The Theogony and the first section that we would call a chapter today is Hymn to the Muses The book is translated is by H.G.Evelyn-White.
http://www.theoi.com/Text/HesiodTheogony.html
I love this bit - a quote of the translated work, "Thence they arise and go abroad by night, veiled in thick mist, and utter their song with lovely voice,"
-
Sonnet LXXXV
He seems to continue with his theory that others can write about his muse all they want, and sing their praises, but he and only he alone is filled with silent words that are felt, not just scribed in ink.
-
Yes, Bellamarie he gets on a kick doesn't he - this self-effacing one I continue to shake my head slowly back and forth being annoyed - what can I say - so I have turned my attention to learning more about the muses and Hesiod naming them - now at least I have planted in my head who Hesiod was - I heard the name many times but frankly did not know he was a poet - thought more a philosopher like Aristotle.
I've become so annoyed - oh dear but I really have - so that reading the Sonnet I'm having a difficult time even admiring phrases or lines - the best I can come up with is his reference to his pen being well-refined or a golden quill
Well this too shall end - onward... :)
-
I agree, his obsessive repetitiveness can make you lose interest. He gets on one topic be it procreation, depression, beauty, etc., and beats a dead horse.
-
Interesting coincidence--I recently bought a copy of Hesiod, mostly because it was translated by Stanley Lombardo, whose translations are really good, and I'm willing to take a chance on anything he does. It's got both Theogony and Works and Days and is still only a quarter of an inch thick, but I haven't had a chance to look at it yet.
I'm traveling now, so can't look up that passage to see what he does with it.
-
It will be interesting Pat to see how the phrase is translated by Lombardo - the romance of it attracted me - veiled in thick mist - looking forward to your post... safe trip.
-
Shakespeare Sonnet LXXXVI
(https://i.ytimg.com/vi/7jwUMQdSlIU/hqdefault.jpg)
Archangel Gabriel (The Writing Muse)
Was it the proud full sail of his great verse,
Bound for the prize of all-too-precious you,
That did my ripe thoughts in my brain inhearse,
Making their tomb the womb wherein they grew?
Was it his spirit, by spirits taught to write
Above a mortal pitch, that struck me dead?
No, neither he, nor his compeers by night
Giving him aid, my verse astonished.
He, nor that affable familiar ghost
Which nightly gulls him with intelligence,
As victors of my silence cannot boast;
I was not sick of any fear from thence:
But when your countenance fil'd up his line,
Then lack'd I matter; that enfeebled mine |
William Shakespeare's Sonnet 86https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=JhVMdWvNNHg
Calling Archangel Gabriel (The Writing Muse)https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=7jwUMQdSlIU
-
It appears we have another muse that is NOT one of the Greek daughter's of Zeus - the angle Gabriel is also a Muse and a Writing Muse at that... included is a link to more information about Gabe...
-
Here I thought after he was aghast that another wrote sailing along for the prize of nailing it and he, our poet, goes blank so that his thoughts for his poem is as if in a tomb that he then says is a womb - I'm expecting exaltation to follow - success, if not sharing the actual words of a poem at least that his poem was growing, which is what I think a womb is suggesting - he did not indicate a dried up womb but rather, one that is opposite to a tomb therefore, very much alive and well.
But no, he keeps the drum beat going of why he cannot write, continuing to blame the other for ruining his ability to write - well our poet clearly does not do well in a competitive prize winning write-off even if the prize is successfully putting into words his admiration for either his love interest or maybe his attachment to his muse.
Seems that because another wrote about the same subject with some success he blames the other writer for his inability to actually write - not because he came in second but actually blames him for his writer's block. Looks like playing the blame game has been around for a long long time.
-
I won't be back east until the 30th, but will have internet in the meantime. Back later.
-
Sonnet LXXXVI
But when your countenance fil'd up his line,
Then lack'd I matter; that enfeebled mine
So because this nameless love gave recognition and approval of the other poet's writings, it caused Shakespeare to stop writing, or feel inadequate?
-
Ah so Pat I do get confused as to where you hang your hat on a permanent basis - I thought you had an apartment in Oregon and that was your main abode - being silly here but anyhow glad to see you pop in and we will look forward to you ahum being back east - where I think you are saying you are better able to share your thoughts with us... 8)
Yep, Bellamarie he sure is in the blame game isn't he... I guess it is because of his reputation in the literary world that we expect him to be admirable in all of his affairs - clearly he knows not of a writer's block, or that it is not the end of the world when it happens and more, not being able to live with that reality he is a blamer - Ok, actually funny, a democrat in the age of monarchs - meaning he is like everyone else having personal weaknesses, downfalls as well as, skills. Only, his skill is extraordinary. Anyhow, all this during the age of monarchy that I guess we still place authors in a hierarchy expecting only noble behavior keeping them trapped as monarchs of the written word. Ah so...
Hmm just thought - remember back a couple of weeks ago when Leah brought to our attention the link about how we see the world based on our own experiences and expectations - I do not know about Shakespeare but so many of the scholars who have pulled apart what they know of his life are often the very culprits, who are writing from an ego centered viewpoint. I am thinking of the recent interview on the Charlie Rose Show with Ian McEwan.
I am remembering years back when we discussed his Atonement. His book challenged us as he used a new way of telling a story. We were reading his work before any Oscar was presented for the movie however, he had received a Booker and a Whitbread award so that any interview showed a working writer discussing his work. A very different personality showed up at this recent Charlie Rose Show interview - my thought was, what a twit. And now I am thinking - that is it - many writers of all genre take themselves very seriously and if they are successfully read by many some elevate themselves. So that all this about Shakespeare's elevated position among writers is passed along by the many writers who are looking for their own accolades as well as, what they can deduce from his writing showing any elevated thoughts that Shakespeare may have harbored. So we have layers of ;) twits :D establishing the position of Shakespeare on the ladder of success.
Yes, have to give it to him, Shakespeare does offer lots of brilliance to learn from but, now I wonder if there are other writers not in fashion who were brilliant - I'm thinking 'fashion' because if there is a book written there seems to be a need by many a scholar to establish their own prominence by bettering the earlier book - I'm just curious unfortunately, it would take living another lifetime because it would take years of study to see if this premise is spot on or just another cloud of hot air... ::) ah so, fun to think about... but I guess my mind questioned because Ian McEwan got under my skin. What a twit, full of himself and to turn into that in your elder years to me is sad...
-
Here we go again - so close to the new page that to upload the Sonnet here will be a nuisance
Just as well - this can be a 'before hand' - while looking for some art work of a king asleep came across several paintings of the 'Sleeping Rinaldo" - actually had another that I liked more but it uploaded so slowly you have no idea and it seemed to affect everything on our site - so I switched to what you will see -
The question - who is this sleeping Rinaldo - found all sorts of web sites about the sixteenth century artist and finding the painting etc. etc. but who was Rinaldo that the painting depicted - turns out to be an Epic Poem written about the Crusades and like Roland in The Song of Roland, Rinaldo, a Christian knight is wounded.
So far the only site I found with the Epic Poem, that include 20 Cantos is not a very attractive site and at first goes on and on about the history of the poet and other background information - Where as this site does not include the Epic Poem however, it does a great job of explaining the poem, Jerusalem Delivered, and does include quotes from the poem.
http://www.vintagenovels.com/2014/01/jerusalem-delivered-by-torquato-tasso.html
-
Our Poetry Page Reads
Shakespeare Sonnets
2016 the world commemorates
400 years since the death of William Shakespeare.
(http://d13a6ytc0s97c3.cloudfront.net/uploads/listing/image/67/event_RS556808_36980_ROY210915_010-lpr.jpg)
April, 1616. A man died, but a legacy was born; one which proved
so essential not only to the development of
drama and literature, but to language, to thoughts and ideas.
A Sonnet a Day
July 1, till December 1,
We read in order, from 1 to 154
A Shakespeare Sonnet each day.
Welcome
Please share your comments about the day's Sonnet.
Link: First Post of Our Discussion on July 1 (http://seniorlearn.org/forum/index.php?topic=176.msg283685#msg283685)
Shakespeare Anniversary Links
- Shakespeare400 (http://www.shakespeare400.org/)
- Shakespeare 400 at The Globe (http://www.shakespearesglobe.com/400)
- Shakespeare 400 Chicago (http://www.shakespeare400chicago.com/)
- Dame Judi leads Shakespeare Day gala finale (http://www.bbc.com/news/entertainment-arts-36111591)
- Turning Shakespeare’s sonnets into short films (http://[url=http://www.pbs.org/newshour/bb/turning-shakespeares-sonnets-short-films/)
|
Discussion Leaders: Barb (augere@ix.netcom.com)
-
Shakespeare Sonnet LXXXVII(http://render.fineartamerica.com/images/images-profile-flow/350/images/artworkimages/medium/1/the-sleeping-rinaldo-francesco-zugno.jpg)
Sleeping Rinaldo, Bewitched by LoveFarewell! thou art too dear for my possessing,
And like enough thou know'st thy estimate:
The charter of thy worth gives thee releasing;
My bonds in thee are all determinate.
For how do I hold thee but by thy granting?
And for that riches where is my deserving?
The cause of this fair gift in me is wanting,
And so my patent back again is swerving.
Thyself thou gavest, thy own worth then not knowing,
Or me, to whom thou gav'st it, else mistaking;
So thy great gift, upon misprision growing,
Comes home again, on better judgment making.
Thus have I had thee, as a dream doth flatter,
In sleep a king, but waking no such matter. |
William Shakespeare's Sonnet 87https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=MTSpiYeJR3k
-
Sonnet LXXXVII
Now this sonnet makes me wonder if my suspicions were correct all along, was his muse all in his head, imagined, like an obsession he has been living. Now it appears he is willing to let go of it. He realizes this has been a fantasy and can never become a reality. It's like a writer who sits at their desk day after day creating this wonderful story/poem and lives through it, only to come to the end and realizes it's only just that, his creation in his mind!
-
I'm thinking so Bellamarie - almost as we have a saint in our head even if there is a reminder in the form of a statue or prayer card - compared to the last few I must say I like this poem - this thought he writes does not sound as whiny but stating how he sees it...
The charter of thy worth gives thee releasing;
My bonds in thee are all determinate.
I never knew that the Archangel Gabriel was thought to be a muse to writing - need to find out more about that connection and when did it start. Interesting how we see inspiration as separate from ourselves - in all the reading the past few days, have no memory of what site but I thought interesting it was as a result of the viewpoint of the Trinity that depended on imagination to understand or at least accept, so that the concept of man having imagination was accepted - Seems anything written before that time was supposed to be based in fact - Which begs the plausible with the myths - but then truth be said, with no science to refute the myths they were probably thought to be real. Hard to imagine but when you think of it, what we know today that makes for us the myth stories as imaginary was not known in prehistory when the stories were simply explanations for earthly and human phenomena.
-
Gabriel is known as the divine messenger/revealer/interpreter.
-
aha - so a messenger is a writer I guess hmm I think of a messenger as like a Fed Ex delivery or a bike delivery which back in history was probably a runner. Well something to look into isn't it... :-*
-
What this poem says to me is, you were always too good for me, and gave me your regard in mistake, not knowing your own worth. Now you do, so rightly no longer want me. For me, it was a bit of undeserved good luck, now melted away, just as I can dream of being a king, but then wake up.
My footnote says "upon misprison growing" means "having its origin in a mistake".
-
Thanks Pat that does give it a different twist - to whom thou gav'st it, else mistaking; or as you made it clearer using today's words, gave me your regard in mistake. Regardless Shakespeare's words or yours it sure sums it up doesn't it... I do get Bellamarie's point as well, that whomever gave him his/her regard sounds like it is in his imagination or as Bellamarie says, in his head.
The first line puts a period at the end of this playing with whomever it is that is so beautiful that his words cannot describe - Farewell! thou art too dear for my possessing,
Interesting to see how Shakespeare takes a feeling or idea and repeats it several time in a series of Sonnets, each using a different metaphor - read somewhere that is what courtroom lawyers do, say the same thing in several ways with a different set of comparisons each time.
-
Shakespeare Sonnet LXXXVIII (https://s-media-cache-ak0.pinimg.com/564x/22/a4/bd/22a4bda47c5e6b3f415716f8d7147c2f.jpg)
When thou shalt be disposed to set me light,
And place my merit in the eye of scorn,
Upon thy side against myself I'll fight,
And prove thee virtuous, though thou art forsworn.
With mine own weakness being best acquainted,
Upon thy part I can set down a story
Of faults conceal'd, wherein I am attainted,
That thou in losing me shalt win much glory:
And I by this will be a gainer too;
For bending all my loving thoughts on thee,
The injuries that to myself I do,
Doing thee vantage, double-vantage me.
Such is my love, to thee I so belong,
That for thy right myself will bear all wrong.
|
William Shakespeare Sonnet 88https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=0-gj2peZ148
-
Sonnet LXXXVIII
When thou shalt be disposed to set me light,
And place my merit in the eye of scorn,
Hmmm.... why does Shakespeare think this person has reason to speak ill of him to others?
Such is my love, to thee I so belong,
That for thy right myself will bear all wrong.
He says he knows all his own weaknesses and will still love and defend this person even when they speak ill of him. When reading this the scripture of Jesus teaching to turn the other cheek came to mind:
In the Gospel of Matthew, an alternative for "an eye for an eye" is given by Jesus: 38 Ye have heard that it hath been said, An eye for an eye, and a tooth for a tooth: 39 But I say unto you, That ye resist not evil: but whosoever shall smite thee on thy right cheek, turn to him the other also.
-
I know Bellamarie - I am trying to figure out how he gains by agreeing with her that he is guilty of the faults she mentions -
That thou in losing me shalt win much glory:
And I by this will be a gainer too;
...
Doing thee vantage, double-vantage me.
Even the last two lines does not spell out what is the advantage to him of agreeing with her. I understand the parable that is about meekness - do you think it is as simple as all of that? - If you have ever had someone stab you in the back with their negative judgment as if it were truth - turning the other cheek is note easy and yet, there is no winning for loosing in that kind of situation - complain or try to reverse the the story to reflect the truth and you are furthering the interest in the story and leaving those who actually had no skin in the story confused so the take side supporting their choice on other aspects of personality. The entire thing is a form of bullying - I can see him turning the other cheek but to consider this person someone to admire if not adore - hmmm and their behavior to ruin your reputation is a double-vantage - hmmm I am just not seeing it.
-
Although this sonnet sounds like it's written to a woman, I think it's still the same young man/beloved/patron. It's an emotional progression from the previous poems, where he's abasing himself versus the rival poet, admitting he's not as good, but saying his love is stronger. Now he's really crawling. I doubt it will work, that sort of behavior seldom does.
-
Barb, you were confused about where I'm based. So am I. The majority of the time I'm still in my house in Bethesda, but I spend a lot of time in Portland, and will eventually move there. I'm in Portland now, and Tuesday will switch to Los Angeles to see JoanK before heading back to Bethesda.
-
Your being in Portland I quick looked it up - can you believe it is warmer in Portland than it is here - been in the back of the house and got hungry - kitchen door leads to dining where the window is open facing North - it was down right cold - I had to hurry or get a jacket - have not felt cold like that since last April - the norther came - still overcast and gradually, true to form the clouds will blow away by tomorrow afternoon or evening - but for now everything has a blue caste and it is cold - a 20 degree drop in temperature since around 10:30 this morning - a damp cold - a soup for supper cold - won't open the house till tomorrow when the sun is out and the wind is dry rather than this wet cold dreary whatever - and Pat according to the weather Portland is at 74 and we are at 69 - at least you probably have signs of Autumn that we just do not see till the very end of November but it is cold - tra la - it is cold... need to call my son and see if the cold reached Houston...
Sorry but I could care less if Shakespeare is being a fool in love or not - there is a cold breeze - it is actually blowing the trees, grass and bushes - hehe it is cold! ;D
-
Yes, PatH., I agree I don't think he has switched to whom he is addressing all this self proclaimed love for, I too think it is still the un named male love.
Indeed he seems to be wallering in proclamation he will remain true even in the worst of this person reviling him and refusing him. Again I see this as more of his imagination. Do we know if Shakespeare ever suffered from any mental illnesses? Why do I keep seeing him as a bit of grandiose disorder:
https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Grandiose_delusions
-
Shakespeare Sonnet LXXXIX(http://66.media.tumblr.com/3331a492534ab112f848b44a71d67f8b/tumblr_o5h14zACWT1si53zno1_500.jpg)
Say that thou didst forsake me for some fault,
And I will comment upon that offence;
Speak of my lameness, and I straight will halt,
Against thy reasons making no defence.
Thou canst not, love, disgrace me half so ill,
To set a form upon desired change,
As I'll myself disgrace: knowing thy will,
I will acquaintance strangle and look strange,
Be absent from thy walks, and in my tongue
Thy sweet beloved name no more shall dwell,
Lest I, too much profane, should do it wrong
And haply of our old acquaintance tell.
For thee against myself I'll vow debate,
For I must ne'er love him whom thou dost hate.
|
William Shakespeare's Sonnet 89https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=2u6A7ycx3PE
-
Sonnet LXXXIX
It appears he is willing to take all blame for the break up, whether in his head or reality. He is willing to act as though they never knew each other so others will not get a bad impression of the loved one. He says he is willing to hate himself is this person so hates him. Ughhh.... such self loathing in this poem.
-
Bellamarie it sure can sound like self loathing can't it - I think is is how you read it or maybe it is how comfortable you are with irony.
I'm thinking we sometimes do a number on anyone attempting to backstab - we humor the situation or person who is taking it seriously by showing or speaking in spades whatever the fault is that is used by the one backstabbing - like in the poem, walking lame just to prove to the backstabber as if you are lame and then even promising not to be in the same room or as the poem, on the same walking path - while all the time you and your friends see your token words and behavior for what it is - a secret smile that does not show on the lips yet, others share it and during some future discussion the incident will be mentioned as an example of the ridiculous.
Who knows what Shakespeare had in mind - and it could be that it was a perfect example of self loathing - but then it could be irony. Again, we see what we see in these poems and our own life experience has us see what we see...
-
People spoke then with much more exaggerated emotion than they do today. And poets more so. It's hard to read, though.
-
Yes, Joan K., they did use more emotion and we have to keep in mind Shakespeare's plays are filled with drama, mental illness and suicide.
-
hmm I am thinking this Sonnet may be deeper than we can decipher - Yes, Bellamarie Shakespeare sure was a master at writing in his plays mental illness and there were several suicides - and Joan saying it is hard to read caught me up short - the word that was a reach when I read the Sonnet was profane - I thought it meant profanity - it could fit but was a stretch to make sense - well I started to look up the use of the word profane in the seventeenth century and it has a meaning I would never have guessed. And so I am thinking there may be more to this poem that is going over our head.
However, if we do not get the seventeenth century meaning again - we are not Shakespearean scholars - we are bringing to the poems our life experience - and yes, it would be good to understand the meaning of the words as used by Shakespeare but we can see the metaphor to life and apply a personal meaning -
As to profane - "(from pro + fanum = on the threshold of the temple) intended those on the outside, those not initiated or who haven’t pronounced ‘vows.’
From Vergil’s “Procul o, procul este, profani” (‘Away, away, profane ones’) and Horace’s “Odi profanum volgus et arceo. Favete linguis” (‘I hate the profane crowd and exclude it. Let your tongues be silent’) ‘profane’ was used of those who must remain distant and outside the coterie. (Horace will sing only to the elected youth of Rome [“virginibus puerisque”].)
Here the poet will remain remote from the youth and his friends: if his promenades took place in private gardens, as was customary, then the poet will stay outside the enclosure and literarily absent from his inner circle."
The Sonnet has now a different slant so that the whole thing may be about a separation between his beloved and himself - that all the agreeing to what reads as self loathing is how he speaks of this separation that may have come about because their intimacy could not continue or, he is older and now must step aside or, if the lover is a women, maybe she is to be married and he can no longer engage in thinking of her as his muse - there appears to be another poet that he will not debate so, whatever that is all about he does want to leave the field as the saying goes.
So thanks Joan your post suggested a second look with yet another interpretation and there are probably a few more.
-
Shakespeare Sonnet LXXXX(http://img11.deviantart.net/6663/i/2015/156/4/0/it_was_a_dark_and_stormy_night____by_ninjapenguin4-d8w5unj.jpg)
Then hate me when thou wilt; if ever, now;
Now, while the world is bent my deeds to cross,
Join with the spite of fortune, make me bow,
And do not drop in for an after-loss:
Ah, do not, when my heart hath 'scoped this sorrow,
Come in the rearward of a conquer'd woe;
Give not a windy night a rainy morrow,
To linger out a purposed overthrow.
If thou wilt leave me, do not leave me last,
When other petty griefs have done their spite
But in the onset come; so shall I taste
At first the very worst of fortune's might,
And other strains of woe, which now seem woe,
Compared with loss of thee will not seem so. |
Shakespeare Sonnet 90https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=e2TwRncBsGE
-
Thanks goodness no rain today and the sun is out because this is such a painful poem - what a gift to be able to put in words such a magnanimity of spirit - whew - so the poet is facing a public censure or possibly a shunning and he, with a generous spirit is telling his beloved to leave and leave now before the small slings at him start to eat at his chance, or as the definition in the seventeenth century, his fortune meaning; Speculation and called the,"Mistress of Events."
Hmm so he is replacing one muse, assuming a goddess that you, Bellamarie caught that was in his head, with another, the Mistress of Events who represents speculation/chance.
Boethius may suggest that nature does not start degenerate or imperfect, but rather starts perfect and ideal and then degenerates to the lower and weaker form where as, the Catholic Church believed humans started imperfect and Baptism cleared us of the original sin putting us on the road towards the ideal. Along the road of life, events alter and offer us a choice and the poet is protecting his beloved from the event of barbaric slings and arrows that are coming his way, telling his beloved, Ah, do not, when my heart hath 'scoped this sorrow, Come in the rearward of a conquer'd woe;.
I wonder which came first - this Sonnet 90 or Hamlet's soliloquy, "The slings and arrows of outrageous fortune. Or to take arms against a sea of troubles, And by opposing end them. To die- to sleep- No more;"
-
Painful is right. It's not said what the misfortune is, but he's out of favor, people are turning from him. I don't feel the beloved might be caught in the disfavor, more that the poet feels the belove will turn from him too. His response is: be the first to leave me, so I get the worst over with, and the rest will seem like nothing by comparison.
Some bits of these poems really get to you, and for me, it was the last bit:
If thou wilt leave me, do not leave me last,
When other petty griefs have done their spite.
But in the onset come;so shall I taste
At first the very worst of fortune's might;
And other strains of woe, which now seem woe,
Compar'd with loss of thee will not seem so.
-
It is an awful crying moan isn't it Pat - interesting that yes, it could be self protection from the pain of the beloved leaving him - ;) I give him a generous spirit thinking he is warning the beloved to take care of himself so the beloved does not go down with him. Sort of a Titanic moment - go, get in the lifeboat - save yourself - but yes, it could be - I'm going to drown and you are abandoning me or maybe even pushing me over the rail. Oh my...
After reading this though I must say I had to read the Hamlet bit - and oh it is really far more painful than I ever saw - I always saw Hamlet as rather petulant wanting attention from mom and since he did not get the attention he seeks she along with her new husband were the enemies beyond redemption so that he could have a tantrum - but now after reading this Sonnet and re-reading the Soliloquy I really have a different opinion of Hamlet and need to re-read the play - not today but soon.
-
Shakespeare Sonnet LXXXXI (https://s-media-cache-ak0.pinimg.com/564x/36/6c/56/366c5677cda517e5401ff7d0c66d72d1.jpg)
Some glory in their birth, some in their skill,
Some in their wealth, some in their body's force,
Some in their garments, though new-fangled ill;
Some in their hawks and hounds, some in their horse;
And every humour hath his adjunct pleasure,
Wherein it finds a joy above the rest:
But these particulars are not my measure;
All these I better in one general best.
Thy love is better than high birth to me,
Richer than wealth, prouder than garments' cost,
Of more delight than hawks or horses be;
And having thee, of all men's pride I boast:
Wretched in this alone, that thou may'st take
All this away, and me most wretched make.
|
William Shakespeare Sonnet 91https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=NZMDGgKAAPE
-
Sonnet LXXXX
He is begging him to go ahead and leave and let him deal with the pain now, rather than to give him any false hope, only for it to be of greater pain to see the love will leave at a later time.
This is indeed painful to read. The poor man is in distress.
-
Sonnet LXXXXI
Here his tone has changed from desperate and in distress to a more calm, peacefulness, describing how others love their possessions to bring them joy in life, but for him just having this person's love would be enough for him, yet it could make him wretched to lose it.
It reminds me of the homily Fr. Miller gave this past Sunday making us realize that throughout our lives we gather many people and possessions, and as we get older they become less and less, until truly in the end before death, it is just about yourself and God. Shakespeare seems to have placed the love of this person higher than anything or anyone including God. We know he believed in God being a Catholic, yet these last few sonnets with his desperateness to have this person love him seems to have left him feeling there is no one or nothing in the world that could bring him completeness or joy other than this one person. This is another reason I see these sonnets as his creative drama like his plays. Yes, they could be based on real life, but for me it is more dreamlike, fantasy, dramatic to the point of not a reality. He has created this man (himself) in love with a young male (his muse) who is being tormented in his own mind, for loving and not having the love returned.
At least I feel we may be turning from the dark and desperate to a new lighter theme...... maybe.
-
Barb,
Catholic Church believed humans started imperfect and Baptism cleared us of the original sin putting us on the road towards the ideal.
Without getting into a debate, I have to say I see God's creation inside the womb as "perfect." The reason for the cleansing of the sin at Baptism is because the life has entered the world of sin of Adam and Eve, needing to be cleansed. So I see humans starting as perfect, and then become imperfect. God created human/perfection, man created sin/imperfection. Just my thought. No right or wrong answer, just differences of opinions. :)
-
Bellamarie:
At least I feel we may be turning from the dark and desperate to a new lighter theme...... maybe.
I sure hope so. I'm getting tired of so much suffering. But maybe is right. He's still anxious about losing his love.
It's a nice sonnet--very graceful. I particularly the rhythmic listing of men's delights in the first four lines.
-
Sorry so late in the day - sinus infection and feeling miserable thinking I'll say something after this pill or cup of soup when I will have more energy - ah so...
Bellamarie "creative drama like his plays" is just so right on - yes, I can see it... and once he gets an idea he sure knows how to show it from every side doesn't he - I almost said beat it to death but then fair is fair he shows all sides using as many metaphors that he can think of.
Looks like you too Pat caught the mood of Bellamarie's phrase "may be turning from the dark" - as another saying, I think it is from Benton's Lucia, we shall see what we shall see.
Listing all the aspects of life folks glory in, or as Pat you say, all the delights - I had to laugh at hawks and hounds!? In contrast today it seems there is similar pride taken in, cockatoos - especially white cockatoos - cockatoos that sing, dance, talk, roll balls, play with pet kittens and annoy pet dogs - cockatoos with their Polynesian crown like head feathers that talk up a storm while sitting on their caretaker/owner's head, shoulder, nose or big toe and are filmed ad infinitum for youtube. And then, today its all sorts of dogs, domesticated dogs, cute dogs, elegant dogs, dogs uglier than sin but few, if any hunting hounds that break loose in packs baying and barking through the brush. However, I have a few friends who take pride and glory in their horses - here they are in the late 70s and winning trophies for putting their cutting horse through its paces or enjoying a weekend by joining other horse owners on long trail rides.
Today, a person depending on another so to not feel wretched we would call co-dependent - it appears it was a glorified way to feel back in the seventeenth century.
I'm nodding off here while writing this with so much meds in my system - better close and hope for a better tomorrow.
-
Shakespeare Sonnet LXXXXII(https://s-media-cache-ak0.pinimg.com/736x/67/9f/cc/679fcc729176ed049887dd30055522dd.jpg)
But do thy worst to steal thyself away,
For term of life thou art assured mine;
And life no longer than thy love will stay,
For it depends upon that love of thine.
Then need I not to fear the worst of wrongs,
When in the least of them my life hath end.
I see a better state to me belongs
Than that which on thy humour doth depend;
Thou canst not vex me with inconstant mind,
Since that my life on thy revolt doth lie.
O, what a happy title do I find,
Happy to have thy love, happy to die!
But what's so blessed-fair that fears no blot?
Thou mayst be false, and yet I know it not.
|
William Shakespeare's Sonnet 92https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=BI7KjUL2cQk
-
Sonnet LXXXXII
For term of life thou art assured mine;
Happy to have thy love, happy to die!
A continuation of sonnet 91, only now he is speaking of being alive as long as "you" love me, and happy to die he no longer has "thy" love.
I see his dramatic effects in this sonnet much like that of his play Romeo and Juliet. He can't live without "thy" love. If he can't be with his love he may as well die.
Barb, I hope you are feeling better after your meds and rest. My allergies have been raising havoc on my eyes, nose and throat. Tis the season.... Ughhh
-
Thanks Bellamarie feel much better today - still lethargic but that I know is a reaction to allergies - I need to change the filter in the air purifier or whatever it is called - but I need to order some filter material - I think I used up the last batch - may just take what is on there and bang it against the house to get some of what the filter is holding to fall out - Now that the allergy store closed no one is carrying the filters and I have to order them online.
The poem - yep, that is why we are here ;) - you nailed it Bellamarie - and here again I was getting annoyed with all this dependence on another - till by chance I found this earlier... which suggests to me the thoughts in this Sonnet probably came from this thinking - no way would Shakespeare not know the Bible - it seems to have been the bases and allegory for most of what was written during this time in history.
(https://66.media.tumblr.com/6f50447dc8c4dce5034f5f189d5abc1e/tumblr_n7mgzvopXp1ssvisbo1_500.jpg)
-
guess I'm still confused. The mood has definitely changed. he's going to die, but is happy about it (presumably because he'll be in heaven?
From the mood of the last two, I'm guessing that what's really going on is that he's accepted that X is really leaving him, has given up trying to get him back, and is really ready to move on (although he's not going to tell x that). I wonder if now we're going to get some sniping at X?
-
Do you think that is what comes next Joan - to snip at this beloved for leaving him - ah so... I guess that is a reaction for some - nothing we have read so far leads us to believe Shakespeare will become a jolly soul - he is very good at doom and gloom isn't he and every so often there is a glorious burst of wisdom or lovely phrases that elude to love - but jolly not really - no 'As You Like It' or 'Comedy of Errors' peeking out from these Sonnets is there.
-
JoanK., I think he says he is happy to die because living without the love of this person would not be worth living at all. For some reason I see a little tongue in cheek in this.
Barb, he goes from so many diffferent moods, it's like the phases you go through in accepting the death of a loved one. Snipping may be his next mood swing.
-
We shall soon find out if snipping is on the menu won't we - Well here we go into October - we started this back in July - all that is left is October and November - and here we go again stretching the last post of two so that we can have the daily Sonnet on the same page as the page we respond -
Oh I have the perfect tid bit to bring - found this and was not sure when we could use it but I found it fascinating. Next Post...
-
(http://www.woodlandtrust.org.uk/media/100816579/the-birnam-oak-n-benvie.jpg?cb=078254b139524188ae62583e938aae2c)
The Birnam OakThis Perthshire oak tree is several centuries old and thought to be
the last survivor of the ancient medieval oakwood mentioned in Macbeth.
It is believed Shakespeare was inspired when he visited
the area in 1599 as part of a troupe of travelling players.
In the play, the witch tells Macbeth he will remain King until
Birnam wood comes to his castle at Dunsinane.
This sounded an unlikely eventuality until an attacking army
camouflaged itself with branches from the great wood. |
-
When That I Was And A Little Tiny Boy
- by William Shakespeare
When that I was and a little tiny boy,
With hey, ho, the wind and the rain,
A foolish thing was but a toy,
For the rain it raineth every day.
But when I came to man's estate,
With hey, ho, . . .
'Gainst knaves and thieves men shut their gate
For the rain, . . .
But when I came, alas! to wive,
With hey, ho, . . .
By swaggering could I never thrive,
For the rain, . . .
But when I came unto my beds,
With hey, ho, . . .
With toss-pots still had drunken heads,
For the rain, . . .
A great while ago the world begun,
With hey, ho, . . .
But that's all one, our play is done.
And we'll strive to please you every day. |
-
Our Poetry Page Reads
Shakespeare Sonnets
2016 the world commemorates
400 years since the death of William Shakespeare.
(http://d13a6ytc0s97c3.cloudfront.net/uploads/listing/image/67/event_RS556808_36980_ROY210915_010-lpr.jpg)
April, 1616. A man died, but a legacy was born; one which proved
so essential not only to the development of
drama and literature, but to language, to thoughts and ideas.
A Sonnet a Day
July 1, till December 1,
We read in order, from 1 to 154
A Shakespeare Sonnet each day.
Welcome
Please share your comments about the day's Sonnet.
Link: First Post of Our Discussion on July 1 (http://seniorlearn.org/forum/index.php?topic=176.msg283685#msg283685)
Shakespeare Anniversary Links
- Shakespeare400 (http://www.shakespeare400.org/)
- Shakespeare 400 at The Globe (http://www.shakespearesglobe.com/400)
- Shakespeare 400 Chicago (http://www.shakespeare400chicago.com/)
- Dame Judi leads Shakespeare Day gala finale (http://www.bbc.com/news/entertainment-arts-36111591)
- Turning Shakespeare’s sonnets into short films (http://[url=http://www.pbs.org/newshour/bb/turning-shakespeares-sonnets-short-films/)
|
Discussion Leaders: Barb (augere@ix.netcom.com)
-
Shakespeare Sonnet LXXXXIII
(http://www.theater330.com/wp-content/uploads/2012/09/Holding-hands-with-another-woman.jpg)
So shall I live, supposing thou art true,
Like a deceived husband; so love's face
May still seem love to me, though alter'd new;
Thy looks with me, thy heart in other place:
For there can live no hatred in thine eye,
Therefore in that I cannot know thy change.
In many's looks the false heart's history
Is writ in moods and frowns and wrinkles strange,
But Heaven in thy creation did decree
That in thy face sweet love should ever dwell;
Whate'er thy thoughts or thy heart's workings be,
Thy looks should nothing thence but sweetness tell.
How like Eve's apple doth thy beauty grow,
If thy sweet virtue answer not thy show! |
Shakespeare Sonnet 93https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=skJT3BKcF9s
-
LXXXXIII
So pretty much he is saying, go ahead and love someone else and I will just pretend you still love me. Major denial and possibly delusional.
-
S's love is less than perfect, now. A sweet-faced two-timer!
-
Ouch ouch - talk about a knife in the back - whew - and said with no ugly curses - now that is class. "Thy looks should nothing thence but sweetness tell".
-
Barb, I think he says it with no ugly curses because he is in denial, and refuses to see any flaws in this person, regardless of how he has treated him. I wonder if at some point before we come to the end of these sonnets Shakespeare will awake from his slumber, and react to being hurt as normal people do? He sure knows what it is like to be rejected and cheated on, his plays show such different reactions than these sonnets of his.
-
Yes, I can see that Bellamarie - I wonder also - I wonder if these Sonnets were playing with ideas that became aspects of his plays or if they were biographical or simply taking an idea and working it using various metaphors - or maybe even seeing some of this behavior in others...
When I found the poem about being young that I shared in order to fill up space last night, the progression to adulthood including marriage, onto elder years the expectations were for a responsible joyless life - light and gay was for children, not for adults - these sonnets are a testimony to joylessness - maybe not always a responsible life but not looking at life through the lens of light and gay for sure.
That reminded me of the movie version of King Arthur, Camelot - it was easy for us to see when Arthur and Genevieve are asking in song What Do the Simple Folks Do as a reaction to the love Arthur knows is between Genevieve and Lancelot but now I see it may have been more - Being a responsible adult was not a joyful lark, it was serious stuff with no recourse - however, the peasants, since it was thought they did not have the responsibilities still created joy in their lives, or at least that is what was imagined.
Hmm Come to think of it, this poem is a bit like Arthur's love and devotion to Genevieve while she and Lancelot carry out their passionate expression of love. hmm - is that what this and other Sonnets are about - the love and devotion to another similar to the love and devotion of Arthur towards Genevieve. Genevieve who teases knights at the May Day celebration and falls passionately in love with a knight who comes to court because of his admiration for Arthur. Sure gives a new slant to these Sonnets.
-
Shakespeare Sonnet LXXXXIV
(http://spiritview.net/wp-content/uploads/2015/02/homeless.jpg)
They that have power to hurt and will do none,
That do not do the thing they most do show,
Who, moving others, are themselves as stone,
Unmoved, cold, and to temptation slow;
They rightly do inherit heaven's graces
And husband nature's riches from expense;
They are the lords and owners of their faces,
Others but stewards of their excellence.
The summer's flower is to the summer sweet,
Though to itself it only live and die,
But if that flower with base infection meet,
The basest weed out-braves his dignity;
For sweetest things turn sourest by their deeds;
Lilies that fester smell far worse than weeds.
|
William Shakespeare's Sonnet 94https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=e26-506R2Us
-
Had to read this one a few times - but I get the gest of it that some are as if frozen within themselves - "Unmoved, cold, and to temptation slow" and that insular lifestyle is like a festering flower that creates a stench as compared to a weed which is a metaphor for those who are not living a life of dignity - He does not say if they are trying not to be dignified or their life circumstance shows them as without dignity.
However, Shakespeare is having more of a problem with the dignified who he sees as insular within themselves and therefore, more like stone.
-
Shakespeare Sonnet LXXXXV
(http://humanflowerproject.com/images/uploads2/neroliprincess320.jpg)
How sweet and lovely dost thou make the shame
Which, like a canker in the fragrant rose,
Doth spot the beauty of thy budding name!
O, in what sweets dost thou thy sins enclose!
That tongue that tells the story of thy days,
Making lascivious comments on thy sport,
Cannot dispraise but in a kind of praise;
Naming thy name blesses an ill report.
O, what a mansion have those vices got
Which for their habitation chose out thee,
Where beauty's veil doth cover every blot,
And all things turn to fair that eyes can see!
Take heed, dear heart, of this large privilege;
The hardest knife ill-used doth lose his edge. |
William Shakespeare's Sonnet 95https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=J9iAyRbPHtw
-
Why does this poem remind me of a lady of the night - the art work showing her read lips reminded me of the rose that her lascivious comments are like a canker.
Also it is not usual unless you are a Spanish lady to find veils in the fashion of seventeenth century and so finding her was an adventure.
So I gather he is saying someone is hard as a good knife but like dirty talk. I think it is funny... difficult to imagine seventeenth century dirty talk and yet, what was that book turned into a movie - now I remember - Dangerous Liaisons with the seducer being John Malkovich - that movie made my skin crawl, of which this Sonnet reminds me. Somehow the Sonnet is not as vivid as the movie and so I can laugh at the contents of the Sonnet, how he deftly words it and the art image.
-
Sonnet LXXXXIV
They that have power to hurt and will do none,
They rightly do inherit heaven's graces
I see him saying that those who have the ability to hurt and do not, inherit heaven's graces. There are beautiful people in the world who take advantage of others, and hurt them because they can, and then there are others, who chose not to hurt in spite of knowing they can.
For sweetest things turn sourest by their deeds;
Lilies that fester smell far worse than weeds.
Beautiful people on the outside, can be very ugly on the inside, is what I see Shakespeare saying here.
-
Sonnett LXXXXV
Take heed, dear heart, of this large privilege;
The hardest knife ill-used doth lose his edge.
OUCH!!! Now Shakespeare is coming at the person who has done the hurting, who thinks no one has seen his actions. Shakespeare is cautioning him, that even though he is beautiful, and his beauty is like a veil that he thinks is concealing his actions, and by him saying and doing all the right things, he is not getting away with going unnoticed. It's kind of like he is cautioning him to be careful, you just may die by your own self inflictions. This reminds me of scripture when Jesus said to Peter in Matthew 26:52:
Matthew 26:52 New International Version (NIV)
52 “Put your sword back in its place,” Jesus said to him, “for all who draw the sword will die by the sword.
In other words, what goes around comes around.
This is what I was looking for and expecting to happen. Shakespeare may still feel as though he is in love with this person, but now he is opening his eyes and seeing him for who he really is, and it aint pretty!!
-
Seems like the words that struck you were perfect to match the thought that is in Sonnet 94 - "those who have the ability to hurt and do not, inherit heaven's graces." It is so much easier to hear than the opposite about how those who have the ability to hurt, do so - which we see so much of today.
Bellamarie it sounds like you see Sonnet 95 being written about a he and the veil of beauty as concealing his actions - and then a warning - sure fits the quote from Matthew. Your Ouch sure got into Shakespeare's feelings. Lots of Shakespeare Scholars see your version of the Sonnet as well.
The veil of beauty, as hiding makes me feel squeamish and so, as a veil of beauty on a woman I felt as though the veil acted as a barrier between her and the world, more of a protection. When I was able to see protection I could read the poem with a smile and of course see the object of his affection as a woman who needed and had protection.
We all bring something and we all take something from a poem. For many a veil provides a sense of secrecy. For me secrecy gives me the heebie jeebies and so I felt better reading the veil as protection from the eyes of others.
-
Shakespeare Sonnet XCVI
(http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-riF4pOiZdFA/TaMByM_7kJI/AAAAAAAAAmI/Mbl6BaRRM6c/s1600/Arcosolium%2Bof%2BCelerina.png)
Some say thy fault is youth, some wantonness;
Some say thy grace is youth and gentle sport;
Both grace and faults are loved of more and less;
Thou makest faults graces that to thee resort.
As on the finger of a throned queen
The basest jewel will be well esteem'd,
So are those errors that in thee are seen
To truths translated and for true things deem'd.
How many lambs might the stern wolf betray,
If like a lamb he could his looks translate!
How many gazers mightst thou lead away,
If thou would'st use the strength of all thy state!
But do not so; I love thee in such sort
As, thou being mine, mine is thy good report. |
William Shakespeare's Sonnet 96https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=v5_dbpZ9GeU
-
That's an interesting take on the veil, if it is taken in a literal sense Barb. I can see where you would think feminine if it were literally a veit being worn. I saw it as a phasade, like when people look, dress and act nice in public, yet are very ugly, mean and cruel behind closed doors. Either way I think Shakespeare is revealing not so nice qualities of this person.
In sonnet 96 which seems a continuation, he is still mentioning the falsehood of this person, and is referring to "youth" which makes me see he is still speaking of his young male love.
Some say thy fault is youth, some wantonness;
In these lines I still see him saying this person is being deceptive, a charlatan, and thinking he is fooling many, but he is questioning his sincerity and realness.
So are those errors that in thee are seen
To truths translated and for true things deem'd.
How many lambs might the stem wolf betray,
If like a lamb he could his looks translate!
How many gazers mightst thou lead away,
If thou would'st use the strength of all thy state!
-
Wow day is slipping by so quickly - looked in earlier and had several errands which did not bring any more clarity than you Bellamarie deduced from the Sonnet...
I looked and looked thinking I could find a definition for "stem wolf" but notta... Those two words appear to be the key to the Sonnet or at least in my mind - they seem to be inferring a sorta werewolf connotation between lamb and wolf versus wolf and man - the next line continues in my mind that line of thinking that you Bellamarie picked up as the theme of this Sonnet. If like a lamb he could his looks translate! The line appears to be saying the innocent or young lover is a friend in wolf's clothing with the wolf's clothing being his lamb-like appearance.
I've known a few people like that and when it is a family member oh oh oh - not sure I have been up to As, thou being mine, mine is thy good report. Although Shakespeare does preface his loyal love with But do not so;
A thought provoking Sonnet for sure...
-
Yes indeed, "a wolf in sheep's clothing" is a perfect comparison to what Shakespeare is relating to us in this sonnet. So many people will dress nice, go out in public with a smile on their face, a "Hi how are you?" and behind your back gossip and betray your confidences. And like you mentioned Barb, when it is a family member, it is a very hard pill to swallow. You can not change these type of people. Shakespeare is wanting to remain loyal to this person in spite of the truths and hurt. Nope, sorry if it were me..... Kick him to the curb!!
I have had a busy day myself, got up and had breakfast, hubby and I hurried over for Bible study, then went shopping at the mall, on the way home stopped to get our flu shot, and finally ate lunch around 2:00 p.m. I am beat and ready for a nap.
-
Wow. I blink and I've missed a lot of action.
I can solve the "stem wolf". It's a typo. My book says STERN wolf. Indeed, in many fonts m and rn are almost indistinguishable.
-
In fact, they are on my screen. The first one is M and the second RN.
-
This continues his theme, that the beloved's beautiful exterior conceals treachery and hurt, but in a gentler vein. But S is really hurting.
-
Thanks Pat - changed it - a small change that clarifies however, does not change the essence of the Sonnet at all!
You have to wonder at this point if the younger person he is so wrapped up with is really a wolf in sheep's clothes or his jealousy is creating this picture - he could be jealous of another's attention or just jealous of his youth and so everything has a sinister appearance - not even making it up - just seeing the relationship or lack of relationship through his eyes that are not at ease within the relationship or friendship or whatever situation and so he puts characteristics on this young person that he believes that may not even be true except in his viewpoint.
Again, so much conjecture - when bottom line he could have no direct involvement in a relationship other than to wrote a poem describing how it could be if the circumstance were true that he develops to create tension that ever poem or story requires.
Bellamarie flu shot - have you been getting them for the past few years? I get pneumonia so easily but with all the talk of the inadequacy of the flu shot the last few years I chose not to get one. But then last year I did not travel and was hardly out of my neighborhood where as this year I will be traveling at Christmas time - so I am back and forth what to do... I always have a reaction which means a shot equals a 3 day nap with lots of liquids - hate the waste of time feeling miserable if the shot is not taking care of this year's flu causing bug. Ha flu shot is a promise in wolf's clothes. ;)
-
Barb, I always get the flu shot, but I don't have much of a reaction. If you're traveling, it could be more important.
If you get pneumonia easily, have you had the vaccine? It's a one-time thing, though if you had the old one some years ago it's worth getting the new improved one.
-
yes I have done the pneumonia shot twice now since they are good for 7 years - it is the flu shot I am dithering about - and yes, traveling makes a difference doesn't it...
-
Shakespeare Sonnet XCVII(http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_9cX2w_GVy2g/TTRM-n51ohI/AAAAAAAABzQ/wmcOe1DKGtI/s1600/DSC02949.JPG)
How like a winter hath my absence been
From thee, the pleasure of the fleeting year!
What freezings have I felt, what dark days seen!
What old December's bareness every where!
And yet this time remov'd was summer's time,
The teeming autumn, big with rich increase,
Bearing the wanton burden of the prime,
Like widow'd wombs after their lord's decease:
Yet this abundant issue seem'd to me
But hope of orphans and unfather'd fruit;
For summer and his pleasures wait on thee,
And, thou away, the very birds are mute;
Or, if they sing, 'tis with so dull a cheer
That leaves look pale, dreading the winter's near. |
Shakespeare Sonnet 97https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=_L2_pz9tw1o
-
No specific mention of jealousy here, just a lament for the beloved's absence. Without the beloved, it seems like bleak, barren winter, even though it's actually summer and autumn, a fruitful and beautiful time.
Very prettily described seasons, too.
-
Particularly poignant to me is "And, thou away, the very birds are mute;" and then his plea for her return "For summer and his pleasures wait on thee," - both lines bring out the melancholy in me.
Pat sounds like from your post it the lines describing the seasons that particularly hit you. They are pretty briefly describing Summer and Fall as well as, Winter further described. Did they remind you of seasons you remember?
-
Barb, My hubby and I have been getting the flu shot many years now. We have had no reactions whatsoever from it. Maybe a soreness near the shot the next day, but today I feel fine and NO soreness at all. I recommend getting it especially for anyone over 60 yrs of age. My hubby always gets a bout of bronchitis every winter, and I usually will get one bad upper respiratory infection, but flu shots won't prevent those type of illnesses. Keep in mind the flu shot only prevents certain strains of viruses, so it is not 100% safe proof.
-
PatH.,
But S is really hurting.
Barb, Again, so much conjecture - when bottom line he could have no direct involvement in a relationship other than to wrote a poem describing how it could be if the circumstance were true that he develops to create tension that ever poem or story requires.
I feel Shakespeare has invented this relationship in his own mind for either to create these sonnets, or seeing himself in a relationship with this young male because it is his own desire. It does appear we could imagine the pain he would be in, if he is this much obsessed with this person, and is not getting any reciprocation from him. His pain in my opinion in self inflicted, be it real or fantasy.
-
Sonnet LXXXXVII (Barb I think you may have misplaced the Roman numeral "C" in this sonnet.
This sonnet for me is about Shakespeare leading us into the changing of the seasons. He appears to be going back into his gloomy dark place again.
-
He's speeding up the changes, though. It's summer and autumn in the world, but already winter in his heart.
-
Actually Bellamarie the C is OK it is just that I did not change the L to an X - fixed it and 96 - Thanks - really should go back and change the others in the 90s. I think my problem with the flu shot offered for free when you are on medicare is that it is cultured or whatever the process using eggs and I have a problem eating eggs so I end up feeling headachy and feverish for about 3 days after the shot.
And yes, the relationship he is talking about is for sure telling us about self inflicted pain - although, today's Sonnet talking about a widow's womb, orphans and unfather'd fruit sounds to me less like a metaphor that would be used in reference to a young man but rather as a reference to a woman.
Again, I think we can leave all that to the Shakespeare scholars and let's continue to read these Sonnets as they affect us in our personal experiences in life - I only read recently how a teacher in the NY area in a school filled with disadvantaged children had the class read the Sonnets and a couple of the plays which allowed the students to see similarities to their lives, their family and friends lives today so that there was a rich exchange of real life experiences for the students to dwell upon - that is the value of classical poetry similar to classical literature - finding what is similar or brings to mind an event or opens our hearts to a feeling that day to day conversation does not encourage.
I had to chuckle Pat - yes, speeding up the changes and at this time of life the seasons do go swiftly by - here it is autumn and I still have not taken a swim in the lake - and I was going to get so much more cleared out of the house than I did and now it is time to get gifts made and lined up for the holidays - I did not even put up any peach jam this year - one day I think time is unending and then other days in my heart and imagination I'm in another season.
-
Barb, back on Sept 23, you quoted Hesiod speaking of the muses, a lovely passage:
"Thence they arise and go abroad by night, veiled in thick mist, and utter their song with lovely voice,"
I said I would look up Lombardo's version when I got back, and here it is, a bit late. I include a bit more, because it doesn't divide neatly.
They begin their choral dance on Helikon's summit
So lovely it pangs, and with power in their steps
Ascend veiled and misted in palpable air
Treading the night, and in a voice beyond beauty
They chant:
-
It's both better and worse, but I like the drama leading up to the following chant.
Treading the night, and in a life beyond beauty
They chant:
-
I like the setup -
They begin their choral dance on Helikon's summit
So lovely it pangs, and with power in their steps
As to the other, either/or although I do like the veiled in thick mist that gives a fay feel to the first quote - where as yes, and in a voice beyond beauty but Treading seems heavier so that part of the line is second for me
thanks for remembering - that was a nice bit of ruminating
-
Oh good grief - sorry folks I forgot - I fell asleep last night watching TV and went to bed without a thought beyond my pillow - OK - back in a minute...
-
Shakespeare Sonnet LCVIII (http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-a-CxcdhVoIg/VQH1k-h1QPI/AAAAAAAAAFQ/vxtdVaqv5aA/s1600/Screen%2BShot%2B2015-03-12%2Bat%2B9.21.02%2BPM.png)
From you have I been absent in the spring,
When proud-pied April dress'd in all his trim
Hath put a spirit of youth in every thing,
That heavy Saturn laugh'd and leap'd with him.
Yet nor the lays of birds nor the sweet smell
Of different flowers in odour and in hue
Could make me any summer's story tell,
Or from their proud lap pluck them where they grew;
Nor did I wonder at the lily's white,
Nor praise the deep vermilion in the rose;
They were but sweet, but figures of delight,
Drawn after you, you pattern of all those.
Yet seem'd it winter still, and, you away,
As with your shadow I with these did play.
|
William Shakespeare Sonnet 98https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=zleIYxnq3FY
-
'From you I have been absent since last night
When proud-pied morning dress'd in all his trim
Hath put a spirit of poof in every thing,
That aged Saturn laugh'd and leap'd the day.'
This being the 98th Sonnet and only after 98 days - over three months of daily uploads it really is not the end of the world is it?
Appears our poet is continuing the description of Spring and Summer while telling us how he still feels as if winter and he plays with her/his shadow.
Ah yes, I have remembered bits and snippets of the past when thinking of mostly folks who are really no longer with us and so yes, I can see that as playing with their shadows.
-
Very nice image.
-
(The Witches Song from Macbeth)
(https://i.ytimg.com/vi/gDLyEKXlVPE/hqdefault.jpg?custom=true&w=168&h=94&stc=true&jpg444=true&jpgq=90&sp=68&sigh=X1W6-ZscT5AMDfKg3-Nrf_Xqd6U)
Double, double toil and trouble;
Fire burn and caldron bubble.
Fillet of a fenny snake,
In the caldron boil and bake;
Eye of newt and toe of frog,
Wool of bat and tongue of dog,
Adder's fork and blind-worm's sting,
Lizard's leg and howlet's wing,
For a charm of powerful trouble,
Like a hell-broth boil and bubble.
Double, double toil and trouble;
Fire burn and caldron bubble.
Cool it with a baboon's blood,
Then the charm is firm and good. |
-
Our Poetry Page Reads
Shakespeare Sonnets
2016 the world commemorates
400 years since the death of William Shakespeare.
(http://d13a6ytc0s97c3.cloudfront.net/uploads/listing/image/67/event_RS556808_36980_ROY210915_010-lpr.jpg)
April, 1616. A man died, but a legacy was born; one which proved
so essential not only to the development of
drama and literature, but to language, to thoughts and ideas.
A Sonnet a Day
July 1, till December 1,
We read in order, from 1 to 154
A Shakespeare Sonnet each day.
Welcome
Please share your comments about the day's Sonnet.
Link: First Post of Our Discussion on July 1 (http://seniorlearn.org/forum/index.php?topic=176.msg283685#msg283685)
Shakespeare Anniversary Links
- Shakespeare400 (http://www.shakespeare400.org/)
- Shakespeare 400 at The Globe (http://www.shakespearesglobe.com/400)
- Shakespeare 400 Chicago (http://www.shakespeare400chicago.com/)
- Dame Judi leads Shakespeare Day gala finale (http://www.bbc.com/news/entertainment-arts-36111591)
- Turning Shakespeare’s sonnets into short films (http://[url=http://www.pbs.org/newshour/bb/turning-shakespeares-sonnets-short-films/)
|
Discussion Leaders: Barb (augere@ix.netcom.com)
Sonnet 98
Here he is saying that even though the beauty of the flowers and songs of the birds during Spring should be enjoyed, without his loved one he can not be inspired.
Sonnet 99
He attributes all the beauty in the flowers as being stolen from his loved one. A bit obsessive I would say.
-
Sorry Bellamarie - I've been off my mark and you were caught again - but your message does nicely pop out so that is a consolation.
For convenience I've replaced Sonnet 99, the last post of the last page with the Witches Song from Macbeth and put Sonnet 99 here on this page.
-
Shakespeare Sonnet LCIX(http://www.geocities.jp/walljp2011/img4/flower-1.jpg)
The forward violet thus did I chide:
Sweet thief, whence didst thou steal thy sweet that smells,
If not from my love's breath? The purple pride
Which on thy soft cheek for complexion dwells
In my love's veins thou hast too grossly dyed.
The lily I condemned for thy hand,
And buds of marjoram had stol'n thy hair:
The roses fearfully on thorns did stand,
One blushing shame, another white despair;
A third, nor red nor white, had stol'n of both
And to his robbery had annex'd thy breath;
But, for his theft, in pride of all his growth
A vengeful canker eat him up to death.
More flowers I noted, yet I none could see
But sweet or colour it had stol'n from thee.
|
William Shakespeare's Sonnet 99https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=BI7KjUL2cQk
-
Seems to me I only read recently a myth about a king providing his son with that which he desires - the son desired a wife and took a flower putting it on the floor and magically he waves his scepter and the flower becomes a huge pile of flowers that quickly take the form of a woman and then the woman emerges who becomes the wife for his son. I was reading some of the Welsh myths so maybe that is where I read it. If so than Shakespeare would know or have access to the myth.
Found it... not exactly the story I recently read but close - a wife made of flowers from the Forest.
“Blodeuwedd (pronunciation: bluh DIE weth [“th” as in “weather”]) is the Welsh Goddess of spring created from flowers, and the wife of Lleu Llaw Gyffes, son of Arianrhod and is a central figure in the fourth branch of the Mabinogi.
In the late Christianized myth, She was created by the great magicians Math and Gwydion to be Lleu’s mate, in response to a curse pronounced by his Mother that he would never have a wife from any race then on the Earth.
They fashioned Blodeuwedd from nine types of blossom–oak, meadowsweet, broom, cockle, bean, nettle, chestnut, primrose, and hawthorn–and breathed life into Her.
She proved treacherous to Lleu, and She and Her lover Gronw Pebyr plotted against him, killing the invulnerable Lleu by tricking him into the only pose in which he could be harmed. Blodeuwedd was punished for this by being transformed into the night-bird, the owl, though She kept Her name–in Welsh, blodeuwedd, meaning “Flower-face”, is a name for the owl."
-
Interesting myth Barb. In your myth, a wife is formed from flowers, who betrays. In Shakespeare's sonnet the flowers were formed from his lover, who betrays.
-
Interesting Bellamarie I had not caught that - the betrayals...
-
Shakespeare Sonnet C
(http://www.shakespeare-online.com/sonnets/timescythe.jpg)
Where art thou, Muse, that thou forget'st so long
To speak of that which gives thee all thy might?
Spend'st thou thy fury on some worthless song,
Darkening thy power to lend base subjects light?
Return, forgetful Muse, and straight redeem
In gentle numbers time so idly spent;
Sing to the ear that doth thy lays esteem
And gives thy pen both skill and argument.
Rise, restive Muse, my love's sweet face survey,
If Time have any wrinkle graven there;
If any, be a satire to decay,
And make Time's spoils despised every where.
Give my love fame faster than Time wastes life;
So thou prevent'st his scythe and crooked knife. |
Shakespeare Sonnet 100https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=VNpJmiA6lYo
-
Back to the muse. I was enjoying the flowers. A variation here. He wants the muse to come back right away, so the poet can praise the beloved before time has ruined his beauty and it's too late.
Have you noticed that with all this talk of the beauty of the beloved, there isn't any actual description? The flower sonnets are as close as we've come, with the complexion of red and white like the roses, the breath of violets and roses, and hair scented of marjoram.
-
PatH.,
Have you noticed that with all this talk of the beauty of the beloved, there isn't any actual description?
My take on it, is because he is a figment of Shakespeare's imagination, a dream, a fantasy, a creation in mind written in his poems. No such "person" truly exists to describe his physical being.
-
Now I am wondering how many of these Sonnets that we assumed were written for or about either a young man or a woman that he called beloved, were really written about his muse - which, according to the research there were not only the Greek muses that were popular as guides so to speak for various artists but also, at this time in history one of the Archangels was thought to be a muse for writers therefore, the Sonnets could have been either for a woman muse or a male muse - sure not going back to review all the Sonnets we haver read so far but it is now a question in my mind.
From today's Sonnet I like the line "And gives thy pen both skill and argument" - so matter of fact and yet, said so prettily - and the last line reminds me of something I would say aloud with a stirring voice reading to children - maybe a pirate story or a mystery as the hero's are running in the night or hiding in a cave "So thou prevent'st his scythe and crooked knife."
-
Shakespeare Sonnet CI
(http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-FE5ugnv-Ido/TgbOHO80ugI/AAAAAAAABDU/gmdq1RtTNr8/s1600/calliope.jpg)
O truant Muse, what shall be thy amends,
For thy neglect of truth in beauty dy'd?
Both truth and beauty on my love depends;
So dost thou too, and therein dignify'd.
Make answer, Muse: wilt thou not haply say,
'Truth needs no colour, with his colour fix'd;
Beauty no pencil, beauty's truth to lay;
But best is best, if never intermix'd?'
Because he needs no praise, wilt thou be dumb?
Excuse not silence so; for't lies in thee
To make him much outlive a gilded tomb,
And to be prais'd of ages yet to be.
Then do thy office, Muse; I teach thee how
To make him seem long hence as he shows now.
|
William Shakespeare's Sonnet 101https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=WSvUoYxNB3k
-
Barb,
therefore, the Sonnets could have been either for a woman muse or a male muse
"People have spilled an enormous quantity of ink trying to identify this figure.”
https://www.theguardian.com/culture/2015/jan/31/shakespeare-sonnets-mr-wh-dedication-mystery
This will forever remain unsolved, so we will just have to enjoy the sonnets and speculate as others have throughout the centuries.
Sonnets 100 and 101
Shakespeare is calling upon his muse to come inspire him to write about the beauty of his beloved. Is Shakespeare losing his creative thoughts here?
-
Nice link Bellamarie - the same argument with a few more names that we have heard isn't it - now there is no speculation in the article that the Sonnets could be writing to and about a muse that is an ethereal manifestation of a force that at the time was projected by the Greeks or the Church which I think I like that idea ;) ah so - a mystery and yes, you are just so on target suggesting they simply be poems to enjoy and see how they relate to our individual lives because as you point out the mystery will never be solved unless someone finds some letter from Shakespeare explaining himself.
It does sound like Shakespeare was having writer's block and expressed his despair in these Sonnets - somewhere I read that Sonnet 100 was written 6 months after Sonnet 99.
With absolutely none of the usual Sunday night lineup on TV tonight and I have no interest in the debate I think I will use tonight to watch one of the movie version of one of Shakespeare's plays - found 14 of them on Amazon Video, most are free with my Prime membership - hmm just thought - I think I will take down my huge tome of all the plays and follow along with whatever play I choose.
-
BARB: that sounds great. Let us know which play you watched, and how it went.
-
Shakespeare Sonnet CII
(https://c5.staticflickr.com/8/7092/6989095948_26cbbbb693_b.jpg)
Philomel - the classical name for the nightingale,
which sings in early summer.
My love is strengthen'd, though more weak in seeming;
I love not less, though less the show appear;
That love is merchandized whose rich esteeming
The owner's tongue doth publish everywhere.
Our love was new, and then but in the spring
When I was wont to greet it with my lays;
As Philomel in summer's front doth sing,
And stops her pipe in growth of riper days:
Not that the summer is less pleasant now
Than when her mournful hymns did hush the night,
But that wild music burthens every bough
And sweets grown common lose their dear delight.
Therefore like her, I sometime hold my tongue,
Because I would not dull you with my song. |
William Shakespeare's Sonnet 102https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=qBmLHyaemZs
-
Well Joan I did not get to see and read the entire play - had a wonderful happening - a cousin I lost track of and had not heard from in 10 years... her daughter saw my name on facebook and followed through - once I read her message which included the unpublished phone number for my cousin I was on the phone and we talked for over an hour - I was so delighted and ended up falling asleep in my reading chair - Which may have worked because after reviewing today's Sonnet and learning about the meaning of Philomel and the Greek myth that the name comes from I was curious is Shakespeare had used Philomel in any of his plays - and yes, in Midsummer Nights Dream
Looking that up found this terrific site that further explains Philomel and how it gives this play, considered a comedy another meaning - the silencing of women is wrapped up in the Greek Myth that Shakespeare uses as part of the play.
http://www.articlemyriad.com/significance-philomel-midsummer-nights-dream/
And so I have the movie of the play, Midsummer Nights Dream started and will probably get into it during the day or in the evening - want to say tomorrow but it is after midnight so it is today. I am excited now that I know to look for the reference to Philomel and to go deeper into the play to understand more of what it is about.
-
Reading the play while watching it is slow going - amazing how much I am seeing aspects of the Sonnets about beauty and flowers and time are in this play -
There are several versions of the play made into a movie and several are either adaptations or have been brought into successive centuries - there is one free version with Helen Mirren as the young girl Hermia that was I thought stilted, so much so it was annoying - another that did cost 1.99 fpr 7 days rental is in period costume and Helen Mirren is again in the play however, this time she plays Titania, the queen of the fairies. A few spots the actors speak so quickly and quietly I would not know what they were saying if I was not reading along.
The biggest surprise is to see how these Sonnets are similar in nature to the play - so that this line has in my mind a double meaning "The owner's tongue doth publish everywhere." The line relates to the Sonnet as singing or broadcasting the poets love but it also is poignantly saying Shakespeare's thoughts and words are included in at least Midsummer Night's Dream and maybe other plays.
-
Shakespeare Sonnet CIII
(https://s-media-cache-ak0.pinimg.com/564x/f2/a4/40/f2a440fcfb8cd420b7a31546a4eb6832.jpg)
Alack! what poverty my Muse brings forth,
That having such a scope to show her pride,
The argument all bare is of more worth
Than when it hath my added praise beside!
O, blame me not, if I no more can write!
Look in your glass, and there appears a face
That over-goes my blunt invention quite,
Dulling my lines and doing me disgrace.
Were it not sinful then, striving to mend,
To mar the subject that before was well?
For to no other pass my verses tend
Than of your graces and your gifts to tell;
And more, much more, than in my verse can sit,
Your own glass shows you when you look in it. |
William Shakespeare's Sonnet 103https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=AQxAMQGt3-A
-
Barb,
It does sound like Shakespeare was having writer's block and expressed his despair in these Sonnets - somewhere I read that Sonnet 100 was written 6 months after Sonnet 99.
Aha! This is interesting to know. So did you watch a movie, if so which one? I watched the debate. It was like reality TV! lololol
I stopped in for lunch at Barnes & Noble today and had the "Complete Works of William Shakespeare" book glancing through it. There is only one copy left that I could see but still didn't purchase it. Anyway, it had a glossary in the back and I was curious and looked the word, muse up and it said, "wonder". Not sure that really helped me any. So, is the muse he is writing in these sonnets as I suggested, a figment of his imagination? Who knows, one more mystery we will never solve I am sure.
-
Sonnet 102
I see him saying that he feels he needs to keep their love private and not to broadcast it all over the place, because in doing so it becomes about bragging and diminishes their love. Like everything else that becomes commercialized, it just becomes a commodity rather than something special. So if he does not continue writing or speaking of their love don't be concerned, it is still there.
Is this sort of like, absence makes the heart grow fonder?
As Philomel in summer’s front doth sing,
Philomel is the nightingale he speaks of. Comparing all his writing in the beginning like the first nightengale of the season singing, and as the love/season goes on there is less need to write/sing.
Sonnet 103
Shakespeare seems to think he will not do justice to write about this person, since the beauty is plain to see if just by looking into a mirror. He speaks of the fact that all he is writing about are (her) graces and gifts. Here he admits he has not touched on any physical descriptions, as we mentioned earlier.
That having such a scope to show her pride
Interesting how he did use the pronoun "her" in this particular sonnet.
Does it seem as if Shakespeare sees himself drawing to an end of these sonnets? Has he become tired of them, bored with his own writings? Were the sonnets the last known works of Shakespeare? I know I could Google this but I am off to a birthday dinner and don't want to be late, but I do want to get this posted.
-
Bellamarie if the Sonnets were least known - do not know - the plays brought in money - the plays were performed in front of the King and then the Queen - they had to be performed in order to get the royal endorsement required to make it legal to perform the play in public. Also, he received compensation from the crown where as the Sonnets were private and not widely read while he was alive - however, they were included in the earliest gathering of his writing. Any book containing all the plays, annotated or not, includes the Sonnets.
Having seen the topic of much of these recent sonnets in the play I am reading and watching, The Midsummer Night's Dream - he was either in the same place when he was writing the sonnets or maybe, they were where he worked out some thoughts that were incorporated into the play - we really do not know - we read some weeks ago that it was a challenge to read these sonnets in the order 1 to 154 but again, I can see another approach he may be working out having seen some of the thoughts and words from this sonnet in the play.
Very much one of the main female characters is silenced by her father and until Shakespeare had the fairies as part of the play she would have had to marry a man she did not love or go to the nunnery, as the Greek myth about Philomel whose tongue is cut out after she is raped by her sister's husband we see Shakespeare showing the beautiful young Hermia silenced by both the duke, who represents power and order and Hermia’s father who demands obedience. Hermia's beauty is described similar to how Shakespeare describes beauty in his sonnets.
Bellamarie do you own a Kindle - if so, Amazon has several very good books free for a kindle that include all of Shakespeare's writings - plays, sonnets, other poems and a few plays not included in that first folio of his work -
And yes, the her hmm at times I think he is referring to the muse as a her and than other times I think he is writing about and to a lady friend. I also have been reading how many of these words have a distinct meaning that is different than the meaning we associate with the word today. Which makes you wonder if the only way to get anything out of these poems is to dwell deeper into seventeenth century customs, lexicon, history, etc. But then that goes against the grain of poetry which is like any of the arts - we bring ourselves with us when we read and so what the poem means to us today should not be dependent on our understanding of words as they were expressing thoughts in the seventeenth century. Ah so...
Today's sonnet reminds me of someone saying 'the devil made me do it' as if he only writes what the muse dictates by some invisible power and on his own he is incapable of writing. Is writing really a function of life - I guess so - many say our life, the good as well as the obstacles are as a result of our God - but then we have the entire 2000 year argument to resurrect between free will and God's will or predestination. Around and around we go.
I've looked in the mirror many times and my question ends up if I have what it takes to get myself in a better place after yet again another unexpected usually painful happening. I have learned at least that much - it is only painful because I had a picture or idea of what 'should' happen where as if I lived in the minute without expectations there would be no pain regardless of what happens. Well onward - lots of interior questions reading these sonnets.
-
Shakespeare Sonnet CIV(http://www.tweetspeakpoetry.com/wp-content/uploads/2015/04/Shakespeare-Sonnet-104-photo-by-Seyed-Mostafa-Zamani-via-Flickr.jpg)
To me, fair friend, you never can be old,
For as you were, when first your eye I ey'd,
Such seems your beauty still. Three winters cold
Have from the forests shook three summers' pride,
Three beauteous springs to yellow autumn turn'd
In process of the seasons have I seen,
Three April perfumes in three hot Junes burn'd,
Since first I saw you fresh, which yet are green.
Ah! yet doth beauty, like a dial-hand,
Steal from his figure and no pace perceiv'd;
So your sweet hue, which methinks still doth stand,
Hath motion and mine eye may be deceiv'd:
For fear of which, hear this, thou age unbred;
Ere you were born, was beauty's summer dead. |
William Shakespeare's Sonnet 104https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=ebVI-vHCado
-
Had to read it a couple of times and then listened to it - when I listened I hear he is talking about a child - a 3 year old beautiful child - how lovely - just lovely - a love poem to a child - could be to either his son or daughters - the experts believe he is talking about his young male lover but reading and hearing it for me - Ere you were born, was beauty's summer dead is how I felt about my babies as toddlers.
Been without a computer most of the day - something got in and had to clean it out and then clean it out again - on and on - son-in-law again to the rescue - he is able long distance to get into my computer and make repairs - nice. And thank goodness did not have to wait three winters or three Aprils.
-
Shakespeare Sonnet CV(http://65.media.tumblr.com/5932d7f1a987fc7e31c05fd99a7d3a55/tumblr_obflhn5SJv1si53zno1_1280.jpg)
Let not my love be called idolatry,
Nor my beloved as an idol show,
Since all alike my songs and praises be
To one, of one, still such, and ever so.
Kind is my love to-day, to-morrow kind,
Still constant in a wondrous excellence;
Therefore my verse to constancy confin'd,
One thing expressing, leaves out difference.
Fair, kind, and true, is all my argument,
Fair, kind, and true, varying to other words;
And in this change is my invention spent,
Three themes in one, which wondrous scope affords.
Fair, kind, and true, have often liv'd alone,
Which three, till now, never kept seat in one. |
Shakespeare Sonnet 105https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=9sSSuNZ1In0
-
Barb, I don't have a Kindle but I do have a Nook and two ipads. I will check out and see if I can find any free Shakespeare books. I do prefer hardcover books for special authors such as Shakespeare.
Sorry I have been lagging behind, my best friend just lost her daughter to diabetes and she is only 44 yrs. old. It's been a very emotional week for me and the next few days will not be any easier with the viewing and funeral.
Sonnet 104
For as you were, when first your eye I ey'd,
I see Shakespeare remembering back to when he first met this person. He is stating the person has not changed a bit in his beauty over the past three years he has known him. He does mention time does not stand still and beauty will fade, and his eyes may be deceiving him in thinking this person has not changed over time. This sonnet reminds me of the saying:
Beauty is in the eyes of the beholder
-
Sonnet 105
Let not my love be called idolatry,
Nor my beloved as an idol show,
Strange how Shakespeare uses the word, "idolatry" when in fact it almost has seemed throughout all these sonnets he is in fact idolizing or obsessing over this person.
Three themes in one, which wondrous scope affords.
Fair, kind, and true, have often liv'd alone,
Which three, till now, never kept seat in one.
Now he is speaking in part to the character of the person using these three words, fair, kind and true. I find this a contradiction to his words prior since he has voiced the betrayal. Seems our Shakespeare can't quite make up his mind, he wallowed in self pity, depression, hurt and almost suicidal thoughts because of this person betraying him, yet now he says, kind and true? Sorry, I can't buy into this.
-
ohh sorry Bellamarie - loosing a friend at this young age and with the many medical advances is hard - Did she attend Mass at the same church you attend? I guess I am thinking how there is some solace hearing a priest during the rituals and mass for those who pass on.
Yes, all beauty I think lies in in the eye of the beholder - that the most liberating thing about beauty is realizing that we are the beholders, empowering us to find beauty in places where others have not dared to look.
Sorta off the subject and yet, not... with sonnet 105 we have 49 Sonnets or 49 days till the hustle and bustle of the Christmas Holidays. - I kept thinking I was going to accomplish something and click off the days using the Sonnet a Day as my bench mark - but as Robert Burns wrote, The best laid schemes o' mice an' men / Gang aft a-gley. Now I really must count off the next 49 days for something meaningful other than brushing up against words that are over 400 years since written and available to us.
He does repeat three times - Fair, kind, and true which reminds me of the earlier Sonnet using the three to describe time - three winters, three Aprils etc... So many three's - from the Trinity to three wishes - from the trefoil to the three charities. He seems to be saying that fairness or beauty is kind and true also, the kindness of fairness is to see only that which is true as well as, that truth is both kind and fair or beautiful. Three entwined - one leads to another as if three are words creating a circle. Nice...
Interesting there are 150 psalms in The Book of Common Prayer and the Sonnets number 150 plus 4 however, in the old texts of The Book of Common Prayer I read that the number 150 was not used and the last psalm skipped to 151 so it would be 151 plus 3.
-
Barb, Thank you and yes, they are members of my church. The parents have been our best friends for years and he is the Deacon while she taught at Regina Coeli the years I taught and then she went on to teach high school. They both now lead our Tuesday morning Bible study. My husband and I have also shared being facilitators in Pre Cana many years with them as well. Their daughter Chris, who died has lived in Dayton Ohio since 1997, but of course growing up in Toledo and being a member of Regina all her childhood means this family will be receiving an abundance of love and support to help them through this very trying time.
Barb, Now I really must count off the next 49 days for something meaningful other than brushing up against words that are over 400 years since written and available to us.
Does this mean we will be ending the sonnets early? I have no issue with it, if that is the case. He does repeat himself over and over again.
-
No Bellamarie I don't plan on cutting short this tribute to the 400 year anniversary of Shakespeare's death - I will upload them daily as I've been doing so folks can read them - I will comment as they hit my senses - Hope others join me - like to see through a project started especially a tribute.
However, there are only 49 more sonnets and my personal desire is to use the 49 days to not only brush up against the private life and words of Shakespeare that are the Sonnets but I want to accomplish something in addition that after 49 days I will see a difference - not sure what yet but so far I have 3 ideas in contention - establish a daily walk habit - knit for an hour each day - spend an hour a day sorting all the years of photos and write what was going on when the photo was taken. In fact I may bite the bullet and do all three since I cannot choose - but 49 days in a row will make a dent in whatever I do...
-
Shakespeare Sonnet CVI (https://academyofancientmusic.files.wordpress.com/2012/06/la-barre-and-other-musicians-bouys-cropped.jpg)
When in the chronicle of wasted time
I see descriptions of the fairest wights,
And beauty making beautiful old rhyme
In praise of ladies dead, and lovely knights,
Then, in the blazon of sweet beauty's best,
Of hand, of foot, of lip, of eye, of brow,
I see their antique pen would have express'd
Even such a beauty as you master now.
So all their praises are but prophecies
Of this our time, all you prefiguring;
And, for they look'd but with divining eyes,
They had not skill enough your worth to sing:
For we, which now behold these present days,
Had eyes to wonder, but lack tongues to praise.
|
William Shakespeare Sonnet 106https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=fDWBrn4a0SQ
-
Interesting - with that logic the reason we still have writers penning their descriptions of beauty is that the past writers did not do justice to the beauty that is before the author that the author is attempting to describe in verse or in music or for that matter in any of the arts.
A braggadocio comment to pamper the current beauty but does not say much for the author's desire to express themselves on an uplifting topic like beauty. Two sides of the coin I guess...
-
Barb,
I have 3 ideas in contention - establish a daily walk habit - knit for an hour each day - spend an hour a day sorting all the years of photos and write what was going on when the photo was taken. In fact I may bite the bullet and do all three since I cannot choose - but 49 days in a row will make a dent in whatever I do...
Good for you!!! I think you should definitely attempt all three, just don't worry if daily you skip one or the other. I began walking at the beginning of summer with my neighbor and when her classes began in August, I resumed with my hubby and Shih Tzu Sammy. I started knitting a scarf for my granddaughter last year and never finished it for her Christmas gift, as for the photos I have stacks and stacks of digital cds labeled and actually made a really neat "Christmas book" last year online with special pics of me and the family all pertaining to the holiday and our faith. It came in the mail a hardcover book and the family was amazed to see it in print! I will cherish it forever and am wanting to make another one that will cover the seasons from all the pics I have taken this past year. I am obsessed with taking pictures!! I am the only one in the family who takes pictures so my kids and grandkids love seeing when I post on my Facebook for them to see them. I have made them dvds set to their favorite music for graduation gifts. I love watching their faces as they view them.
I will check in daily with the Shakespeare Sonnets, and comment if something stirs in me. So far it's been so repetitious, I feel I am just as repetitious as the sonnets.
-
Oh you have no idea Bellamarie how glad I was to read just don't worry if daily you skip one or the other. I do so easily give up if I miss anything and here I was doubting myself again because I woke up during the night with an awful tummy - whatever I ate - and I've had chills and cannot get out of bed but all because of this upset tummy.
My only thought is I usually keep fresh grapes in the frig as snacking food and day earlier this week I found a hair in my mouth that I pulled out of the grape I was eating. What I pulled out was short and black - not mine -
I've had this happen before and the grocer always says it is mine - no proof so I knew there was no sense complaining and I washed the grapes again - now I am wondering about the hair and what other contamination because I have had greens that were filled with all kinds of different hairs and learned in the early years of the drought crop farmers flooded the fields when the greens are first planted not using pure water so that the greens grow up through whatever was left from the flooding of the field.
Grapes on a vine are seldom affected directly by dirty water so who knows - but I'm throwing out the remainder of the grapes - Hate it - it is getting so the only fresh fruit to eat is what is grown and sold locally at the farmer's markets. Vegetables that require cooking is different.
Well all to say of course I have NOT taken my walk - now after reading your remark I will take myself into the bathroom and talk to myself in the mirror and remind myself even if I said 'walk first thing' I can still walk after dark if need be and the more upset I get with myself the longer it will take my tummy to stop hurting.
I can still start my knitting - I've picked up some grey and red wool to make thick socks to wear in the house that I hope go up quick enough to make a pair for each of the boys - if it takes all week to make just one sock I have as of today exactly 10 weeks.
Hadn't thought of a book of photos but that is an idea - for now I need to clear off the front room dining table and get the boxes of photos set out.
And that is it - even if I only walk past my neighbor's house in the dark - it is carrying through - yep, Shakespeare is going to have some company and if he all upset as he sounds in this poem because others in the past lack tongues to praise I am not going to join them by not having the skill enough your worth to sing Thanks to you Bellamarie I will sing my worth and not be among the chronicle of wasted time.
-
Shakespeare Sonnet CVII(http://l7.alamy.com/zooms/a199afe45c094e998fccc5d2a2e14182/golden-tombstone-lichen-on-gray-stone-with-three-pronged-engraving-cxb7nh.jpg)
Not mine own fears, nor the prophetic soul
Of the wide world, dreaming on things to come,
Can yet the lease of my true love control,
Suppos'd as forfeit to a confin'd doom.
The mortal moon hath her eclipse endur'd,
And the sad augurs mock their own presage;
Incertainties now crown themselves assur'd,
And peace proclaims olives of endless age.
Now with the drops of this most balmy time
My love looks fresh, and Death to me subscribes,
Since, spite of him, I'll live in this poor rhyme,
While he insults o'er dull and speechless tribes:
And thou in this shalt find thy monument,
When tyrants' crests and tombs of brass are spent.
|
William Shakespeare's Sonnet 107https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=HruhH8Qcz8w
-
Sonnet 106
So all the writers before his time were prophesying the beauty of Shakespeare's lover to come? Oh dear, this is just too much for me to even comment any further on.
Sonnet 107
Shakespeare is saying he will live on in his sonnets....... and that he did.
Barb, I am so sorry you are not feeling well. I hope it passes quickly. I'm glad I could be of some encouragement in your newly quests. We can't hold ourselves to the fire if we do not succeed to accomplish all our hopes in one day. Allow yourself to feel good to do one of the the three if a day happens to come with something that will prevent you from doing all three of your goals. All or nothing is a sure way to fail. Weather alone will prevent your from you walk outside, but a walk around inside your house will still be you walking.
-
Given today's political climate this is a great line - While he insults o'er dull and speechless tribes Bottom line it is all superficial in comparison to living our life sharing and increasing the gifts bestowed upon us at birth. I always think on the parable of the talents - as a kid this was one of the few Bible stories we heard with the large chart in front of the classroom that had a page with a photo for each of about 12 stories.
A man going on a journey, calls his servants and entrusted to them his property.
To one he gave five talents, to another two, to another one, to each according to his ability. Then he went away. He who had received the five talents went at once and traded with them, and he made five talents more. So also he who had the two talents made two talents more. But he who had received the one talent went and dug in the ground and hid his master's money. Now after a long time the master of those servants came and settled accounts with them.
And he who had received the five talents came forward, bringing five talents more, saying, ‘Master, you delivered to me five talents; here, I have made five talents more.’ 21 His master said to him, ‘Well done, good and faithful servant. You have been faithful over a little; I will set you over much. Enter into the joy of your master.’
And he also who had the two talents came forward, saying, ‘Master, you delivered to me two talents; here, I have made two talents more.’
His master said to him, ‘Well done, good and faithful servant. You have been faithful over a little; I will set you over much. Enter into the joy of your master.’
He also who had received the one talent came forward, saying, ‘Master, I knew you to be a hard man, reaping where you did not sow, and gathering where you scattered no seed, so I was afraid, and I went and hid your talent in the ground. Here, you have what is yours.’ But his master answered him, ‘You wicked and slothful servant! You knew that I reap where I have not sown and gather where I scattered no seed? Then you ought to have invested my money with the bankers, and at my coming I should have received what was my own with interest. So take the talent from him and give it to him who has the ten talents.
For to everyone who has will more be given, and he will have an abundance. But from the one who has not, even what he has will be taken away.
I remember when the parable was told to us we were also told increasing out talents in life we would be accountable to god upon our death. True or not it was something that became important to me - and that is what I see in this Sonnet - the poet suggesting he had increased his talents so that they shalt find thy monument,
When tyrants' crests and tombs of brass are spent.
-
October - Robert Frost
(https://triedtestedandtruemommy.files.wordpress.com/2012/09/october.jpg)
O hushed October morning mild,
Thy leaves have ripened to the fall;
Tomorrow’s wind, if it be wild,
Should waste them all.
The crows above the forest call;
Tomorrow they may form and go.
O hushed October morning mild,
Begin the hours of this day slow.
Make the day seem to us less brief.
Hearts not averse to being beguiled,
Beguile us in the way you know.
Release one leaf at break of day;
At noon release another leaf;
One from our trees, one far away.
Retard the sun with gentle mist;
Enchant the land with amethyst.
Slow, slow!
For the grapes’ sake, if they were all,
Whose leaves already are burnt with frost,
Whose clustered fruit must else be lost—
For the grapes’ sake along the wall. |
Octoberhttps://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Obt15rKYunU
-
Humbert Wolfe
(http://blogs.sxu.edu/wp-content/uploads/2014/09/Fall.jpg)
Listen! the wind is rising, and the air is wild with leaves,
We have had our summer evenings, now for October eves! |
-
(http://66.media.tumblr.com/dc228cf0410311d55512913380a21916/tumblr_od3osnaHHp1ro4v2no1_1280.jpg)
Kernels of juice
blue, mom makes it do
magic heat to vanilla ice cream
purple dream.
-
(https://66.media.tumblr.com/87d9278ef55f158cfadec257f864d3d1/tumblr_mijlbv2pZr1r8niu5o1_1280.jpg)
“But the owls themselves are not hard to find, silent and on the wing,
with their ear tufts flat against their heads as they fly and their huge
wings alternately gliding and flapping as they maneuver through the
trees. Athena’s owl of wisdom and Merlin’s companion, Archimedes,
were screech owls surely, not this bird with the glassy gaze, restless
on the bough, nothing but blood on its mind.”
― Mary Oliver, Owls and Other Fantasies: Poems and Essays
-
Our Poetry Page Reads
Shakespeare Sonnets
2016 the world commemorates
400 years since the death of William Shakespeare.
(http://d13a6ytc0s97c3.cloudfront.net/uploads/listing/image/67/event_RS556808_36980_ROY210915_010-lpr.jpg)
April, 1616. A man died, but a legacy was born; one which proved
so essential not only to the development of
drama and literature, but to language, to thoughts and ideas.
A Sonnet a Day
July 1, till December 1,
We read in order, from 1 to 154
A Shakespeare Sonnet each day.
Welcome
Please share your comments about the day's Sonnet.
Discussion Leaders: Barb (augere@ix.netcom.com)
-
Shakespeare Sonnet CVIII
(https://s-media-cache-ak0.pinimg.com/236x/51/be/f9/51bef9206fc2206e175f515e418dec55.jpg)
What's in the brain that ink may character,
Which hath not figur'd to thee my true spirit?
What's new to speak, what new to register,
That may express my love or thy dear merit?
Nothing sweet boy; but yet, like prayers divine,
I must, each day say o'er the very same;
Counting no old thing old, thou mine, I thine,
Even as when first I hallow'd thy fair name.
So that eternal love in love's fresh case
Weighs not the dust and injury of age,
Nor gives to necessary wrinkles place,
But makes antiquity for aye his page,
Finding the first conceit of love there bred
Where time and outward form would show it dead. |
Shakespeare Sonnet 108https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Gbq4xfkC3R4
-
prayers divine,
I must, each day say o'er the very same
| (https://upload.wikimedia.org/wikipedia/commons/thumb/0/0e/Boucicaut-Meister.jpg/440px-Boucicaut-Meister.jpg) | The Divine Office - or - Book of Hours.
Usually written in Latin, its origin in the Psalter,
which monks and nuns were required to recite.
The set of prayers marking the hours of each day
concerning the meaning and history of each of
the hours, sanctifying the day with prayer.
The Divine Office comprises only the recitation of
certain prayers in the Breviary, and does not include
the Mass and other liturgical ceremonies.The custom
goes back to the Jews reading the psalms that say,
"Seven times a day I have given praise to thee". |
-
Sonnet 108
What’s new to speak, what now to register,
That may express my love or thy dear merit?
Nothing, sweet boy; but yet, like prayers divine,
I must each day say o'er the very same,
Shakespeare is seeming to realize time has gone by, his boy/love is aging, yet he still sees him as young and beautiful as ever, so he will repeat it over and over again, just as prayers are repetitious, and continues to hold their meaning.
It's like for Catholics who say the Rosary, especially in the month of October, we repeat the same prayers over and over again while saying the Rosary, yet each time they hold a special meaning to us. Just because these prayers are centuries old, they remain beautiful and meaningful to us, as does Shakespeare's words for this person he loves and wants to remain immortal.
-
I've just ordered a used copy of a book that sounds fascinating - just the review gave me a smile because it hit the nail on the head - the book - The Catholic Imagination by Andrew Greeley - and the preview says -
Catholics live in an enchanted world: a world of statues and holy water, stained glass and votive candles, saints and religious medals, rosary beads and holy pictures. But these Catholic paraphernalia are merely hints of a deeper and more pervasive religious sensibility that inclines Catholics to see the Holy lurking in creation. The world of the Catholic is haunted by a sense that the objects, events, and persons of daily life are revelations of Grace. In this fascinating discussion of what is unique about the Catholic worldview and culture and what distinguishes it from Protestantism, Andrew Greeley--one of the most popular and prolific authors writing today--examines the religious imagination that shapes Catholics' lives.
-
Shakespeare Sonnet CIX
(https://67.media.tumblr.com/142b37f9a7ac58ba91e736039851be63/tumblr_ns98nfBkHa1ut3rpio1_1280.jpg)
O, never say that I was false of heart,
Though absence seem'd my flame to qualify!
As easy might I from myself depart
As from my soul, which in thy breast doth lie:
That is my home of love: if I have rang'd,
Like him that travels I return again,
Just to the time, not with the time exchang'd --,
So that myself bring water for my stain.
Never believe, though in my nature reign'd
All frailties that besiege all kinds of blood,
That it could so preposterously be stain'd,
To leave for nothing all thy sum of good;
For nothing this wide universe I call,
Save thou, my rose; in it thou art my all.
|
William Shakespeare's Sonnet 109https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=_sg2Lt69X2U
-
I have read a couple of Father Andrew M. Greeley's books. He sure sparked a lot of controversy in the Catholic church, especially writing very sexual oriented books. He was a bit of a rebel inside the church causing him to be an outcast.
https://www.washingtonpost.com/local/obituaries/andrew-m-greeley-iconoclastic-priest-and-author-dies-at-85/2013/05/30/3cb18458-c937-11e2-8da7-d274bc611a47_story.html
Sonnet 109
Just more of Shakespeare attesting to his undying love regardless if he is absent from him.
-
I've never read any of his books - I did not know he wrote other books - I just thought the concept of those of us who grew up in the religion having an almost poetic or artistic view on the world because of the traditions of the church a fascinating and heartwarming view point - I will be anxious to see if he suggests anything other than the words that seem so positive - found a copy on Amazon from Goodwill that always under rates the condition of their books and they were selling it for 77 cents - hurray... now you have me curious and I have to look into Greeley to learn more about the man and what he wrote and who he upset and who agrees with him - politics - me oh my - life was so much simpler when we all believed in Santa Clause - but then we did not get to participate as much did we...
Which by the way my daughter is realizing the boys are grown - last one graduated from collage so the idea of sitting around the tree was fine when there were gifts from Santa as well as family gifts but now that everyone is grown it does not feel just right - so what to do, what to do. So far thinking of having the dining table set near the tree and having our big Christmas morning Breakfast near the tree and exchange our gifts with each other at breakfast - not sure but we need to do something - what do you do Bellamarie now that your kids are all grown. I know I know not directly tied to the Shakespeare Sonnets but in a way - his talk of loving someone in all manner of difficulty seems a direct correlation to the difficulty of sharing love at Christmas with a new set of traditions.
-
Barb, I can't imagine the last grandchild graduating college, since my youngest is only five years old, but there have been changes in how I shop for my six grandchildren. I decided a couple of years ago to give money and allow my oldest (21 yrs old) to shop and bring the things to me to wrap and I would buy her a couple unexpected gifts. When I have the annual sleepover/cookie bake with the other grandkids I have them go on the internet, place items they want in the shopping cart and once they leave in the morning, I would go back and choose which items to purchase for them. It works out perfectly because if it's clothes they choose the color, style and size, no returning things necessary after Christmas day. Now for the youngest two, who are five and eight years old, they too pick out what they want at Toys R Us online, they tell me which toys they want the most. I then choose, and also buy them pjs and a couple of outfits. For my adult kids, I send money in the mail to my daughter and son in law who live in Florida since shipping has gotten out of hand. For my two sons and their wives, they each send me a link to what they want and bingo!!! Although I always buy a meaningful family gift that each of our homes will have to signify family and faith. So easy, but I still stress out until everything is wrapped. Our family tradition is, on Christmas Eve we all meet at 5:30 p.m. Mass at our church, then go to my house where we eat, and then first the littles open up their gifts down in the family room, and then the adults open their gifts up in the living room. Everyone leaves to go home around 11:00 p.m. Christmas morning my hubby and I open our gifts to each other, then hurry and go to my son's house for Christmas breakfast and stockings. We play games and then go home to change out of our sweats or pjs, and then go to the other son's house for Christmas day dinner. This tradition will probably continue until someone decides we need a change. My hubby and I get over excited for decorating the outside, living room, kitchen, and downstairs family room. We usually begin decorating before Thanksgiving and leave it all up til New Year's Day. I absolutely love everything about the Christmas season!!! Maybe as you mentioned above is partly why I love this season so much...... "I just thought the concept of those of us who grew up in the religion having an almost poetic or artistic view on the world because of the traditions of the church a fascinating and heartwarming view point" It brings scripture to life, it gives meaning to scripture, and scripture is fulfilled. As the Holy family is complete, so too I feel my faith family is complete especially on this glorious day! Idyllic, as it seems, it's the fabric that keeps our family together.
I like the image of your table near the tree, and all of you eating breakfast and opening your gifts. It's whatever works for each family, but the most important thing is to share it with family! I've learned to accept changes in tradition, as long as we remain celebrating it as a family.
-
Shakespeare Sonnet CX
(http://www.informartmag.com/printimages/112_958_new.jpg)
Alas! 'tis true I have gone here and there
And made myself a motley to the view,
Gor'd mine own thoughts, sold cheap what is most dear,
Made old offences of affections new.
Most true it is that I have look'd on truth
Askance and strangely: but, by all above,
These blenches gave my heart another youth,
And worse essays prov'd thee my best of love.
Now all is done; have what shall have no end:
Mine appetite I never more will grind
On newer proof, to try an older friend,
A god in love, to whom I am confin'd.
Then give me welcome, next my heaven the best,
Even to thy pure and most most loving breast. |
William Shakespeare's Sonnet 110https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=HeA7VPS_Uwk
-
Sonnet 110
Is Shakespeare admitting to having a wandering eye? Is he confessing of indiscretions? Seems he is saying he wandering, has sampled others and is now back knowing that this one is the only one for him. Quite revealing, and very contradictory to the previous sonnets seeming to accuse his love of being unfaithful to him. How is he using a metaphor here, talking about his previous writings being unfaithful?
-
Oh Bellamarie - do not want to turn this discussion into the news of the day or a political routine but oh oh I have been laughing my head off reading this and relating it to our past president who is filling the news these days as the partner of a current candidate - see I never said any names ::) ;) - I guess a roving eye has been around since relationships caught at the heartstrings -
I remember when we read some of Ovid everything related to love was blamed on cupid - been watching while reading Shakespeare's play Midsummer Night's Dream which shows the father's OWNERSHIP of his daughter and his right to arrange whom she will marry - a philandering eye seems to be an answer to Contract Law - which can be written or spoken.
Seems to me I remember reading a novel or two that had to do with a spoken promise that was broken and the ensuing law suit - never understood how you could love someone and be married expressing that love after you sued them to keep their promise of marriage - cannot remember the story - it had to have been I read it a long time ago - I seldom read books about romantic love. The Stories I prefer may have a love interest but its a by-the-way or even an undergirding to the climax.
This bit got me - I laughed, ironic however, if taken seriously, sad.
Mine appetite I never more will grind
On newer proof, to try an older friend,
A god in love, to whom I am confin'd.
Confin'd yet - CONFINED - me or my his appetite is such that an old friend, a God in love, is confining - sheesh... I pickup from this poem that he is saying a new lover makes him feel young - so what has his feeling young got to do with his love for his old friend??!!?? ouh yeh yeh
-
Oy Vey! ::) ::)
-
Shakespeare Sonnet CXI
(http://theshakespeareblog.com/wp-content/uploads/2015/07/fuseli-henry-v.jpg)
O, for my sake do you with Fortune chide,
The guilty goddess of my harmful deeds,
That did not better for my life provide,
Than public means which public manners breeds.
Thence comes it that my name receives a brand,
And almost thence my nature is subdu'd
To what it works in, like the dyer's hand:
Pity me then and wish I were renew'd;
Whilst, like a willing patient, I will drink
Potions of eysell, 'gainst my strong infection;
No bitterness that I will bitter think,
Nor double penance, to correct correction.
Pity me then, dear friend, and I assure ye
Even that your pity is enough to cure me. |
William Shakespeare's Sonnet 111https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=qWLxBIk1GnE
-
Sonnet 111
Than public means which public manners breeds.
Am I understanding Shakespeare to be saying, he is what he is because of the public?
Well, I suppose if we look at this sonnet and compare it to today's celebrities and politicians it would prove that living in the public eye surely can create an image, and yes even change the person you are into someone completely different. Did we not recently see in the wikileaks, (withholding the name) a certain candidate say she has “both a public and a private position”
Then, I think of the Kardashians and how they have built their empire on the backs of the public and media, and now recently Kim was in Paris, her hotel room broken into, she was tied up and gagged, and locked in her bathroom, while the criminals stole over 10 million dollars worth of her jewels. Kim was constantly posting not only her naked body on social media for all the public to see, but along with those gazillions of pics she was posting, she made it known her whereabouts, and was revealing her very expensive clothes and jewelry. Now it seems this has shaken her up, and has made her go into seclusion.
Shakespeare, the candidate, and Kim Kardashian West, have learned that the public can be friend and foe.
-
Yes, if the recent public was ever a friend - I'm thinking we were more on-lookers, patrons at a circus or the zoo but not really identifying -
The one caught though - when bad happens they may wish they would be treated as normal folks but unfortunately for them - they are not.
Thence comes it that my name receives a brand,
And almost thence my nature is subdu'd
But then these lines tell it all don't they... I'm getting from the lines that no matter if he is pitied and forgiven it is not enough to cure him.
Pity me then and wish I were renew'd;
No bitterness that I will bitter think,
Even that your pity is enough to cure me.
-
Shakespeare Sonnet CXII(https://upload.wikimedia.org/wikipedia/commons/4/42/Antoine_Watteau_054.jpg)
Pierrot, a buffoon, a stock character of Commedia dell'ArteYour love and pity doth the impression fill
Which vulgar scandal stamp'd upon my brow;
For what care I who calls me well or ill,
So you o'er-green my bad, my good allow?
You are my all-the-world, and I must strive
To know my shames and praises from your tongue:
None else to me, nor I to none alive,
That my steel'd sense or changes right or wrong.
In so profound abysm I throw all care
Of others' voices, that my adder's sense
To critic and to flatterer stopped are.
Mark how with my neglect I do dispense:
You are so strongly in my purpose bred,
That all the world besides, methinks y' are dead. |
William Shakespeare's Sonnet 112https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=ebVI-vHCado
-
Well he does not care what his friend, associates or the public says he just wants this intimate friend he cheated on to forgive him - which would be thought of as making a fool of himself and acting the fool is how the stock characters, Pierrot in the Commedia dell'Arte is known - began in Italy in the early 16th Century and influenced Shakespeare. To this day the French still use many of the characters as decor at home on stage and merchandising. We seldom see them here in the US.
There is Harlequin, Pierrot and Pierrette, Pantalone, Il Dottore, Brighella, Il Capitano, Colombina, the innamorati, Pedrolino, Pulcinella, Sandrone, Scaramouche, La Signora, and Tartaglia.
Another picture of a few of the characters...
(https://encrypted-tbn3.gstatic.com/images?q=tbn:ANd9GcR3ZcvTiVG4Hv5vyeiWg8uzwsLkwJx3KsoOf8K94atPns_mJXrajQ)
that my adder's sense
To critic and to flatterer stopped are.
The adder is a snake that is supposed to be deaf -
-
Shakespeare Sonnet CXIII(https://3.bp.blogspot.com/-ZaqdHP15rJ8/Vuy373DdAII/AAAAAAAAMZs/M177hazE8mAcRCFrx6lDhGTgzC4Hfq2YQ/s1600/Blue-spotted%2BWood%2BDove%2Bfront-on%2BBoma%2BGuest%2BHouse%252C%2BEntebbe%2B0610.jpg)
Since I left you, mine eye is in my mind;
And that which governs me to go about
Doth part his function, and is partly blind,
Seems seeing, but effectually is out;
For it no form delivers to the heart
Of bird of flower, or shape, which it doth latch:
Of his quick objects hath the mind no part,
Nor his own vision holds what it doth catch;
For if it see the rud'st or gentlest sight,
The most sweet favour or deformed'st creature,
The mountain or the sea, the day or night,
The crow, or dove, it shapes them to your feature:
Incapable of more, replete with you,
My most true mind thus maketh mine untrue. |
Shakespeare Sonnet 113https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=K76fUl5DYvg
-
I'm still a bit confused, Shakespeare spent how many sonnets telling us how this young male youth betrayed him with his mistress, and how it devastated him, yet now all he can write about is his betrayal and leaving this young male. Throughout all of these sonnets he speaks of obsessive thoughts.
-
I think if this Sonnet was taken on its own it would read as a beautiful love poem - it is difficult because we just did as you say Bellamarie go through a mountain of poems that ask for the forgiveness of his young lover and describing the poet's lack of commitment to his devotion to this young love and then this...
I think this is the perfect example of why something we read and included earlier explained, it is difficult to read them one after the other - looks like we just need to suspend our expectation based on reading the poems one after the other and see this one as a love poem -
Considering most people talk of the Sonnets as though they were love poems and we saw them very differently it is about time to enjoy a love poem ;) - Perfect day for it - cooled off a bit - sun shining - fall in in the air - I guess an Indian Summer day...
-
Barb, yes I agree standing on it's own, it may have been seen as a love poem, but we have read these in the order the person placed them when published, so it's a bit contradictory.
Our temp today was 51 degrees with overcast, and rain. The cooler temps are causing the leaves to change quickly. Perfect Fall day. After my morning volunteering at Heartbeat, we stopped at Barnes and Noble for lunch. I had a pumpkin spice latte with whip cream and a pumpkin spice muffin. Mmmmm.... I came home, turned on the furnace, changed into my comfy spandex pants and oversized bulky sweater, curled up in my favorite fuzzy throw blanket with my dog at my feet and just rested. Oh how I love this season!!
-
awww Bellamarie you've had today the sights and sounds of Autumn -
Read this today - it is so magical I must share it...
I myself have seen this woman draw the stars from the sky; she diverts the course of a fast-flowing river with her incantations; her voice makes the earth gape, it lures the spirits from the tombs, sends the bones tumbling from the dying pyre. At her behest, the sad clouds scatter; at her behest, snow falls from a summer’s sky
A Victorian age, flowery translation of the poet, Catullus, born in Verona in 84 B.C.
-
Shakespeare Sonnet CXIV (https://upload.wikimedia.org/wikipedia/commons/1/12/Banquet_cup-bearer_Louvre_G467.jpg)
Or whether doth my mind, being crown'd with you,
Drink up the monarch's plague, this flattery?
Or whether shall I say, mine eye saith true,
And that your love taught it this alchymy,
To make of monsters and things indigest
Such cherubins as your sweet self resemble,
Creating every bad a perfect best,
As fast as objects to his beams assemble?
O,'tis the first; 'tis flattery in my seeing,
And my great mind most kingly drinks it up:
Mine eye well knows what with his gust is 'greeing,
And to his palate doth prepare the cup:
If it be poison'd, 'tis the lesser sin
That mine eye loves it and doth first begin.
|
William Shakespeare Sonnet 114https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Bchx1HUbakI
-
Sonnet 114
He is done with withering in mea culpas for being unfaithful, and is now back to praising all the beauty he sees in his love once again.
-
Hahaha all I can do is laugh - it is so preposterous - hmm to say the same thing in 50 different ways seems to be the exercise he has embarked - nothing new - just new language -
ah yes "To make of monsters and things indigest Such cherubins" reminds me of the choice we have to elect one monster or the other - oh oh oh - wish there was a cherubin in the wings or, that one of these two were a cherubin in disguise. Early voting starts here on Monday and I still do not know if I should go third candidate as I was leaning since Bernie was taken out of to vote against the one that scares me the most - and now reading it does not make a difference that the entire voting by the public is a scam and that the preceding president has the next to be elected on board weeks if not months before the election to make the transference of power go smoothly. That for Bush to Obama it was months where as from Clinton to Bush it was weeks. With that Wikileaks email disclosure I have not idea if any of our votes matter.
Well can't digress - they should have election day scheduled for Halloween - far more appropriate... Trick or Treat...
-
Shakespeare Sonnet CXV(https://s-media-cache-ak0.pinimg.com/236x/9b/a5/36/9ba536fc5e19758c8a579e9af58208b7.jpg)
Those lines that I before have writ do lie,
Even those that said I could not love you dearer;
Yet then my judgment knew no reason why
My most full flame should afterwards burn clearer.
But reckoning Time, whose million'd accidents
Creep in 'twixt vows and change decrees of kings,
Tan sacred beauty, blunt the sharp'st intents,
Divert strong minds to the course of altering things;
Alas, why, fearing of Time's tyranny,
Might I not then say 'Now I love you best,'
When I was certain o'er incertainty,
Crowning the present, doubting of the rest?
Love is a babe; then might I not say so,
To give full growth to that which still doth grow?
|
William Shakespeare's Sonnet 115https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Hvdsq-Bi_vM
-
Oh my just lovely - another of the Sonnets to take out of the line of work we had been reading - this is lovely to realize all is time and how within the minutes, days, weeks and years things happen, things change, monumental things as well as tiny things - our hair blows in our face and we swipe it away just as in a minute we can quick fry an egg or pickup the phone or see a bird perch on the back of the patio chair.
Then to think of all the minutes we let go by without telling someone we love them - it is easy when the mood strikes but to think of sharing our recognition with another of how the add to our life and how our heart swells as we think of them or how in one or another encounter we take courage knowing they support us. All the ways to make our lives richer - yep, I like this poem... it helps turn my mind to the love that surrounds me - To give full growth to that which still doth grow.
-
Barb, I feel your frustration with this election. The wiki leaks have surely enlightened us to what these politicians really think and feel about us as voters behind closed doors. It can't be on Halloween because it's all tricks and no treats. For me as a Catholic Christian it makes it easier because I have been given advice and counsel to vote for which policies and persons align closest to my faith. It may be a stretch, but it is clear to me. But, as you and others say, I'm not sure if our votes will count for anything. With the videos of the rigging going on from the DNC, the outcome could already be decided, just like them choosing their candidate and doing to Bernie what they did to Hillary. The fix was in back in the 2008 election when Hillary was the clear choice of the people so the private meeting took place at Diane Feinstein's house and shortly after Hillary announced she was bowing out and conceding the Democratic nomination to Obama who was behind ind the electoral votes. This time around I personally believe they threatened Sander's family as it was reported, they met with him and gave him a nice lump sum to buy his new vacation home and sent him on his way. And now I digress...... so back to Shakespeare who seems to be aligning with the election process:
Divert strong minds to the course of altering things.
-
:) :'( - had someone bring to my attention today - whom ever wins will not be in my home denying how I relate and love those who come through the door or for that matter how I treat those I meet as I go about my daily life. I think today's poem is what will support that kind of thinking and that lifts my spirit.
-
Shakespeare Sonnet CXVI
(https://flixchatter.files.wordpress.com/2012/04/shakespearesonnet1162.jpg?)
Let me not to the marriage of true minds
Admit impediments. Love is not love
Which alters when it alteration finds,
Or bends with the remover to remove:
O no; it is an ever-fixed mark,
That looks on tempests, and is never shaken;
It is the star to every wandering bark,
Whose worth's unknown, although his height be taken.
Love's not Time's fool, though rosy lips and cheeks
Within his bending sickle's compass come;
Love alters not with his brief hours and weeks,
But bears it out even to the edge of doom.
If this be error and upon me proved,
I never writ, nor no man ever loved. |
Shakespeare Sonnet 116https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=iBYBFqsKchQ
-
Sonnet 116
Love alters not with his brief hours and weeks,
But bears it out even to the edge of doom.
If this be error and upon me proved,
I never writ, nor no man ever loved.
This reminds me of this:
(http://66.media.tumblr.com/tumblr_m4avegDO0K1rwrekdo1_500.jpg)
-
Perfect Bellamarie - we do not hear as much from or about Mariah Carey as we did before and after her twins were born.
The graphic reminded me of Alan Rickman even more than Kate Winslet - loved all his films - Emma Thompson had such a good eye and directed him in several of her productions - here is a nice collection of scenes with Marianne & Colonel Brandon.
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=PKvr-3WKuDY
So many love stories that are a result of Shakespeare's way with words and the thoughts behind them.
-
Shakespeare Sonnet CXVII
(http://dzentlmenis.lv/wp-content/uploads/2015/05/broken-heart.jpg)
Accuse me thus: that I have scanted all
Wherein I should your great deserts repay;
Forgot upon your dearest love to call,
Whereto all bonds do tie me day by day;
That I have frequent been with unknown minds,
And given to time your own dear-purchas'd right
That I have hoisted sail to all the winds
Which should transport me farthest from your sight.
Book both my wilfulness and errors down
And on just proof surmise accumulate;
Bring me within the level of your frown,
But shoot not at me in your waken'd hate;
Since my appeal says I did strive to prove
The constancy and virtue of your love. |
William Shakespeare's Sonnet 117https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Sopbw8sE9HA
-
"That I have hoisted sail to all the winds
Which should transport me farthest from your sight."
I'm sure if my parents read Shakespeare they would have quoted these line to me when I first married and moved all the way north on the Hudson River to a small town, Wappingers Falls, near where my new husband worked for IBM - and I too would say things to my family, who all thought that not only did I abandon them but, I was out of my mind so that I too would write and talk on the phone saying things that sounded much like,
But shoot not at me in your waken'd hate;
Since my appeal says I did strive to prove
The constancy and virtue of your love.
-
Shakespeare Sonnet CXVIII
(http://theappendix.net/images/blog/2012/12/header-apothecary_banner_copy.jpg)
Like as, to make our appetites more keen,
With eager compounds we our palate urge,
As, to prevent our maladies unseen,
We sicken to shun sickness, when we purge,
Even so, being tuff of your ne'er-cloying sweetness,
To bitter sauces did I frame my feeding,
And, sick of welfare, found a kind of meetness
To be diseas'd, ere that there was true needing.
Thus policy in love, to anticipate
The ills that were not, grew to faults assured,
And brought to medicine a healthful state,
Which, rank of goodness, would by ill be cured:
But thence I learn, and find the lesson true,
Drugs poison him that so fell sick of you |
William Shakespeare's Sonnet 118https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=XuTYjy6GWRU
-
And so he is saying the cure to his ailing heart is worse than the original sickness of unrequited love - Drugs poison him that so fell sick of you - Wow -
Today, there are so many foods rather than herbal tinctures called drugs during the Tudor period, that poison. Not because of anyone being lovesick either - not farmer or consumer - Its all in the seed manufacturer and the fertilizer manufacturer and the cost of water so that unsafe water is used - Sounds more like revenge except the manufacturers were never in love with us or our health so that there was no lovesickness to be cured. Their only love affair is with profit. The whole thing is so sad...
It would be neat if there was a pill to take for being lovesick - in that the pain is still the same after 400 years.
-
Shakespeare Sonnet CXIX
(https://s-media-cache-ak0.pinimg.com/736x/07/3d/4e/073d4eed01e0cbd7d09c6ee54932b298.jpg)
What potions have I drunk of Siren tears,
Distill'd from lymbecks foul as hell within,
Applying fears to hopes, and hopes to fears,
Still losing when I saw myself to win!
What wretched errors hath my heart committed,
Whilst it hath thought itself so blessed never!
How have mine eyes out of their spheres been fitted
In the distraction of this madding fever!
O benefit of ill! now I find true
That better is by evil still made better;
And ruin'd love, when it is built anew,
Grows fairer than at first, more strong, far greater.
So I return rebuk'd to my content,
And gain by ills thrice more than I have spent. |
William Shakespeare's Sonnet 119https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=i1qxgGGTP98
-
limbeck (n.) retort, distilling apparatus, alembic
Mac I.vii.67 [Lady Macbeth to Macbeth, of the King] his chamberlains / Will I with wine and wassail so convince / That memory ... / Shall be a-fume, and the receipt of reason / A limbeck only [i.e. the part of the brain where reasons are received will be clouded]
Sonnet 119 Siren tears / Distilled from limbecks foul as hell within
Origin of alembic
Middle English and amp; Old French alambic ; from Medieval Latin alambicus ; from Arabic al-anb?q ; from al, the + anb?q, distilling flask ; from Classical Greek ambix, a cup
1. an apparatus of glass or metal, like a retort, formerly used for distilling
2. anything that refines or purifies
-
So sorry for my absence the last few days. Yesterday was my only daughter's 44th birthday and since she lives in Florida (me in OHio) I wanted to make her a special birthday gift. I went through all our old family photo albums, yes the old Kodak pictures that are not nearly the brilliant quality of today's digital pixels, and I made her a dvd. Starting with the hospital baby name card, that was in her glass bassinet along with the baby ink footprints the hospital took when she was born, and went through her forty-four years of choosing just the right pictures that would remind her of all her special times. Some of the highlights were: Sacramental celebrations, Baptism, First Communion, Confirmation and her wedding. Then, came first day of Kindergarten, Brownies, Gymnastics, Dance, Miss Ohio Pre-Teen pageant, cheerleading, and graduation. I peppered in some really neat quotes and pics I was able to get off the internet that was mother/daughter saying to fit just the right pics. I also placed music to fit the years, beginning with Taylor Swift's "Never Grow Up", then Britney Spears "Not Yet A Woman", next One Direction "That's What Makes You Beautiful" and lastly Chantal Kreviazuk "Feels Like Home." I won't begin to estimate the hours I put into this to perfect it and have it ready to put on her Facebook yesterday, only to realize I had to cut the music since FB won't allow it. No harm, I just posted the video and added the songs above it from YouTube, for her to play in the background as she watched it. Oh how my heart leapt for joy as she and I sat on the phone watching it together. She was so excited, and thanked me numerous times for it. She said, "You know Mom, I had forgotten so many of the things I was involved in since I have lived in Florida for over twenty years, and haven't been able to glance through all your family photo albums." When she came home last November for a visit we got out all the old vhs tapes and looked at those. Oh how the years fly by..... so now I need to place this on a dvd and send to her, but at least she has the video on her Facebook to watch anytime she feels like it.
Now back to Shakespeare.
Barb, I loved the link you shared of Sense and Sensibility. I am a huge Jane Austen fan, and have read all her books, but seen only two of her movies, Emma, and Pride and Prejudice, my two favorites. I must watch this movie now after viewing the link. My next to do is....watch a few of Shakespeare's plays. Okay so let me try to catch up here.
-
Our Poetry Page Reads
Shakespeare Sonnets
2016 the world commemorates
400 years since the death of William Shakespeare.
(http://d13a6ytc0s97c3.cloudfront.net/uploads/listing/image/67/event_RS556808_36980_ROY210915_010-lpr.jpg)
April, 1616. A man died, but a legacy was born; one which proved
so essential not only to the development of
drama and literature, but to language, to thoughts and ideas.
A Sonnet a Day
July 1, till December 1,
We read in order, from 1 to 154
A Shakespeare Sonnet each day.
Welcome
Please share your comments about the day's Sonnet.
Discussion Leaders: Barb (augere@ix.netcom.com)
-
Sonnet 117
Wow, Shakespeare is really feeling like he has done this young lover a grave misjustice in how he has been absent, when he should have been present. It makes me wonder.... did the lover stray because of being neglected, or could this just be Shakespeare's imagination? I just don't know, but this sonnet seems to hit me as real, as though it truly happened and he is realizing he has not given enough of himself to the relationship.
My daughter and her husband were going through a patch in their marriage a few years ago, because he was so busy working and spending time with friends. There is a song by one of my favorite country artists, Vince Gill called "I Still Believe In You", I played it for the two of them, and I know it touched a spot in my son in law to make him realize, that you must take the time for each other. Sometimes a sonnet, song, or scripture verse can open our eyes and hearts when nothing else seems to penetrate.
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=baOz601--b0
Barb, what a perfect picture for this sonnet! So, you too knew what it was like to fall in love and move away from your family, as did my daughter. We always wish she could be closer, but we love her choice for our son in law, and he brought her even more closer to her love of God, so how can we deny them to live where they must?
Sonnet 118
Oh boy! Now he's done it!! Admitting he cheated numerous times because he feared their relationship was too good to be true. This seems like a continuation of the previous sonnets, self examining his sins of infidelity.
Sonnet 119
That better is by evil still made better;
And ruined love when it is built anew
Grows fairer than at first, more strong, far greater.
So I return rebuked to my content,
And gain by ills thrice more than I have spent.
I agree with his words,
ruined love when it is built anew
Grows fairer than at first, more strong, far greater.
I have seen many relationships that have survived cheating, and gone on to last a lifetime. Myself personally, I just don't know how I would be able to forgive my husband if he had ever been unfaithful to me. Forgiveness, is a huge testament in scripture to help us Catholic/Christians (which Shakespeare was) in understanding why Jesus came to earth as man. He came to teach us it is necessary to repent and forgive, so I guess for me, it would depend on the remorse and commitment, which it seems Shakespeare is trying to convey here. Did it work? From the previous sonnets I understood them to have parted. So, where does this sonnet fit in the truth of their relationship? Maybe we shall find out in the next sonnets to come.....
-
Sorry Bellamaire - thank goodness you had another post but I had to alter it and add to it what you originally had in the preceding post.
Since the upgrade we are all struggling with the headings and it would not allow me to enter the heading and in addition have lines seperating the heading from your post which is what we had been doing when we were not able to catch the first post of a new page before a post was entered.
If you notice the heading now does not even include some of the links we had earlier included - been working on this but it may have to be limited till they said another new upgrade is entered. Who knows how long before that happens.
OK need to read what your take is on these sonnets - did read how you celebrated your daughter's birthday and the special collection of photos and video tapes that was a remembrance of her life. How special - really - you really aught to think about writing it up as letter or something to some of the monthly magazines and maybe the idea would be picked up and be made public - even if you do not get paid it would be sprinkling your special view of family life and your gift for seeing how to strengthen family ties that few see it as you do or make the time to put their memories together - you've been given a talent and I can think of nothing better than to share that blessing - really - it is as if you were graced with a unique gift and so why not share the grace.
-
I've had lots of trauma to forgive - and the best I could do on some of it was simply remove myself - shut it all out and believe God would take care of it because it was beyond me - I could not even understand - the more I tried to wrap my head around it the more I could not even name the litany of pain - I was going crazy just trying to catch on as if trying to catch a moving train - till finally rather than fall off again and again trying so hard to understand what it was I was forgiving I finally hopped off and said - Go, God be with you because I cannot understand much less forgive - go, let God do it.
Of course than you have to deal with the heap that you are having crumbled on the ground and accept that you could not do what you thought and many others think you should be capable of doing. Then you have to put up with the years of slings and arrows of those who were hurt believing you should have been able to stop what was done. Sheesh -
As to those who can forgive and go on in a marriage - not sure how you have intimacy again with someone who so disrespected you in order to satisfy their own needs. Ah so and such is life... one thing I did learn is that as bad as your hurting you would still prefer to have your own pain and drama than the pain and drama of someone else's nightmare.
Back to the sonnets - have not really read them ahead - funny I read and hear them to prepare the heading but that is a different kind of reading - just to get the salient points so it can be depicted with a photo which is different than reading to make a contact or association with your own beliefs and values - and so frankly I cannot remember if we do learn what becomes of this scenario - my thinking is they are not all connected as if a story but then we shall see - certainly if nothing else it makes us think - just thinking about forgiveness is a biggie.
All of a sudden a thought crossed - these were written a bit over 400 years ago - which means folks have been having affairs bringing about a similar pain for hundreds of years - ever since intimacy became part of a relationship - not necessarily marriage since we know that marriage was more of a legal transaction rather than a love match till about the time of Shakespeare. And so I wonder what percentage of couples in all the world have experienced this kind of rejection and pain - hmm - sure takes individual pain and puts it into perspective.
-
Yes, Barb what I have realized in reading these sonnets that were written 400 years ago, nothing is different today where relationships are concerned.
I'm sorry to hear you have had a lot to deal with. Sometimes all you can do is take yourself out of the situation, to save yourself. Having faith and trust in God is the only answer to get you through when it all seems to be falling apart. I like this poem:
One night I dreamed a dream.
As I was walking along the beach with my Lord.
Across the dark sky flashed scenes from my life.
For each scene, I noticed two sets of footprints in the sand,
One belonging to me and one to my Lord.
After the last scene of my life flashed before me,
I looked back at the footprints in the sand.
I noticed that at many times along the path of my life,
especially at the very lowest and saddest times,
there was only one set of footprints.
This really troubled me, so I asked the Lord about it.
"Lord, you said once I decided to follow you,
You'd walk with me all the way.
But I noticed that during the saddest and most troublesome times of my life,
there was only one set of footprints.
I don't understand why, when I needed You the most, You would leave me."
He whispered, "My precious child, I love you and will never leave you
Never, ever, during your trials and testings.
When you saw only one set of footprints,
It was then that I carried you."
By Mary Stevenson
footprints-inthe-sand.com/index.php?page=Poem/Poem.php
-
Shakespeare Sonnet CXX(http://il9.picdn.net/shutterstock/videos/6095024/thumb/1.jpg)
That you were once unkind, befriends me now,
And for that sorrow, which I then did feel
Needs must I under my transgression bow,
Unless my nerves were brass or hammered steel.
For if you were by my unkindness shaken,
As I by yours, y' have pass'd a hell of time,
And I, a tyrant, have no leisure taken
To weigh how once I suffer'd in your crime.
O, that our night of woe might have remember'd
My deepest sense, how hard true sorrow hits,
And soon to you, as you to me, then tendered
The humble salve which wounded bosoms fits!
But that your trespass now becomes a fee;
Mine ransoms yours, and yours must ransom me. |
William Shakespeare's Sonnet 120https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=F7msKayfyoE
-
Sonnet 120
For if you were by my unkindness shaken,
As I by yours, y' have pass'd a hell of time,
And I, a tyrant, have no leisure taken
To weigh how once I suffer'd in your crime.
But that your trespass now becomes a fee;
Mine ransoms yours, and yours must ransom me.
OUCH!!!! Is this what they call justifying, the unjustifiable? Shakespeare seems to be saying, if he would have only stopped to think how much pain his lover caused him with betraying him, maybe he would not have done the same. Gosh, why does this make me a bit angry? I have always taught myself and my children, to apologize and mean it, don't use an excuse or say, well so and so did it too. When someone makes the clear choice to be unfaithful, in my humble not so psychologically educated opinion, they do it for their simple immediate self gratification, and lack of discipline or good judgement. I'm pretty sure they don't take the time to ponder..... oh maybe this is going to hurt my lover/spouse/girlfriend/boyfriend, because I remember how it felt when they did it to me. Or, maybe, just maybe the person who is choosing to cheat does in fact to it out of vengeful hurt. I don't know, but I do know I really don't care for his morbid, victimized, self pity, half ass apologetic summary, in this sonnet.
-
This tit for tat is difficult to read - revenge does not sit well as a noble or honorable reason to get back at someone as immediately reacting out of hurt, despair or even humiliation. I guess that is it - a loss of control in retaliation is one thing but to justify your own bad behavior by saying it is the fault of another sounds too much like today those addicted to alcohol or drugs or even sex - they blame someone else as being the cause of their conduct. OUch is right Bellamarie -
I guess the best light is he is not creating proverbs or a guide for behavior and for sure there are many stories and plays built around revenge - in fact isn't Hamlet all about his revenge against the king who took the place of Hamlet's father so quickly after his death and the question if the King actually killed the father - and then of course the anger at his mother who really, as a wife and women had little control over her life except through men. But then, even Hamlet does not blame either the King or his mother for his own behavior - could stretch it and say the ghost of his father urged Hamlet's behavior. But then Hamlet becomes real since he is so conflicted where as in this Sonnet there is no conflicted soul - only blame for his hurt feelings and his response is to hurt back in the same manner he was hurt. Or, if he slipped and had an affair, then felt remorse, he could not own his choice and so he blames.
We do agree Bellamarie that forgiveness is not easy but this poem also seems to be showing us how taking ownership of our bad behavior is also not easy - something to ponder for sure.
Thanks for your prayer poem Bellamarie - as the song goes, 'I never promised you a rose garden' which is about how I look at my spiritual God.
-
Shakespeare Sonnet CXXI(http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_7XLvQTao2k8/SVqBoCMWFpI/AAAAAAAAGKI/xudq9IFpDdI/s400/lauren+bday.jpg)
'Tis better to be vile, than vile esteemed,
When not to be, receives reproach of being,
And the just pleasure lost which is so deemed
Not by our feeling, but by others' seeing:
For why should others' false adulterate eyes
Give salutation to my sportive blood?
Or on my frailties why are frailer spies,
Which in their wills count bad what I think good?
No; -- I am that I am, and they that level
At my abuses reckon up their own:
I may be straight, though they themselves be bevel;
By their rank thoughts my deeds must not be shown;
Unless this general evil they maintain,
All men are bad, and in their badness reign. |
Shakespeare Sonnet 121https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=3O3u9woJCSQ
-
Hi, I'm back. I've been playing catch up for the last week, lurking and reading, and am almost up to here. So I'll comment along, and fill in with a few remarks about older poems.
But first I want to second Bellamarie's very wise advice about not feeling guilty about lapses in a new exercise program. I've found the same thing. You have to take each day as a new start. Never mind if you missed yesterday, today is a new day. No reproaches--they kill your resolve. Just start again.
-
This is a tough one. I had to read it six times to make sense of it. Here's my best guess. He is sinning in a small way, which he feels is justified because it's his nature, gives him great pleasure, and is only minor bad behavior. So he's not going to put up with being judged by these others, who are much worse sinners. They are so much worse, they have no right to criticize him.
I don't agree; we none of us have the right to judge others, only to understand them, but we also can't excuse our own behavior by saying others are worse. We have to compare ourselves to whatever inner truth we hold.
On a frivolous note: now at last I know the origin of one of my favorite quotes from my childhood.
Shakespeare: "I am that I am".
Popeye: "I yam what I yam".
;) ;) ;) ;) ;)
-
Welcome back PatH., Always good to see your views on these twisted sonnets.
Sonnet 121
'Tis better to be vile, than vile esteemed,
When not to be, receives reproach of being,
And the just pleasure lost which is so deemed
Hmmm..... so Shakespeare thinks since people are going to judge you as vile, you may just as well go ahead and be vile and get the pleasure from being vile. Where in his thought process does he find pleasure in being vile, regardless if someone thinks you are, or you actually are? Vile is vile...
vile
adjective
extremely unpleasant.
"he has a vile temper"
synonyms: foul, nasty, unpleasant, bad, disagreeable, horrid, horrible, dreadful, abominable, atrocious, offensive, obnoxious, odious, unsavory, repulsive, disgusting, distasteful, loathsome, hateful, nauseating, sickening; More
morally bad; wicked.
"as vile a rogue as ever lived"
archaic
of little worth or value.
Then he goes on to say:
I may be straight, though they themselves be bevel;
By their rank thoughts my deeds must not be shown;
Unless this general evil they maintain,
All men are bad, and in their badness reign.
Am I understanding he is thinking his wrongs are not wrongs, unless they think all men are bad?
I think dear Shakespeare is not wanting to admit to his vile, wrong doings, so he tells himself, "Judge not, lest ye be judged." (Matthew 7:1-2) He truly needs to be looking at himself, and not what others have or have not done, or are thinking, or judging him for. His sins and unfaithfulness, are just that, HIS, not skewed by any other person's standards. I'm not particularly liking him in these last few sonnets.
-
So glad to see you catching up Pat - it is difficult isn't it to follow more than one intense read and this months Book Club read is emotionally demanding as well as intent.
Both you and Bellamarie see this Sonnet as more of a man acting for others rather than living a life of integrity - playing devil's advocate here I wonder if it becomes a habit to measure himself by the gossip since it is the public's approval he needed in order to earn his living - I have a feeling it is more than simply the play produced but the fact it was a Shakespeare play a certain level of behavior was expected from the author - he could be bawdy to a degree but had to be a respectable business man.
It seemed to be a time when secret lives abound and kept secret was for instance your religious affiliation. He was considered extremely brave putting on plays that did not always show in a good light the monarchy - but then, the crowd loved it and they were his paying customers and so I am thinking his reputation had to pass muster with not only the crowd but those whose gossip could influence the crown, who could stop him in his tracks by not approving of a play which then that prevented him from producing the play. With all this scrutiny from 'others' in order to keep his station and therefore, income I can see how that concern became a habit that would take over his conscious and his secret life as well would be measured based on his estimation of what the crowd or crown or those who influenced the court would have to say.
Brings to mind public opinion affecting this election as 'secret' or private emails unfurl character that is less than exemplary - which can affect her future. I can only imagine how an examination of behavior as it plays to the public in and out of government is a constant. And like the poem, regardless how careful, if caught I bet they too have the quote handy, "All men are bad, and in their badness reign."
-
Shakespeare Sonnet CXXII (https://s-media-cache-ak0.pinimg.com/736x/af/8f/96/af8f96edfbddffe6f80b2deba20a3017.jpg)
Thy gift, thy tables, are within my brain
Full character'd with lasting memory,
Which shall above that idle rank remain
Beyond all date, even to eternity;
Or at the least, so long as brain and heart
Have faculty by nature to subsist;
Till each to razed oblivion yield his part
Of thee, thy record never can be miss'd.
That poor retention could not so much hold,
Nor need I tallies thy dear love to score;
Therefore to give them from me was I bold,
To trust those tables that receive thee more:
To keep an adjunct to remember thee
Were to import forgetfulness in me.
|
William Shakespeare Sonnet 122https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=iYVOqAZWmsc
-
hahaha - finally had to look up tables - I knew something was in his brain and came up with all sorts of convoluted concepts for 'table' - but a notebook - I laughed and laughed - now a tablet I would recognize as a notebook - but had no idea a table was an old word for notebook - now it makes perfect sense and in fact a delightful little sonnet - for some reason it seems little - nothing really dramatic or including questionable behavior - just a simply idea about a notebook holding what he committed to memory but just in case his memory fails or another wants to read of his love in heart and brain it is all in this notebook.
Reminds me of you Bellamarie with your ability to make memory books and of course today we have many a blog that is really more like a daily diary as folks capture their daily effort toward gathering or perfecting or sharing their interests.
-
But, soft: behold! lo where it comes again! ___
I'll cross it, though it blast me.
| Revisit'st thus the glimpses of the moon.
Making night hideous ; and we, fools of nature,
| (http://67.media.tumblr.com/7de3eb112ddc9f016f4efa5fdfd1bc30/tumblr_nx1cvcjkdl1ro4v2no1_500.jpg)
| (http://67.media.tumblr.com/0d6557d5159c9398c1945a9f7dd1e22d/tumblr_nwsr57GQvD1r2w8eqo1_1280.jpg)
| Infected he the air whereon they ride,
And damned all those that trust them.
| By the pricking of my thumbs,
Something wicked this way comes.
| (http://67.media.tumblr.com/14990c8904a770ed61c6f8c217f427bf/tumblr_nx1wexISTX1ro4v2no1_400.jpg)
| (http://67.media.tumblr.com/a3727083bc9fc60be06564cea960e0c5/tumblr_mvhx7jwy1D1ro4v2no1_500.jpg) |
|
-
My book has a note tables=memorandum book. But notice it's THY gift, THY tables. The beloved has given him a book to write down his devotion, and he's saying he doesn't need any such thing. A notebook only implies he will forget, which he says he won't.
To keep an adjunct to remember thee
Were to impart forgetfulness in me.
-
Sonnet 122
Yes, PatH., you are correct "thy" has given him a notebook to write down his memories, feelings or devotions of him. I find Shakespeare's response a bit flippant, because he is insulted, or hurt that "thy" thinks he needs to write his feelings down, as if he would forget them some day. In insinuating he needs this notebook, is like saying his feelings could change, and he will need to be reminded of them, when Shakespeare feels they could never change nor be forgotten.
Of thee, thy record never can be miss'd.
That poor retention could not so much hold,
Nor need I tallies thy dear love to score;
Therefore to give them from me was I bold,
To trust those tables that receive thee more:
To keep an adjunct to remember thee
Were to import forgetfulness in me.
This sonnet comes directly after Shakespeare dealing with his cheating, so now here we are hearing "thy" has given him a notebook to write his feelings in. So, are we to take this as "thy" is being a bit sarcastic in giving this because he is pointing out that he has cheated and needs to remember all the sonnets prior praising his undying love, yet here they are both cheaters? A bit of irony if you ask me.
Barb, I always journaled for years, and then stopped, but besides making memory books and dvds, I also started my own blog over a year ago. Whenever I feel the urge, I write on my blog to share with my Facebook friends and other bloggers. I usually post on my Facebook daily, so I guess that is sort of like journaling, only I don't make it personal thoughts, more like chatting with friends and keeping in touch., and a perfect way to share all the pics I take of our family events with the kids and grandkids, since I am the only one in the family who takes pictures. I would never be able to make these fantastic memory dvds for them without my pics. Sad thing is, now I have no more physical family albums, they are all on cds,dvds or online in my Facebook album. Not sure if that is good or bad.
-
Yes, like y'all I too see the 'thy' however, I also read, "...are within my brain
Full character'd with lasting memory" and so I read it as the focus on the poet and his brain or lasting memory.
Later he says,
Till each to razed oblivion yield his part
Of thee, thy record never can be miss'd.
Which says to me, till his memory fails the record is in the notebook or memorandum book - which I wondered if the written record was a euphemism - that 'thy' memorandum could be a mental record described as if noted in a book. In any event the memory of their love and his memory of his lover's beauty is noted someplace in addition to being in his brain.
I guess I have a difficult time, if the notebook is the lover's notebook filled with the description of their relationship how could it be as complete as the poet's memory - I cannot imagine the lover writing, describing his or her own beauty and the beauty of movement seen by the poet, whom we assume to be Shakespeare. To actually write or even record in memory his or her own beauty as Shakespeare saw it would be someone so full of him or herself to make them totally neurotically egocentric.
And then he says,
To trust those tables that receive thee more:
To keep an adjunct to remember thee
Were to import forgetfulness in me.
Which says to me he does not intend to forget therefore, will not need the table and by suggesting to trust what is written in the table more than what is in his memory or brain is to value greatly his becoming forgetful.
Hmm I guess I am not seeing anything sinister here or a come-uppence to others who had or may gossip - I am seeing him taking both pride and solace in his ability to remember all... 'all' as in gift(s) and the word gift also means the giving or 'gifting' him a crutch to his memory. My thought is he sees all the events and memory of his lover's beauty and the feelings they shared as an abundant gift therefore, he could not imagine forgetting.
In fact, the memory of what they have shared and the beauty of this lover is so stamped in his brain, he does not have to see this lover again to be reminded or to recall and tally all the 'gifts', moments, events, thrills, love like a score card.
Nor need I tallies thy dear love to score;
I guess we each see this a tad differently - compared to the obsessive dependence he was showing in other Sonnets I see this one as upbeat - he is giving himself, his memory, his mental capacity, credit as greater than what can be journaled in a memorandum or notebook. For me anything that does not have him describing himself as helpless, a victim or dependent is upbeat. In this poem I see him in control saying and knowing he has this one... forgetfulness will not happen.
Ok onward...
-
Shakespeare Sonnet CXXIII(http://www.nathape.com/images/LB200812EgyptGizeh.jpg)
No! Time, thou shalt not boast that I do change:
Thy pyramids built up with newer might
To me are nothing novel, nothing strange;
They are but dressings of a former sight.
Our dates are brief, and therefore we admire
What thou dost foist upon us that is old;
And rather make them born to our desire,
Than think that we before have heard them told.
Thy registers and thee I both defy,
Not wondering at the present nor the past,
For thy records and what we see doth lie,
Made more or less by thy continual haste.
This I do vow and this shall ever be;
I will be true, despite thy scythe and thee.
|
William Shakespeare's Sonnet 123https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=hM0wo6Yypls
-
hmm "I will be true, despite thy scythe and thee." There really is no choice is there now that I have aged - oh I guess there are some who change and kick up their heels or become curmudgeons - You almost have to wonder about this concept of a bucket list - I wonder if that is taking interest in our passions when we have lived putting first our duty and responsibility - Hmm what is our responsibility in life I wonder when we are old and there is no one - your kids really are not that affected by what you do or not do after they are in their late middle years and no longer need you to be the best grandparent - talk about freedom to be and do based on your passions since we really have so few responsibilities - for many their only responsibility is to stay out of the way and not add their two cents since that would be considered interference - ah so - and such is how we live out our time...
-
Barb,
I guess I have a difficult time, if the notebook is the lover's notebook filled with the description of their relationship how could it be as complete as the poet's memory - I cannot imagine the lover writing, describing his or her own beauty and the beauty of movement seen by the poet, whom we assume to be Shakespeare. To actually write or even record in memory his or her own beauty as Shakespeare saw it would be someone so full of him or herself to make them totally neurotically egocentric.
My take is the lover gave the empty notebook to Shakespeare to record his memories.... a bit of an insult, considering Shakespeare feels he could never forget them, so why would he need a notebook to write them down in?
I guess it's all in each person's perspective, as we say.
Sonnet 123
Now we are back to him defying time again.
-
hmm never thought of that - giving Shakespeare an empty notebook to fill with his thoughts - as you say Bellamarie we each see thaat one for one of the many facets of light that these poems offer.
-
Shakespeare Sonnet CXXIV
(https://s-media-cache-ak0.pinimg.com/736x/45/06/2d/45062d979fc259901ff41579b3984010.jpg)
If my dear love were but the child of state,
It might for Fortune's bastard be unfather'd
As subject to Time's love or to Time's hate,
Weeds among weeds, or flowers with flowers gather'd.
No; it was builded far from accident;
It suffers not in smiling pomp, nor falls
Under the blow of thralled discontent,
Whereto the inviting time our fashion calls:
It fears not policy, that heretick,
Which works on leases of short-number'd hours,
But all alone stands hugely politick,
That it nor grows with heat nor drowns with showers.
To this I witness call the fools of time,
Which die for goodness, who have liv'd for crime. |
Shakespeare Sonnet 124https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=3RdudMvNiAw
-
Sonnet 124
No; it was builded far from accident;
It suffers not in smiling pomp, nor falls
Under the blow of thralled discontent,
Whereto the inviting time our fashion calls:
It fears not policy, that heretick,
I gather he is saying his love is not that of pomp and circumstance, it can not be affected by such. I think we are beginning to see a repetition of some of the prior sonnets, of his love being timeless and unchangeable.
-
Difficult morning - early Ginny heard from Annie, who lives in the same town as Ella and who are friends. Annie called to say that our Ella passed - Words seem inadequate - Ella brought us so many wonderful books and her discussions were always so full of energy - to the end she was giving it her all in yet another wonderful choice of book. Been wrestling with this news all morning and it still has yet to sunk in - it seems so often it is a fall - Last year my best friend of 45 years similarly hung on for a few weeks after a fall just as Ella has hung on for several weeks. My prayers are for Cindy, Ella's daughter, that Cindy has some support.
Years ago I med Ella and Annie in Chicago at the gathering of then, SeniorNet. It was memorable if only because we all had reservations at the Blackstone and without any advance the hotel closed. Everyone, after actually showing up at the desk had to scramble for rooms elsewhere - many from that wonderful gathering are no longer with us and now Ella... it feels like the song, Empty Chairs At Empty Tables.
For Ella - https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=ljijk2T8zV4
-
We have been so enriched by Ella's contribution - her verve, intense curiosity and cheering leadership I'm finding it difficult to let go knowing Ells's posts will no longer be - of the phases of grief I had gotten to the depression stage over my good friend and now Ella which throws me back a bit but I am climbing through faster - I wish I could say I am able to let go and let God as the saying goes but I'm not there and so it is what it is...
Knowing how time ticks on, in one breath I feel that I wasted the day. I did wrestle with my thoughts that maybe we are meant to go forward as a duty or responsibility for what is right and to honor the person we grieve but, that ignores our feelings or inner passions which include all feelings - a cross road - I've been at that cross road many times and a few times I've given into my passion, letting my feelings that are the 5 stages of grief, full reign and frankly, I felt no better faster than I did by wearing a public face so to speak and doing what I was taught was expected - hate this feeling so listless and blah - did not get in that walk and that may be just what I need. OK without fail tomorrow even if only across to the park behind the school that is across from my house.
Yep, as we age we realize the "leases of short-number'd hours" and "Whereto the inviting time our fashion calls" Today is the Feast of All Saints after yesterday, Halloween the Feast of All Souls - and now a day of remembrance for a particular soul.
-
Shakespeare Sonnet CXXV
(https://www.loc.gov/exhibits/bnf/images/bnf4.jpg)
Were't aught to me I bore the canopy,
With my extern the outward honouring,
Or laid great bases for eternity,
Which proves more short than waste or ruining;
Have I not seen dwellers on form and favour
Lose all, and more, by paying too much rent,
For compound sweet forgoing simple savour,
Pitiful thrivers, in their gazing spent?
No; -- let me be obsequious in thy heart,
And take thou my oblation, poor but free,
Which is not mix'd with seconds, knows no art,
But mutual render, only me for thee.
Hence, thou suborn'd informer! a true soul,
When most impeach'd, stands least in thy control. |
William Shakespeare's Sonnet 125https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=uUCSwFWDOQ8
-
Barb, What beautiful words you have posted in honor of our gentle, sweet Ella. After learning of her passing I did take a walk with my hubby and dog, and I was talking with my hubby about how I will miss Ella in our discussions. I know she would want us all to go forward with these discussions because I feel we will find her here with us...... let's just take whatever time we all need to help us process the loss of Ella, and we can move forward when we are ready.
-
Yes, Bellamarie Ella came across as gentle and sweet but she also had been strong can-do force filled with an automatic expectation that folks would want to share their thoughts by posting often - Ella's strength was more evident back 10 and more years ago. As strong a personality as she was, she was always supportive of everyone and respectful.
I am so glad you and your husband took a walk during which you can share the details of your day and your feelings that are engaged during the day's happenings.
I think part of what I had to come to terms with is that there is no imagining ahead of time what it will be like not to have Ella's strength and participation leading a meaningful book discussion - we really do not have anyone in the wings with her gifts but then it will all happen as it should and we will be fine. I realize now how often I think and support ideas that I only learned by being a friend to Charlotte for all the years and especially the last 10 years so that I can only imagine but I bet some of Ella has rubbed off on us and we will be saying and doing things as we learned them from our associations with Ella.
I guess that is it - we do rub off on each other and so this poem has aspects that I can see that truth - like holding a canopy for someone is really being aware of how we listen and give them reverence when we listen we are learning from them and to be grateful for that opportunity. However, I think Shakespeare is saying something a bit different - more like public homage is of lessor value - while I am thinking public homage is how we respect the gifts from God that are encapsulated in another and shared by their words and actions. That we would not give those gifts their due if we did not give homage, public or otherwise to the barer who is a living instrument of God.
Shakespeare seems to be suggesting only the obsequious, the servile, the poor makes them free to really honor another - hmm get it not just being literally poor but quietly and privately therefore not artificial and not attempting to pander to another to build them up for I guess he is thinking for someone's personal gain is why you give public homage. Hmm - maybe he is saying this because he is seeing the young lover having his head turned by this public homage and Shakespeare wants to win like a game or competition the good graces and love of the young lover -
Well regardless the meaning intended I still see the wonderment of what others have to offer and public or private homage is not so much to that person but recognizing we are all an instrument of God and to recognize a gift is to recognize not only the gift but the person who took the gift and ran with it.
-
Shakespeare Sonnet CXXVI
(http://www.paulbondart.com/wp-content/uploads/paintings/Daniel-Patron-St-of-Wayward-Mariners.jpg)
O thou, my lovely boy, who in thy power
Dost hold Time's fickle glass, his sickle, hour;
Who hast by waning grown, and therein show'st
Thy lovers withering as thy sweet self grow'st;
If Nature, sovereign mistress over wrack,
As thou goest onwards, still will pluck thee back,
She keeps thee to this purpose, that her skill
May time disgrace and wretched minutes kill.
Yet fear her, O thou minion of her pleasure;
She may detain, but not still keep, her treasure:
Her audit, though delay'd, answer'd must be,
And her quietus is to render thee |
William Shakespeare's Sonnet 126https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=tctJh4jAfy0
-
Sonnet 126
O thou, my lovely boy, who in thy power
Dost hold Time's fickle glass, his sickle, hour;
Who hast by waning grown, and therein show'st
Thy lovers withering as thy sweet self grow'st;
Maybe I am just in a funky mood, but this sonnet just does not set well with me. Shakespeare is pointing out the youthfulness of this lovely boy. He uses the word "boy" then he goes on to mention how he, himself is old and aging, "withering". Creepy, is how I am now feeling, about this love Shakespeare has for this young boy. Just how old is this boy?
I guess maybe something has caused me to feel this way..... a friend of mine passed away a year ago. She and her husband were in our Pre Cana classes for the engaged couples I was a facilitator with in our church back in the 1990's. They were the young ones who were just beginning their family, and at the time had three sweet little girls. Tim, the father joked at the time and said at the rate they were going having all girls, that when it comes time for them to marry, he and Sara will have to give the girls a thousand dollars and a ladder to elope. We all laughed, and that was a standing joke. They ended up having four beautiful daughters, and before the oldest graduated Jr. High their Daddy (Tim) died of brain cancer. Sara had to raise these girls without a Daddy, and she worked three jobs to manage to get them all in a Catholic High School. Sara died last year before seeing her first grandchild born. Laura, her daughter had a baby girl Lucy just six months ago. Laura posted on Facebook yesterday how she was shocked at while singing Rock - A - Bye - Baby to sweet little Lucy the words in the song seemed scary for her baby. She had so many comments on that post, about how so many children's songs, poems and even Disney movies have scary and even violent content. I mentioned to her even Lewis Carroll who wrote Alice In Wonderland was possibly a pervert being in love with Alice at such a young age. Now today reading this sonnet, it really bothers me to realize I have been reading these sonnets for 125 days, not thinking about how inappropriate these have been, about an older man obsessing, and professing his undying love to a young boy. How much of art be it songs, poems, portraits, paintings, movies, etc., have we admired, honored, awarded, and called classic, and even noble, throughout the centuries overlooking the actual conduct, and possible vileness of the person creating these works all in the name of art?
Gives me something to ponder on my walk today......
-
ah yes, Bellamarie - so often the arts portray what is finally understood as more than creepy - the one caveat I have reading this poem is - I think he was talking about his young son who died at age 11 or 12 which in the sixteenth century would be as an 18 or 19 year old since the average age at death was 30s to maybe the very early 40s. From everything we read the death of his son hit him hard - he was his only boy. So that I even wondered about some of the earlier sonnets that referred to a beloved - in this one the mistress he speaks of is Nature and so this one fits the death of his son.
As to the others - in London and among those in the theater or even in court I can imagine a 'gay' relationship and often there were years between the age of the partners - even today we see some who are similar in age but we also see younger men with older men - I do not get the sense there was coercion - but the ins and outs of gay men hooking up is not what I know best.
I do notice they seem to be, even in our closed neighborhood discussion on facebook, a bit more what I would call risque or even dirty with their references - and I live in a nice part of town - we do have many gays in Austin because of it being a high tech town and a town that has a lot of artists, musicians, architects, not so much dancers - we only have a small ballet company - Austin has also become a large fashion design center with the needed components, artists and cheap labor and several events a year bringing in many high dollar internationals - these are all professions that attract gays - even several of our local TV news reporters and anchors are gay - and so where I am surrounded and therefore, have a peek into differences I am not knowledgeable enough of why or what the attraction is to each other.
In the past I would have thought some outrageous behavior was to call attention to themselves but now that the gay community has achieved just about all equal rights and are no longer marching or asking for funds, seeing some of this outrageous dress and behavior that includes what and how they say things I just do not understand. Clearly it is not to call attention to their difference - all to say I do see in the grocery store and coffee shops some couples where one is older and I also see mixed race that include a large age difference. I'm guessing it has to do with what is considered attractive and maybe the older guy financially has the where with all to take care of the younger more pleasing looking partner.
As to nursery rhymes having frightening words when you research the original stories that started some of these stories and sing song like songs the words make perfect sense - they just do not fit today - I remember years and years ago looking up rock a bye baby but I have now completely forgotten the story behind it - but all of them have logical reasoning - it is just that today we do not have some of the life experiences that were usual back 4 to 500 years ago.
I'm older now than when I used to walk with my grandmother who had 12 children but only 3 lived - some of the stories of their deaths were horrific if compared to today but then, they were usual - for instance one was in a high chair - there was not the attached table tops to hold them in or straps - the children were tied into the chair usually with soft strips of cloth - well one child wiggled out and they lived on the second floor in a house that had a basement apartment - in the back, where the kitchens all faced, there was a cement alley about 8 or 10 feet wide that ran along the entire back of the building - the door to the basement apartment opened to this alley - when the little guy wriggled out he was next to the window and got out of the chair onto the window sill and fell to his death - there were illnesses but one death that stayed with me - the baby was born early and they wrapped it in cotton and put it in a box - some used a big pot and kept the baby near the back of the stove for warmth - the moms were kept in bed for a minimum of 5 days back then and who ever was looking after that baby was also keeping the house going from heating the household's hot water to cooking meals and caring for my grandmother so that the baby become, putting it kindly too warm and died.
All these things were normal at the turn of the twentieth century nursery rhymes were from a much earlier time so of course the daily happenings was included that often were a teaching aid as to what not to do.
Here are a couple of web sites that may help
http://mentalfloss.com/article/55035/dark-origins-11-classic-nursery-rhymes
http://listverse.com/2012/11/28/10-sinister-origins-of-nursery-rhymes/
http://www.songfacts.com/detail.php?id=4848
-
While I can see how you could imagine Shakespeare writing this sonnet about his son, I can't because he uses "thy lovers". Looking at the modern day text for that particular line it says, "You’ve only grown more beautiful as you’ve aged, revealing in the process how withered I, your lover, have become."
Very interesting points you make about artists singing and writing on their tragedies back then, and how over the years they have been grouped in "children's" sections. The dramatics artists drew from back then and created such scary, and violent material would not be admired, nor condoned for children of today. We have ratings now to protect them from such material.
As for the environment you experience living where you are, I am no where near that level of outwardness where I live. I worry about child trafficking because my city is among one of the highest rates for this. There are no accepting or tolerance for older men or women who prey on children/underage teens for their sexual pleasure. I'm not feeling comfortable with this sonnet, and it seems to have struck a cord in me, realizing all or at least most of these sonnets are Shakespeare seeming to be in love to the point of obsession, with as he refers to him as a young "boy."
Thank you for the links.
-
Barb, I like this from one of your links:
If you're looking for a version of this song where the baby doesn't meet its doom, Candice Night recorded a more comforting rendition for her 2015 album Starlight Starbright with her husband Ritchie Blackmore on guitar. Her lyric becomes:
When that wind blows, there's nothing to fear
'Cause mommy and daddy will always be here
In our interview with Night, she said, "If you are a parent or caregiver you have absolutely every right - more than that, it should be your duty really - to do whatever you can do to comfort your child and let them know everything is all right. Even if it isn't... We all shoulder burdens and hide truths from our children so that they can retain their innocence. And the most vulnerable time for a child is right before bedtime. Why would anyone want to scare them at that moment?"
I have changed many lines in children's songs while raising my children, grandchildren and having my in home daycare business. One prayer I changed was:
As I lay me down to sleep
I pray the Lord my soul to keep
Let me awake to sunny skies
And see God's love through rested eyes.
I'll never forget the night my daughter and I were saying the original Now I Lay Me Down To Sleep prayer, and got to the line, "if I should die before I wake, I pray the Lord my soul to take." My sweet little frightened daughter looked at me and asked, "Am I going to die when I go to sleep?" I reassured her no, and told her I did not like that part of the prayer so I will change it. I have used only my version since then.
-
Shakespeare Sonnet CXXVII
(https://whispersofmyminddotcom.files.wordpress.com/2015/01/oliverbelle.png?w=381&h=221)
In the old age black was not counted fair,
Or if it were, it bore not beauty's name;
But now is black beauty's successive heir,
And beauty slander'd with a bastard shame:
For since each hand hath put on nature's power,
Fairing the foul with art's false borrow'd face,
Sweet beauty hath no name, no holy bower,
But is profan'd, if not lives in disgrace.
Therefore my mistress' brows are raven black,
Her eyes so suited; and they mourners seem
At such who, not born fair, no beauty lack,
Slandering creation with a false esteem:
Yet so they mourn, becoming of their woe,
That every tongue says, beauty should look so. |
William Shakespeare's Sonnet 127https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=DPQWgH81NdA
-
Several old folk songs that speak of Black as being less favorable - the best known - Black Black is the color of my true love's hair - adn these folk songs were mostly from the 14th century - it has been estimated that the black coloring addressed in these old songs is not from Africa but rather from Spain - the Moor's were in Spain and Spanish ships came up along the English and Irish coast - the saying has been almost as folklore, still said when I was a child - the Irish with black hair, black eyebrows and dark eyes were as a result of sailors either shipwrecking or being captured from Spanish ships.
It appears the same problems of defining what is acceptable was an issue over 400 year ago during Shakespeare's lifetime and today - "That every tongue says, beauty should look so."
-
Shakespeare Sonnet CXXVIII(http://www.porcelainista.net/wp-content/uploads/2014/03/1040323_623888354290334_1814639804_o.jpg)
How oft, when thou, my music, music play'st,
Upon that blessed wood whose motion sounds
With thy sweet fingers, when thou gently sway'st
The wiry concord that mine ear confounds,
Do I envy those jacks that nimble leap
To kiss the tender inward of thy hand,
Whilst my poor lips, which should that harvest reap,
At the wood's boldness by thee blushing stand!
To be so tickled, they would change their state
And situation with those dancing chips,
O'er whom thy fingers walk with gentle gait,
Making dead wood more blest than living lips.
Since saucy jacks so happy are in this,
Give them thy fingers, me thy lips to kiss. |
William Shakespeare's Sonnet 128https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=ko08oOe-ZKE
-
Today November 5, is Guy Fawkes day that took place in 1605 - eleven years before Shakespeare's death - and the question; What did Shakespeare know and was the bonfires of Guy Fawkes day included in any of his plays...
Well little did I know but Macbeth is a direct result of Guy Fawkes attempt to bomb into smithereens the King and all his associates. I also completely forgot it was a Catholic Plot with several of those involved living in or near Stratford Upon Avon.
Here is a short explanation of what happened to the conspirators and how Shakespeare handled saving his own skin.
http://www.shakespeare-online.com/biography/gunpowderplot.html
-
Shakespeare Sonnet CXXIX(https://i.ytimg.com/vi/fl8I5dycpTk/hqdefault.jpg)
The expense of spirit in a waste of shame
Is lust in action; and till action, lust
Is perjured, murderous, bloody, full of blame,
Savage, extreme, rude, cruel, not to trust,
Enjoy'd no sooner but despised straight,
Past reason hunted, and no sooner had
Past reason hated, as a swallow'd bait
On purpose laid to make the taker mad;
Mad in pursuit and in possession so;
Had, having, and in quest to have, extreme;
A bliss in proof, and proved, a very woe;
Before, a joy proposed; behind, a dream.
All this the world well knows; yet none knows well
To shun the heaven that leads men to this hell. |
Shakespeare Sonnet 129https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=qnd9XmbS2iw
-
Our Poetry Page Reads
Shakespeare Sonnets
2016 the world commemorates
400 years since the death of William Shakespeare.
(http://d13a6ytc0s97c3.cloudfront.net/uploads/listing/image/67/event_RS556808_36980_ROY210915_010-lpr.jpg)
April, 1616. A man died, but a legacy was born; one which proved
so essential not only to the development of
drama and literature, but to language, to thoughts and ideas.
A Sonnet a Day
July 1, till December 1,
We read in order, from 1 to 154
A Shakespeare Sonnet each day.
Welcome
Please share your comments about the day's Sonnet.
Discussion Leaders: Barb (augere@ix.netcom.com)
Just popped in to see how things are progressing and read this last sonnet.
Well, that is a whopper, isn't it. Says a lot, encompasses a lot in a few words.
I think these lines, particularly, pop out at me.
The expense of spirit in a waste of shame
Is lust in action;
Had, having, and in quest to have, extreme;
All this the world well knows; yet none knows well
To shun the heaven that leads men to this hell.
Lust, greed, intemperance (ex: gluttony), maybe envy. The sonnet covers several of the seven deadly sins.
Shame, in itself, has a powerful psychological impact on a person. And, it is transferable to others, particularly family members.
-
Frybabe, WELCOME!!! Great insight into seeing the seven deadly sins. You are so spot on in your deduction of shame and transferring to others especially family. I would add guilt into that mix as well. So many times guilt can be such a driving force. I struggle with feeling guilty if I do not help out certain family members who don't have as much as I do, although I know they are not living a life on the straight and narrow. When do you say no, knowing it could be going for a not so good purpose?
Anyway..... I loved waking up and seeing your post. Be back later gotta get ready for church.
-
Whee figured it out - yes I did not look closely last night and put today's Sonnet as the last post and then did not get the heading up on the first post of the new page - sorry Frybabe - you were caught - but glory glory hallelujah - I was able to get the heading included in your post by not putting lines between the heading and your message - the new upgrade has been a challenge to prepare and upload headings
I like how you saw the seven deadly sins in this Sonnet - i was so focused on passion over duty that I missed it so wonderful - so glad your fresh eye saw that - nice to read your thoughts Frybabe - all we have left is 25 more Sonnets - it has been quote an adventure - who ever started the rumor these were love Sonnets sure started a message of propaganda - even though the topic of this is about a love relationship it is anything but about love -some do not even have love as the topic but a lot of victimizing himself and as Bellamarie earlier said, OUCH!!!! Is this what they call justifying, the unjustifiable.
And yes, I too see the guilt you've mentioned Bellamaire - seems to be almost a constent theme with him doesn't it.
I'm seeing this as one long rant - the first 12 lines are all ONE sentence. Whew the ONLY period is after the word dream. Then a breath and a quick one two punch commenting on this rant in two lines. He sure has a head full of steam on this one...
For me I took this one step removed - instead of acting on lust for a lovelife I saw the passion as a lust for whatever grabs us that we end up pursuing rather than what is the responsible use of our time.
For me, the satisfaction that come from making contact with others and to share thoughts without interruption keeps me on facebook far too long - or how often I was in the middle of a good book and as a kid i delayed coming when mom called and now, that there is no one depending upon me, I read far too late into the night or do not prepare a proper meal because i do not want to leave what i am reading.
I'm thinking we lust after what brings us satisfaction and even joyfulness - but completing a task that is expected sometimes there is that feel-good moment but other times it is like finally finished and nothing i looked forward to nor will ever look forward to doing agiain; yet, like income tax all that paper work must be repeated next year. Will preparing tax receipts ever be a passion and yet, for some, like accountants, they love that kind of work.
And so I too ask the question, how To shun the heaven that leads (wo)men to this hell of guilt over delaying responsibilities that the delay can even represent trouble. How do we avoid trouble by not reacting to our passions and lust for what pleases.
-
And speaking particularly of sexual lust, he's saying that as soon as it's over one is disgusted with oneself, ashamed, tormented. Then the final couplet:
All this the world well knows; yet none knows well
To shun the heaven that leads men to this hell.
We know we're going to regret it, but we can't make ourselves be sensible and not do it.
And as you point out, Barb, it applies much more widely than my narrow interpretation.
-
He is sure different than the Romans isn't he Pat - as we read some of Ovid it appeared that lust had no ramifications of "perjured, murderous, bloody, full of blame, Savage, extreme, rude, cruel, not to trust," except to the woman who would not submit or to the man after submission that angered the goddess - the difference in the Sixteenth century I'm thinking has to do with vows - marriage vows...
Between 2000 or so BC and the sixteenth century marriage became the accepted act of a couple in 'lust' so that the poet must feel all this shame because he is acting on his lust without marriage or a plan for marriage.
Is taking a vow to couple for life causing a harness that contains and retains a man's lust for another - vows for a women represented security - what was the benefit for the man I wonder - we may see love and lust for our beloved as one but we often hear for many the tie is not there - and so I wonder why a man entered into the vows of marriage other than for a dowry and if a farmer to have children to help with the work so the farm could be prosperous.
Hmm this is a research item - why did a man take up marriage - what was the benefit because as the poet alludes, to follow his lustful feelings leaves him with shame and yet, so many men and women were unfaithful; even kings and queens, chiefs, statesmen, sailors, soldiers, men and women in all walks of life acted freely on their lust ignoring the constraint of a harness.
-
Shakespeare Sonnet CXXX (https://i.ytimg.com/vi/TJ8qSWo-rVU/maxresdefault.jpg)
My mistress' eyes are nothing like the sun;
Coral is far more red than her lips' red;
If snow be white, why then her breasts are dun;
If hairs be wires, black wires grow on her head.
I have seen roses damask'd, red and white,
But no such roses see I in her cheeks;
And in some perfumes is there more delight
Than in the breath that from my mistress reeks.
I love to hear her speak, yet well I know
That music hath a far more pleasing sound;
I grant I never saw a goddess go;
My mistress, when she walks, treads on the ground:
And yet, by heaven, I think my love as rare
As any she belied with false compare.
|
William Shakespeare Sonnet 130https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=SJYwKUMXwDg
-
Men in all walks of life would have a need for legitimate heirs and someone to run their household. Agreed, many marriages were practical arrangements having nothing to do with love. I wonder whether most men felt guilty about infidelity.
-
Well, we have a lighter mood in #130. He's making fun of the elaborate poetical praise of beauty popular at the time. His love is none of these absurd comparisons. But he ends sweetly; his mistress isn't beyond compare, but his love for her is incomparable.
-
Do you think that is it Pat - the rational for men to marry - "Men in all walks of life would have a need for legitimate heirs and someone to run their household."
I forgot how property is passed to legitimate children - and so there would be an economic tie that only marriage would provide - most want to pass on something that is a legacy - hmm so that is maybe why we have many Sonnets talking about time and the very early Sonnets talking about having children - it is a legacy thing...!
Goodness it was said often enough wasn't it but it did not penetrate for me till I saw the connection to a desired legacy and for many that legacy would be their land - although, it seems to me in Shakespeare's will there was something about his bequeathing his bed - I remember seeing the bed - it was a four poster - a bit shorter than we are used to seeing today and of course not king or even queen size - Never thought to ask what wood from what tree was used to make the bed or who made it.
Few folks today have handmade furniture or even furniture valuable enough to include in a will and the few that do have valuable furniture, it is probably an antique rather than anything purchased today.
I think the other information that helps me appreciate the idea of a legacy is after reading several books on the tribal culture in the middle east and how it relates to women wearing clothes that conceal themselves. The concept of Tribal Purity is an economic necessity to a family - controlling women is controlling the tribal purity of children -
Seems the tribes collectively own all sorts of assets that started historically owning land that included a well and then gradually today there are tall skyscrapers that the profits go to the tribe or oil that again, the profits go to the tribe that owns the mineral rights - down to park land - so that if someone marries outside the tribe (the smallest tribal group being in the thousands and the larger in the millions) the family no longer receives their annual share of the profits - not just the girl or boy who marry outside the tribe but the entire family - just as we can identify various cultural appearances the police in the middle east can identify if you are Tribal Pure and what tribe you are associated so that if you are not Tribal Pure you are not allowed in certain parks and the police will escort you out of the park. Of course the head scarf worn by the men is a give-away.
Reminds me of the many Indigenous tribes gathered at Standing Rock N.D. that folks can tell from appearance which tribe the belong - I look at the many not in formal tribal wear and cannot tell from which tribe they belong by their facial features and body shapes.
Having learned how tribes value keeping the legacy of their genes I can appreciate how among westerners, men value legacy - thank goodness we have gone past the time when father's chose husbands and marriage provided the legitimacy of "legacy".
And yes, Pat this is a cute and fun poem isn't it - I can see it said dead pan as much as I can see it said with a wink and sly smile.
-
Well, PatH., this is why we need more members to participate in our discussions. You have brought a new light to these sonnets I had not thought about. I did have a problem with the fact Shakespeare professes his undying love for this young boy, yet then admits to having a mistresses. So, if he took up a mistress for the purpose of an heir, are we to assume he is using the term mistress as in wife? He never gives the impression he ever was married in these sonnets, unless I missed something. But if he is using the word "mistress" as wife then it just didn't realize that. And if that is the case why did he go on and on about all his infidelities?
Ouch.... I do not see him being very kind whatsoever in any of these lines. No, not so eloquent in my opinion. Is he making fun of other poets as if they over do their descriptions and if so has he not done the same in all his prior sonnets? Phew.....I may be a bit burnt out on these sonnets.
-
You are on target Bellamarie - not kind but a kind of banter - we do it here in this part of the country a lot in the opposite way - if someone is being rude or outrageous - we agree with them and make all these agreeing revelations that would support the person who is being rude and say it in an dead pan way so that everyone else in the group knows it is a put on to bring down the person who found fault or was rude - where as in this Sonnet he is doing almost the same by taking all her wonderful characteristics and coming up with the opposite - it is a tease that some still do to those they care about -
It is so hard to write voice intonation and body language - I see many take seriously what is a joke on social media - we really do not realize how much the way we say something influences its meaning do we.
Today the word mistress has an entirely different meaning - a women of ill repute is the most polite way of saying it - even during the twentieth century, men who had a paramour on the side would call her his mistress where as, in the sixteenth and seventeenth and even on through the nineteenth century it was referring to a woman who has power, authority, who employs or supervises servants or was in charge of a school or simply the head of a household.
I think the word mistress is no longer in style - too bad - the nursery rhyme “Mary, Mary, Quite Contrary” for me, always involves a double take - why are they so chauvinistic or, maybe simply a dummkoph or, did they not have anyone to teach them the rhyme is, “Mistress Mary, Quite contrary”. Ugh how banal "Mary, Mary..." - no dignity, completely lacks the elevated opinion describing the sauciness of a girl having the chutzpah and courage to being contrary. Humph... ;) My rant for the day about the subtle ways the public brings down women by lowering our admiration for the acknowledged ability a girl-child has to be contrary.
It is a poem like this Sonnet 130 that makes us aware of how far we are removed from the language and thinking of Shakespeare's time - I'm beginning to think we still have lots of differences as we communicate - how much is tomorrow, Election day, based in how we understand and interpret what the Candidates say - and yet, we really do not want a homogenized society or language. A conundrum...
Well, only 24 more Sonnets AND 24 more days till the first of December - Wow - that is all the time we have, 24 days to make things for the holidays - after the first of December there are traditional celebrations starting with the 4th the feast of St. Barbara - the 6th the feast of St. Nicholas - the 7th it is 75 years since Pearl Harbor, golly that long ago, I guess most of the population was not alive in 1941 to hear FDR on the radio say, the day would go down in infamy - December 8 feast of the Immaculate Conception - the 11th starts Shevat - 12th feast of Our Lady of Guadalupe - 14th feast of St. Lucia - 18th Rose Sunday - 24th both Hanukkah starts and Christmas Eve - Christmas on the 25th and the start of Kawanzaa - the 26th the feast of St. Stephens and Boxing day - the 28th the feast of the Holy Innocents.
For a dark month on this side of the equator it sure is a month filled with celebrations and what a coup - we can finish out the year saying we read all 154 of Shakespeare's Sonnets - and they were NOT love poems, the word that is often used to describe them.
-
Shakespeare Sonnet CXXXI(https://s-media-cache-ak0.pinimg.com/236x/98/ee/54/98ee5495db4cd1d4720b08ae98993023.jpg)
Thou art as tyrannous, so as thou art,
As those whose beauties proudly make them cruel;
For well thou know'st to my dear doting heart
Thou art the fairest and most precious jewel.
Yet, in good faith, some say that thee behold
Thy face hath not the power to make love groan:
To say they err, I dare not be so bold,
Although I swear it to myself alone.
And, to be sure that is not false I swear,
A thousand groans, but thinking on thy face,
One on another's neck, do witness bear
Thy black is fairest in my judgment's place.
In nothing art thou black save in thy deeds,
And thence this slander, as I think, proceeds
|
William Shakespeare's Sonnet 131https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=iaLOyq2N0PY
-
Barb, I have to say I have occupied yesterday and today to prayer over this election. Yesterday I spent doing progress reports for my CCD students, lesson planning and preparing for showing a video in class tomorrow on the "Safety of Touching." This is new in our Diocese this year mandatory to bring awareness to students, parents, faculty and anyone who is in contact at any capacity in the Catholic school and church activities invloving children/ teens. It is under an insurance program Virtus. It will be ongoing in order for the Diocese to be insured. Then I prepared for my Biblle Study for today. Today I got up, went to Bible Study, voted, went to purchase items to prepare me to begin writing my novel, and also put together a three ring binder of all my past years of Bible Study material. I have not turned the tv on all day, no radio or social media on the computer. I am very anxious and worried where this election will take us in not just the next four years, but into the future with the soon to be Supreme Court appointees. As a Christian I place all my faith in God, and know come tomorrow morning it will either be over or contested depending on today's outcome. But the ads and phone calls will finally end.
I don't celebrate all the days ahead you speak of but I am considering decorating for Christmas in the next week since it takes me almost an entire week to complete the inside. I love having it all done so on Thanksgiving we take family photos to use for ordering our Christmas cards.
Now, back to Shakespeare.... I may find myself groaning after reading this. What on earth is he rambling on about? I don't see it flattering or playful how he is referring to people finding her looks and actions as being ugly. Men in all the arts have always used women in objectifying ways throughout all of history.
-
Voted today as well - ugh - I did not even take a sticker - I have never been less proud of voting - a nightmare - and like you - who cares - it will be what it is - I noticed a quiet intensity at the voting station where there were 16 machines all full - no one left smiling or joking with the poll workers who we all know - also noticed everyone was taking a long time which said that no one voted a straight ticket - we had only 1 amendment so that plus a straight ticket would have been two turns of the wheel and out the door - those outside the school waiting for their ride or a child after voting all just shook their heads - the chatter was mostly about picking up a bottle of wine or a six pack and watching a movie.
Yes, Shakespeare is at it again isn't he - at minimum bantering again - the only truth that he does say is...
Thy black is fairest in my judgment's place.
In nothing art thou black save in thy deeds,
Reminds me, I may be repeating myself but the music is in my head - the old mountain words we sang in Kentucky.
Black Black Black
is the color of my true love's hair,
Her cheeks are like some rosey fair.
with the prettiest face and the restest hands
I love the ground whereon she stands.
I love my love as well she knows
I love the ground on where she goes
If I know more on earth shall see
I won't serve yee as you serve me
I go to Troublesome for to mourn and weep
but satisfied I never can be
I'll write you a letter in a few short lines
I'll suffer death ten thousand times
Pleasures invade my eyes and ears
and all my senses feasted here
I'll surely per-ish by your charms
Un-less you save me in your arms.
I shall count my life begun,
when he and I shall be as one.
I love my love and well he knows
I love the ground whereon he goes.
Love that mournful sounding song - Some of the same pleading we heard from Shakespeare in other Sonnets are in this song as well as, what should be love and happiness is laced with mournful thoughts - "suffer death ten thousand times" goodness - so I can see clearer how Shakespeare included some of this with none of his sonnets totally positive but rather, as if throwing salt over your shoulder to not let the evil eye know that you say anything wonderful or his love will be struck down with something - in those days probably the Black Death.
-
Shakespeare Sonnet CXXXII
(https://c2.staticflickr.com/4/3479/3732823555_b7014c083a_z.jpg?zz=1)
Thine eyes I love, and they, as pitying me,
Knowing thy heart torments me with disdain,
Have put on black and loving mourners be,
Looking with pretty ruth upon my pain.
And truly not the morning sun of heaven
Better becomes the grey cheeks of the east,
Nor that full star that ushers in the even,
Doth half that glory to the sober west,
As those two mourning eyes become thy face:
O, let it then as well beseem thy heart
To mourn for me, since mourning doth thee grace,
And suit thy pity like in every part.
Then will I swear beauty herself is black
And all they foul that thy complexion lack. |
Shakespeare Sonnet 132https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=0uJ1L8xeZUk
-
Barb, you really got to me with that ballad, which I've always loved. Now it's rolling around in my brain too. I tried to find a good youtube version, and most of them fancy it up, which is wrong. Here's a version by Susan Reed which keeps the simple purity of the tune, but is too slow for my taste.
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=scnfjo9MPLQ (https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=scnfjo9MPLQ)
-
Pat this is what I was used to hearing in Kentucky - Jean Ritchie is well loved and well known - I used her book on playing the Dulcimer to learn and had the good fortune to hear her play over in Barea - if you notice her voice when it hits the high notes sounds almost forced - that is typical of the singers of these old old ballads that go back way before Shakespeare - more like the 12th through to the 14th century.
When those who love the music but are not from the mountains and hollows of Appalachia attempt to sing these ballads they use their best voice and miss the technique of forcing the high notes - most think that is a sign you are singing in too high register therefore you must be straining your voice rather than understanding it is a admired technique.
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=RLE_AnTMUMI
Hitting those higher notes with a forced voice is so admired that the rest of the melody is almost rushed over as secondary.
Many of these old ballads were collected without music by Francis James Child in England, Scotland, Ireland and Wales during the late nineteenth century - I'm pleased to say I do own all 5 volumes and what is fascinating is to see the various versions of the same ballad - some, it is only a phrase change and others they appear as almost a different ballad. Without collecting the tunes, as many of the ballads went out of favor and 100 years later were resurrected or those that came to our mountains they had new tunes composed if possible based on the memory of the elders -
John Jacob Niles was famous for doing that - his versions were lush because he was also best known for his high forced singing voice and for playing the 8 string dulcimer which is a very unusual version of the mountain dulcimer. The tune most folks sing to the words of Black is the Color of my True Love's Hair is a version John Jacob Niles wrote which is a bit slower and more familiar, sung by many folks singers in the 60s and 70s. Susan Reed is not only singing slower but she is singing the John Jacob Niles tune which we are more familiar than the tune that is close but different sung by Jean Ritchie.
-
Oh yes - need to share this line confused me and confused me - "Looking with pretty ruth upon my pain." turns out "Ruth" means Pity.
And using the word "pretty" before Ruth/Pity I smiled - so typical of the south were pretty is used so often - meaning, more than normal - a child's face is "pretty" a splinter is "pretty" deep - the dog is letting out a "pretty" howl - a "pretty" rain is falling - on and on it goes. Never realized but now I can see - using pretty as we do goes back to the predominant ethnic roots of the South whose heritage is mostly Scot, Irish, English, along with Cherokee, Creek and Black Folks that did not come from the plantations but came into the mountains with some of the English who owned slaves. The Irish were too poor and the Scots were too tight is the fun sayings about those who in the seventeenth century populated the Appalachians.
The "morning sun of heaven" - called "The Host of Heaven" referred to in the bible include; the "seven stars" and "Pleiades," "Orion," "Arcturus," the "Great Bear", "the crooked serpent," Draco, the Dioscuri, or Gemini, "Castor and Pollux".
Orion is near the place in the sky of the summer solstice and is hidden behind the blue glow of the sky during the summer. Orion is most visible in the wintertime, when the Sun is near the opposite solstice.
He includes "east" and "west" in the Sonnet which could be referring to the morning star - not a star at all but the planet Venus that for ages was thought to be two separate stars since it was noted in both the eastern sky in the morning and western sky in the evening.
The Morning Star, when it appears in the east during sunrise and the latter when it appears in the west during sunset has figured prominently in the mythologies of many cultures.
In ancient Sumerian mythology, it was named Inanna (Babylonian Ishtar), the name given to the goddess of love and personification of womanhood.
The Ancient Egyptians believed Venus to be two separate bodies and knew the morning star as Tioumoutiri and the evening star as Ouaiti.
The Ancient Greeks believing Venus was two stars called the morning star Phosphoros (or Eosphoros) the “Bringer of Light” (or “Bringer of Dawn”) and the evening star Hesperos (“star of the evening”).
By Hellenistic times, they had realized the two were the same planet, which they named after their goddess of love, Aphrodite. The Phoenicians, named it Astarte, after their own goddess of fertility.
The Romans, who derived much of their religious pantheon from the Greek tradition and near Eastern tradition, maintained this trend by naming the planet Venus after their goddess of love.
-
Shakespeare Sonnet CXXXIII
(http://66.media.tumblr.com/0ccd384b3b11bf52d5b4f037560451a5/tumblr_nwop4sk8vK1ro4v2no1_r1_500.jpg)
Beshrew that heart that makes my heart to groan
For that deep wound it gives my friend and me!
Is't not enough to torture me alone,
But slave to slavery my sweet'st friend must be?
Me from myself thy cruel eye hath taken,
And my next self thou harder hast engross'd:
Of him, myself, and thee, I am forsaken;
A torment thrice threefold thus to be cross'd.
Prison my heart in thy steel bosom's ward,
But then my friend's heart let my poor heart bail;
Whoe'er keeps me, let my heart be his guard;
Thou canst not then use rigor in my gaol:
And yet thou wilt; for I, being pent in thee,
Perforce am thine, and all that is in me. |
William Shakespeare's Sonnet 133https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=pdnj5qyibJw
-
Ugh.... I think I have election fatigue, and these sonnets are of no help.
Sonnet 133
Whoe'er keeps me, let my heart be his guard
He sounds like he is saying, "Eenie, meenie, minie mo, to which of you will I go?"
I may need another day or so to get back into the right frame of mind. I am happy with the results of this election, but I am not happy with the protestors and the desecrating of the burning of our flag, and destroying our veteran's memorial/burial place.
-
A torment thrice threefold thus to be cross'd.
Prison my heart in thy steel bosom's ward,
Bellamarie sounds like your election woe - Trump Hillary and the electorate could be the three that are crossing and criss crossing and they have created a prison for your heart as they are still pulling against each other like a steel bosom's ward - will it ever end - maybe the holiday's will help settle things down.
Not sure of the story on this Sonnet - sounds like he and his young lover have a third interloper who may be the lady with the two mourning eyes
-
There is no prison for my heart, I am at peace with my decision and the decision of the American people. The fatigue I'm feeling is staying up way too late, 4:00 a.m. waiting for it to be called, and then having a nice glass of Reunite' wine 🍷with cheese & crackers. 🧀🍞. I don't think I have stayed up that late since I was a teen, not to mention I needed another round of antibiotics trying to rid myself of what has taken prisoner of my voice. 😷
-
Yes, I too waited - interesting - no comment from Hillary till the next day - today has been madness as so many including two of my grands are hysterical predicting the end to this or that and one suggesting the electorate collage does not vote till December something or other - sheesh - I like you have always been a Dem - I knew when I voted for a third party I was helping Trump but I looked into him and his life history from childhood on and decided he was a grown up version of what military school boys were like back in the 50s which is exactly what he was for 7 years and he had a degree in economics from the UofPa - so he could not be that stupid and yes he talked like they did in military school but look at his family - he could not have those kind of kids if he was that awful - no one was getting pregnant at 16 - so like you I was at peace - if we lived through GW Bush we can live through another Pub plus Bill sold us down the river more than any of them - so let's not turn this into a political discussion but I think we both needed to vent.
I wonder if the lady in yesterdays Sonnet with the morning eyes is the lady they talk about in so many web sites when they talk about the Sonnets - they all refer to her as the Lady with Dark eyes - if so I did not realize she would be a third member of whatever it is he has going.
I wonder if anyone took the Sonnets one by one and found if they were part of the story line for one of his plays - I cannot believe it is the 10th of November all ready - there is only 3 weeks today till the last Sonnet - Wow I am impressed - we really did this - 14 days till Thanksgiving and 21 days till the first day of December - I need to put on some Advent music - I have about 3 Cds of Advent music - I know it is early but I am doing what I can to shake all the political stuff out of my head - I swear this time it is embedded in my body. It is as if I need to stand in the shower for hours and it still would not wash off completely.
-
Shakespeare Sonnet CXXXIV
(https://68.media.tumblr.com/c96d8f1b74464fef688f08b9f121b54c/tumblr_odbr38s2531s2ehydo1_500.jpg)
So, now I have confess'd that he is thine,
And I myself am mortgaged to thy will,
Myself I'll forfeit, so that other mine
Thou wilt restore, to be my comfort still:
But thou wilt not, nor he will not be free,
For thou art covetous and he is kind;
He learn'd but surety-like to write for me
Under that bond that him as fast doth bind.
The statute of thy beauty thou wilt take,
Thou usurer, that put'st forth all to use,
And sue a friend came debtor for my sake;
So him I lose through my unkind abuse.
Him have I lost; thou hast both him and me:
He pays the whole, and yet am I not free. |
William Shakespeare's Sonnet 134https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=ycxILA0Cxds
-
Lordy he has himself in a mess and dragged a youth and his mistress into it and blames the mistress since he believes she was after the youth all along and now he thinks he lost both - oy - talk about a soap opera - plus frankly it is too sleazy for me - onward - next Sonnet - this story is not what I need to be reading this time of the year or for that matter probably ever...
-
Shakespeare Sonnet CXXXV
(http://cdn.history.com/sites/2/2015/06/list-lost-literary-works-shakespeare-464420221-1-E.jpeg)
Whoever hath her wish, thou hast thy Will,
And Will to boot, and Will in overplus;
More than enough am I that vex thee still,
To thy sweet will making addition thus.
Wilt thou, whose will is large and spacious,
Not once vouchsafe to hide my will in thine?
Shall will in others seem right gracious,
And in my will no fair acceptance shine?
The sea all water, yet receives rain still
And in abundance addeth to his store;
So thou, being rich in Will, add to thy Will
One will of mine, to make thy large Will more.
Let no unkind no fair beseechers kill;
Think all but one, and me in that one Will. |
William Shakespeare's Sonnet 135https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=aS6vWqJHXmo
-
hahaha If Peter Piper picked a peck of pickled peppers, how many pickled peppers did Peter Piper pick?
-
Ok cannot post the next Sonnet with a few rhetorical finds included in this one repeating not only the word Will but also many words beginning with the letter W
There is Ambiguity when the presence of two or more possible meanings in any one word or passage and if the ambiguity is risqué than it is called a Double Entendre
We also have Anaphora - the repetition of a word or phrase at the beginning of several successive clauses, paragraphs or verses.
Polypteton is the repetition of the same word with different grammatical functions or forms.
Autolog in a sentence the same word appears countable times. Will appears 14 times in this Sonnet.
Anaphora a repetition of a word or phrase in successive clauses or sentences
Love this one - a Homonym A word having the same pronunciation as another, but differing from it in origin and meaning.
What fun he must have had writing the puns in this Sonnet.
-
Shakespeare Sonnet CXXXVI(http://www.incimages.com/uploaded_files/image/970x450/william-shakespeare-1940x900_36697.jpg)
If thy soul cheque thee that I come so near,
Swear to thy blind soul that I was thy 'Will,'
And will, thy soul knows, is admitted there;
Thus far for love my love-suit, sweet, fulfil.
'Will' will fulfil the treasure of thy love,
Ay, fill it full with wills, and my will one.
In things of great receipt with ease we prove
Among a number one is reckon'd none:
Then in the number let me pass untold,
Though in thy stores' account I one must be;
For nothing hold me, so it please thee hold
That nothing me, a something sweet to thee:
Make but my name thy love, and love that still,
And then thou lovest me, for my name is 'Will.'
|
William Shakespeare's Sonnet 136https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Fz9cf9LPou0
-
Well instead of Will - this short tale is a bit raunchy but then so are some of his plays - and what I realize is Donne wrote around the same time and became a priest with a group of raunchy poems to his credit - I wonder if our twenty-first sensibilities are more refined - I'm remembering as a child during parties and gatherings there was more raunchy talk than any I hear today - maybe because folks lived closer to the earth and animals. Well we sure get a glimpse into the reading for the early seventeenth century.
Like this that is actually in honor of Leonard Cohen but it could be showing us that we have happened onto a crack that brings light to the popular thinking of the seventeenth century.
“Ring the bells that still can ring
Forget your perfect offering
There is a crack in everything
That’s how the light gets in. “
Leonard Cohen
Thank you all, for keeping my blog alive while I am dying a thousand deaths everyday. My heart has a heaviness that darkens all I see and feel. I keep looking for that “crack” to let the light in.
-
Shakespeare Sonnet CXXXVII(http://a2.files.saymedia-content.com/image/upload/c_fit,q_70,w_630/MTE1ODA0OTU4NTQzOTM5MDg1.jpg)
Thou blind fool, Love, what dost thou to mine eyes,
That they behold, and see not what they see?
They know what beauty is, see where it lies,
Yet what the best is take the worst to be.
If eyes corrupt by over-partial looks
Be anchor'd in the bay where all men ride,
Why of eyes' falsehood hast thou forged hooks,
Whereto the judgment of my heart is tied?
Why should my heart think that a several plot
Which my heart knows the wide world's common place?
Or mine eyes seeing this, say this is not,
To put fair truth upon so foul a face?
In things right true my heart and eyes have erred,
And to this false plague are they now transferr'd. |
Shakespeare Sonnet 137https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=CvQWvMChOxo
-
Barb, I am so sorry I feel like I have deserted you. I did have election fatigue, but I have also had this horrible annoying infection that has kidnapped my voice. It comes and goes, and so I have tried to rest it as much as possible. My hubby and I got so busy these past few days I didn't have time to blink. Glad I finally got a chance to check in on Shakespeare.
Sonnets 134 - 137
Shakespeare in these sonnets is really seeming desperate and a bit vulgar. I feel as if he is in a manic state, ranting on and on about the mistress being a prostitute, yet he still wants her, and he still wants "Will" his young desired boy, whom this mistress has. Has he finally put a name to his young boy he has been obsessed with? He seems to be spinning out of control, feeling he has lost both the mistress, and the young boy, and now is just begging for one or the other. Gosh why do I get a weird feeling that by him using two "Wills" he is seeing himself as the young boy, and the older man in these sonnets? I have always felt these sonnets have been a written interpretation of his fantasies, not real true life. In these past sonnets I think I am seeing the "mistress" as NOT his wife, but as a mistress in all sense of the carnal meaning.
I have been reading online about how the democrats are pressuring their state electorates to go against the voters and cast their state's electoral votes on December 19th for Hillary. Trump clearly won this election. Depending on which site, or newspaper etc., you read he even won the popular vote with 6.9 million to her 6.2. Some news media refused to add in Michigan and Arizona for him so it will look differently. I voted for him largely because I agree with his policies and he is Pro Life. His antics, and other character flaws I did overlook because, if we wanted to compare the two on character and past failures and successes, he far out beats her in my humble opinion. I truly do feel I have seen a transfiguration in this man throughout the past three months. He has actually apologized for his inappropriate words and actions. I have never heard Hillary once apologize for a single thing that she has done wrong. I just pray now that this country can begin healing and close the divisive gap we have amongst us. This is the best nation in all the world and we all need to recognize overwhelmingly will of the people, and help the newly Elect President Trump. I can't say I was always a Democrat or Republican, but I can say I have always been an Independent. If any state goes against the votes and will of their spoken voters and change their state's electoral votes keeping Trump from being president I do fear a civil uprising. The protesters at this time are just sore losers not willing to accept the election results. If it were to change, the uprising would have validity because it would be going against the will of the election/people. I don't see that happening, but in today's politics, anything is possible.
Here is the site that explains the electorates and their responsibilities:
https://www.archives.gov/federal-register/electoral-college/roles.html
-
Yes Bellamarie, interesting turn of events - I ended up voting for Jill - not because I thought she was great or would ever be a serious contender but because I was not comfortable with either candidate - in order to make that choice I knew it was helping Trump so looked into his life and learned that he has a degree in Economics from the UofPa and a lot more about his background I was OK - frankly I never took all that ranting seriously - seeing it all as theater to get attention which gave him free press. It seems those who had wrapped themselves in Hillary I think want to take anything he said and blow it up - but it unfortunately has given permission to some who still had problems respecting others the feeling now they can do and say as they did 40 and 50 years ago - so we start all over only with probably less than a quarter of the population - the rest got it back at least 20 years ago.
Yep I had looked into the electoral collage and learned about half the states have laws that will not allow this to happen the other half are a free for all with NY state being one of them - Texas as well but she never had a chance in this state. Reading and hearing more about the shadow government that is more than just Wall Street and evidently includes Soros, who is not someone to pooh pooh, which I did for years - I did not know Chelsea is married to the nephew of Soros - it appears to me that Soros is behind all this - I think they are scared because they do not have a hold on Trump - who has to figure out how to appease so he can get things done and cannot announce for attention that he is draining the swamp - it will be an interesting next 4 years.
I was also surprised to learn his slogan Make America Great was the title of one of his books written several years ago and the 10 point plan that has been in several newspapers mostly saying, it is the plan to support the Black Community is the titles of 10 chapters in that book. Of course ordered a used copy.
So interesting times ahead...
I like that you saw Shakespeare's Sonnets as his fantasies and thought of Will being himself as a young boy - hmm need to read some of those earlier Sonnets with that thought in mind.
Hope your infection clears up - I bet you have meds and it will take a few days - my daughter used to get bladder infections - not fun... In fact when she moved to SC before they later moved to NC - Gary and a friend drove the truck and I accompanied her with the two boys, Ty the oldest was only 7 or 8 and Cade was 4 anyhow she ended up getting an infection on the road and we had to stop at a Doctor in either Mississippi or maybe it was still only Louisiana - a female doctor that prescribed the antibiotics knowing she could not follow up. Be well...
-
Barb, I have to giggle a bit seeing you ordered a used copy of Trump's Make America Great Again book. Today I spent part of my day cleaning my basement/family room preparing for Thanksgiving with the family. I was arranging and sorting through books on my book shelves and came across both Bill and Hillary's books I had read years ago. I actually contemplated throwing them in the trash, which I can honestly say I have never done to any book to my knowledge except for Sarah Palin's book, I never did finish reading. In hindsight, I decided to keep the books for the sake of history. I also have many Kennedy books as well, he and his family will remain my all time favorite, who could ever forget Camelot! I do agree that looking at the well behaved, successful lives of Trump's children it says much about the man he is. I've listened to his daughter Ivanka and sons Eric and Donald talk about how he made them start at the bottom and work their way up so they would appreciate what everyone on the bottom feels like. They seem very unspoiled, loving, caring and hard workers, not to mention loyal. Hmmm....could we have another Camelot in the White House? We shall wait and see.....
Yes, I am into my second prescription of antibiotics and still the voice is froggy. I am trying hard to be patient. UTIs are the worst, I have had three in my lifetime and they need immediate antibiotics, I don't think any doctor would deny anyone meds to treat one.
I don't want to rush the days away, but I am ready to be done with Shakespeare. These sonnets are not what I would consider love letters what so ever. He either is wrapped up in idolizing this young boy, or criticizing the mistress for taking him away from him, and not being with him. It really gives me no desire to purge into his plays anytime too soon. Not wanting to sound completely unfair or negative, there were a few lines in a few sonnets that I did really like, but mostly, I find him a bit too obsessive, whiny, and very depressing.
-
We shall see what we shall see with Trump and :) Shakespeare - Like you, I did have different expectations for Shakespeare.
I think my problem was I have read and seen a few of his plays and they took me by storm so these Sonnets are not at all what I expected - I must say though I am glad for the knowledge and glad also that we did one a day - I think the slow read allowed us to see what is really there instead of focusing on the few that are repeated over and over as examples of his wonderful writing.
As to Trump, not sure what to expect but looking forward to a clash between him and the traditional politician as well as him and the wall street mavens - again expectations so we shall see...
Frankly I never liked the Clintons even before the scandal - they came across to me like what we call Trailer Park Trash - no class - remember the camera catching them on the way to his inauguration with Bill out by the car yelling through the open door at her to hurry up they were going to be late - not helping her with Chelsea but yelling out loud - trashy - especially, remembering Jimmy Carter, the gentleman whose young daughter was lovingly looked upon as much of a tomboy and pain in the neck as she was - but no low life public scolding nor did he ever reduce either of them by his yelling at his wife.
-
Wow, Barb I had not known that about Bill yelling at Hillary, but it does not surprise me in the least. They are not very well talked of or liked by those who knew them as they were up and coming, nor do you hear much praise and positive from those who has served with them throughout their years in the White House or after. I was not the political junkie back then, as I am now, so my opinion changed less and less, as my knowledge grew more and more. The just released book by their secret service man does not hold either of them, her especially in a kind light what so ever. Trailer trash would probably be his description of them as well.
I too am glad we read Shakespeare once a day. Now at least I feel I know his style, and even a bit of the man he was. I will say in the best of my manner, I think he was a very self indulgent person and writing poems, sonnets and plays allowed him to express his alter ego, and deal with his demons through his writings.
-
Shakespeare Sonnet CXXXVIII
(http://www.jwwaterhouse.com/paintings/images/waterhouse_ophelia_01.jpg)
When my love swears that she is made of truth
I do believe her, though I know she lies,
That she might think me some untutor'd youth,
Unlearned in the world's false subtleties.
Thus vainly thinking that she thinks me young,
Although she knows my days are past the best,
Simply I credit her false speaking tongue:
On both sides thus is simple truth suppress'd.
But wherefore says she not she is unjust?
And wherefore say not I that I am old?
O, love's best habit is in seeming trust,
And age in love loves not to have years told:
Therefore I lie with her and she with me,
And in our faults by lies we flatter'd be.
|
William Shakespeare Sonnet 138https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=VYFymOqLjXc
-
Well he accepts her as is, even if she does lie - wonder if she really lies or is simply saying unflattering things - but that is only conjecture from me - but to top it off they are both guilty of infidelity - so mutual deception it is - hmm sounds like he needs a good confession - maybe that is his problem - with Catholics persecuted to death there is no readily available confessional nor Sunday Mass or guidance and so, he is slipping over the abyss - plus he has been too long in London with his wife and children in Stratford upon Avon.
-
Here we go again, near the end of the page -
(http://68.media.tumblr.com/ea9035bbdfcbf44c31ac0db27855bde9/tumblr_oc5ix9QUzN1ro4v2no1_1280.jpg)
We saw the last embers of daylight die
And in the trembling blue-green of the sky
A moon, worn as if it had been a shell
Washed by time’s waters as they rose and fell
About the stars and broke in days and years
Yeats |
-
(http://68.media.tumblr.com/8d29e56f033f9b99ed2d7b0d989721c0/tumblr_ny892yhuq21ro4v2no1_1280.jpg)
They laugh at me because I’m different;
I laugh at them because they are all the same
-
Our Poetry Page Reads
Shakespeare Sonnets
2016 the world commemorates
400 years since the death of William Shakespeare.
(http://d13a6ytc0s97c3.cloudfront.net/uploads/listing/image/67/event_RS556808_36980_ROY210915_010-lpr.jpg)
April, 1616. A man died, but a legacy was born; one which proved
so essential not only to the development of
drama and literature, but to language, to thoughts and ideas.
A Sonnet a Day
July 1, till December 1,
We read in order, from 1 to 154
A Shakespeare Sonnet each day.
Welcome
Please share your comments about the day's Sonnet.
Discussion Leaders: Barb (augere@ix.netcom.com)
-
Sonnet 138
That she might think me some untutored youth
Unlearnèd in the world’s false subtleties.
Thus vainly thinking that she thinks me young,
Although she knows my days are past the best,
These lines make me see him writing in his own little world of fantasy, because he knows he is old yet he says "vanity thinking she thinks me young." Maybe he is struggling with aging, and these sonnets are his way of recapturing his youth.
-
Yes I think you are on to something - sounds like a guy going through a mid-life crisis doesn't it...
-
I have trouble with the wording if this poem. He starts out by saying they're both lying, but then:
But wherefore says she not she is unjust?
And wherefore say not I that I am old?
which I take to mean neither has denied their nature.
Anyway, whatever their arrangement, I wouldn't touch it with a ten foot pole.
-
Shakespeare keeps calling himself old, but although it isn't known exactly when the sonnets were written, I gather it was somewhat early in his career.
-
Anyway, whatever their arrangement, I wouldn't touch it with a ten foot pole. :D ;D ??? ::) :-[ ;) :)
(https://encrypted-tbn3.gstatic.com/images?q=tbn:ANd9GcRkGhQYIvEwJOmAlrK-nJp8pxehlO9WkDUmM-XgG6Ffe2KrQ9XTDg)
-
Yes, he keeps referring to himself as old, and I have read that the sonnets were written when he was in his late twenties-early thirties, so my theory is that the sonnets are not autobiographical, but of his own fantasies which he can make himself be old and young, if he is indeed seeing himself as both "Wills" in the sonnets. I keep getting a strange feeling he is writing in the first and third persona. It's not a stretch for me to see Shakespeare as a narcissist.
PatH., I wouldn't touch it with a ten foot pole.
:o Now that's a line I haven't heard in years! :) :) :) These sonnets just get creepier and creepier IMO.
-
Well, I don't think it was autobiographical. Shakespeare married at 18 Anne Hathaway who was 25. (That may be where the "untutored youth" comment comes in.) He died at age 52 which, at that time, was probably considered old, but these days is only middle age.
I like the sonnet. It shows a certain forgiveness and tolerance (maybe even compassion) toward and by each other. It seems a way of saying in spite of our faults we love each other and will overlook these faults for the sake of love. I assume that the lies involved are small, rather than major.
-
Frybabe - glad to see you - taken alone this Sonnet and circumstance is filled with compassion, forgiveness and tolerance that in spite of their faults they love each other - I think the several Sonnets preceding gives another slant - he has been lusting after this woman who is not a love in the sense of a loving partner but someone he has grappled his own feelings over this sexual relationship.
There is a young male lover who he writes about over and over in many of the Sonnets that has also bedded the lady. The issue is a ménage à trois and his own desires knowing she is unfaithful and says she loves him but he knows she does not - I think in that context the Sonnet is part of a storyline and beyond the life experience of Pat, Bellamarie and myself - so we joke and had some fun with it.
However, so glad you could read the Sonnet with fresh eyes and see it separate from the storyline - it does include the kind of phrases any of us would want to hear from a loving companion - so thanks for giving us another viewpoint.
-
Shakespeare Sonnet CXXXIX
(https://ruthspoetry.files.wordpress.com/2014/12/man-begging-woman.jpg)
O, call not me to justify the wrong
That thy unkindness lays upon my heart;
Wound me not with thine eye but with thy tongue;
Use power with power and slay me not by art.
Tell me thou lovest elsewhere, but in my sight,
Dear heart, forbear to glance thine eye aside:
What need'st thou wound with cunning when thy might
Is more than my o'er-press'd defense can bide?
Let me excuse thee: ah! my love well knows
Her pretty looks have been mine enemies,
And therefore from my face she turns my foes,
That they elsewhere might dart their injuries:
Yet do not so; but since I am near slain,
Kill me outright with looks and rid my pain.
|
William Shakespeare's Sonnet 139https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=XnmGUtoe2XI
-
Frybabe, Thanks for dropping in.
I have to say with reading all the sonnets prior, there is no love in these sonnets. A whole lot of infidelity, self gratification and obsession. The lies are not small by any measure, but because they all seem deplorable, they are able to lust for each other.
-
He is still begging for her attention and in the process puts himself down for her to walk all over him. Ah so... he does get in a space doesn't he that we have to listen to his moaning - part of it I think is we do not esteem his choice and yet, we do not want to throw him, the poet aside - let's just imagine he is writing all this to flush out a character for one of his plays.
-
Shakespeare Sonnet CXXXX
(https://68.media.tumblr.com/c41df6329b03fd0469cb77b32a54ed68/tumblr_ofm9924m5n1qmtqugo1_1280.jpg)
Be wise as thou art cruel; do not press
My tongue-tied patience with too much disdain;
Lest sorrow lend me words and words express
The manner of my pity-wanting pain.
If I might teach thee wit, better it were,
Though not to love, yet, love, to tell me so;
As testy sick men, when their deaths be near,
No news but health from their physicians know;
For if I should despair, I should grow mad,
And in my madness might speak ill of thee:
Now this ill-wresting world is grown so bad,
Mad slanderers by mad ears believed be,
That I may not be so, nor thou belied,
Bear thine eyes straight, though thy proud heart go wide.
|
Shakespeare Sonnet 140https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=p9GbIiIKCTE
-
The dichotomy between this poem and his pity-wanting pain compared to the book we are reading Two Old Women is striking and makes him sound silly and inept.
-
Whoa..... now he is pretty much blackmailing her to chose him, or else he may decide to turn against her, and slander her because as he states,
Mad slanderers by mad ears believed be,
This is what is wrong with the world today, if you don't do what I want I will release falsehoods about you, and once it is out in the media it will be believed whether it is slander or not. He is a very nasty person, and sounding desperate.
-
Shakespeare Sonnet CXXXXI
(https://s-media-cache-ak0.pinimg.com/736x/ac/31/7e/ac317e34ced526bed863b2386a4d0e09.jpg)
In faith, I do not love thee with mine eyes,
For they in thee a thousand errors note;
But 'tis my heart that loves what they despise,
Who in despite of view is pleased to dote;
Nor are mine ears with thy tongue's tune delighted,
Nor tender feeling, to base touches prone,
Nor taste, nor smell, desire to be invited
To any sensual feast with thee alone:
But my five wits nor my five senses can
Dissuade one foolish heart from serving thee,
Who leaves unsway'd the likeness of a man,
Thy proud hearts slave and vassal wretch to be:
Only my plague thus far I count my gain,
That she that makes me sin awards me pain. |
William Shakespeare's Sonnet 141https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=RQ-9ArBYooM
-
I did learn from reading this there are 5 wits in addition to the 5 senses - still remember being a school child learning the senses - touching our arm to learn the sense of touch - but never heard of the 5 wits - well here they are: Five Wits (1) Common sense, (2) imagination, (3) fantasy, (4) estimation, and (5) memory.
I could have quite the discussion about common sense that in my thinking is simply common based on a shared tradition, experiences and learning. So that what is common sense for us may not be common sense for a tribe living in Mongolia.
I believe we are near the end of his poems about this woman who has tantalized him.
-
Shakespeare Sonnet CXXXXII
(https://s-media-cache-ak0.pinimg.com/236x/24/0b/33/240b339eed0f1952f39ec0c90dc94219.jpg)
Love is my sin and thy dear virtue hate,
Hate of my sin, grounded on sinful loving:
O, but with mine compare thou thine own state,
And thou shalt find it merits not reproving;
Or, if it do, not from those lips of thine,
That have profaned their scarlet ornaments
And seal'd false bonds of love as oft as mine,
Robb'd others' beds' revenues of their rents.
Be it lawful I love thee, as thou lovest those
Whom thine eyes woo as mine importune thee:
Root pity in thy heart, that when it grows
Thy pity may deserve to pitied be.
If thou dost seek to have what thou dost hide,
By self-example mayst thou be denied! |
William Shakespeare's Sonnet 142https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=RQ-9ArBYooM
-
I sure hope this self deprecating, and lust for this woman with all her sins and infidelities are coming to an end. He speaks the word love but it's hard for me to see love in any of these past sonnets. He admits she is as deplorable as he is, so they deserve each other, yet she wants nothing to do with him. Is his obsession for her the same as his obsession for the young boy, wanting what is unattainable? Again, I will say I don't think these sonnets were written of a real life person, I think he indulged himself in the fantasies of these lovers and yes, possibly used the sonnets to help him with writing his plays, or vice versa, used his plays to to write these self indulgences.
-
Bellamarie there are some characters in some of the plays I have seen or read that are filled with self-indulgence but they are only once character among many so it is not as all consuming as these Sonnets - he sure gets on a tangent doesn't he - what was it in the beginning 17 or maybe 19 Sonnets urging someone to have children - only 12 more to go - horrible to say only 12 more to go - I would prefer to be saying ah we only have 12 more... ah so - there have been several though that were every bit the wonderful - almost need to review them all just to pick out the few...
-
Shakespeare Sonnet CXXXXIII
(https://s-media-cache-ak0.pinimg.com/564x/e2/bb/88/e2bb88475206c36537734f720cb6e82b.jpg)
Lo! as a careful housewife runs to catch
One of her feather'd creatures broke away,
Sets down her babe and makes an swift dispatch
In pursuit of the thing she would have stay,
Whilst her neglected child holds her in chase,
Cries to catch her whose busy care is bent
To follow that which flies before her face,
Not prizing her poor infant's discontent;
So runn'st thou after that which flies from thee,
Whilst I thy babe chase thee afar behind;
But if thou catch thy hope, turn back to me,
And play the mother's part, kiss me, be kind:
So will I pray that thou mayst have thy 'Will,'
If thou turn back, and my loud crying still. |
William Shakespeare's Sonnet 143https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=iJqRa_9ZoKI
-
Barb, I agree, there were a couple that really did jump out at me and I loved a couple lines in them, although, too few and far between I must admit.
Sonnet 143
So runn'st thou after that which flies from thee,
Whilst I thy babe chase thee afar behind;
I have to giggle because the first thought that came into my head reading this was:
Three blind mice, three blind mice.
See how they run. See how they run.
They all ran after the farmer's wife
Who cut off their tails with a carving knife
Did you ever see such a sight in your life
As three blind mice?
Three decrepit rodents chasing after each other.... ;D ;D ;D Sorry, I don't intend to criticize our Shakespeare, but he sure has run amuck with these sonnets.
-
:D ;D :-*
-
What an interesting sonnet. The first thing that came to my mind was a very busy mother trying to do several things at once. Mom's truly do need eyes in back of their heads and octopus arms at times when several things demand their attention at the same time.
-
Frybabe, she was far from a busy mother...... according to Shakespeare, she was busy chasing after not only young Will, but many others who she could bed. More like a paramour, from Shakespeare's account. But then how much of any of this is true?
-
Yes, I can see Frybabe's image if you only read the first 8 lines it sure sounds like a domestic scene where chickens rung wild - it is the next 6 lines that give the image that Bellamarie you are seeing - he is likening himself to this domestic metaphor as the babe who wants attention while chickens fly about grabbing the attention of the mistress - lots of images going on that frankly are a bit disturbing aren't they - And play the mother's part whoa, OK... However, those first lines are a lovely image that does not match any domestic image I can recall in any of his plays.
In fact I do not think he includes a 'lady of the evening' type character in any of his plays either - it is what Don John slanders the reputation of Hero with no basis, to her beloved and his brother Claudio in Much Ado... Oh yes, Othello, his wife Desdemona is whispered to him that she is supposed to be busy elsewhere.
Well this dark lady sure rumples up his emotions so that he is reaction in every Sonnet he writes about her.
-
Shakespeare Sonnet CXXXXIV(http://www.alchemywebsite.com/paintings/images/Swanenburg_engraving.jpg)
Two loves I have of comfort and despair,
Which like two spirits do suggest me still;
The better angel is a man right fair,
The worser spirit a woman colour'd ill.
To win me soon to hell, my female evil
Tempteth my better angel from my side,
And would corrupt my saint to be a devil,
Wooing his purity with her foul pride.
And whether that my angel be turn'd fiend
Suspect I may, but not directly tell;
But being both from me, both to each friend,
I guess one angel in another's hell:
Yet this shall I ne'er know, but live in doubt,
Till my bad angel fire my good one out.
|
William Shakespeare's Sonnet 144https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=gS8WY0HTS14
-
Bellamarie, I don't really see what you are seeing in Sonnet CXXXXIII. Maybe I take what it says too literally?
It
Barb, I do love the artwork you find to match with the sonnets. The one with Sonnet CXXXXII reminds me of Andrew Wyeth. I've never seen it before, so probably not. My sister adores Wyeth's work.
-
Frybabe, That's okay, we all see things differently and that is what makes it so fun and interesting.
I have a very negative and frustrated attitude lately where these sonnets are concerned. Shakespeare has gotten into a self deprecating, self indulging, twisted, obsessive behavior with these sonnets for far too long. He refers to love in a sense of possessiveness, and ownership. He is willing to smear, smudge and blackmail this mistress he professes to love, if she refuses to return his affections, all the while complaining about how she and his young male boy has betrayed him. They are a web of deceit, lies and infidelities and yet he calls it "love." Each sonnet has gotten more and more weird for me, it's almost like watching a movie where the triangle is about who can be more destructive to each other in the name of love. Brings to mind that strange Tom Cruise movie "Eyes Wide Shut."
-
I never saw Eyes Wide Shut. The look of it didn't appeal and I am not all that fond of Tom Cruise.
...a sense of possessiveness, and ownership Hah, that is exactly why my best friend runs from relationships. As soon as his lady friends get emotionally close and start expecting an exclusive relationship, he bolts. It is a wonder he ever managed to get married - twice.
-
Yep that was the decision when we started this project of reading all 154 Sonnets to commemorate the 400 year anniversary of his Death - that we would share how we reacted to the poems - not so much analyze them - enough pundits over the years and Shakespeare Scholars have done that, and some very well, so we planned not to repeat their thoughts and analysis or to break apart the Sonnet like tearing into the engine of a vehicle.
So we are in affect reacting - reacting to the sentiment of each Sonnet, the storyline they tell, some of the words chosen have grabbed us - and since we are reacting of course our own values and sensibilities are what we use as we read the poems - early on, we had a contributor that linked for us a great article on how we look at everything and read using our individual memory of life experiences - so much so that it directs our attention to things, ideas, places etc that match something or a line of somethings we have in our stored brain.
All to say we will as Bellamarie says, ... see things differently and that is what makes it so fun and interesting.
With that it is a treat to see your posts and your take on what you are reading - fun, and yet, to know this man in real life may not have been as much fun. The idea that he married twice in spite of feeling claustrophobic in a close relationship with women, oh my all kinds of questions and thoughts come up - I'm sure he worked out what he can do and from the many stories we read he is not alone with those feelings.
Haha now if our poet felt a bit more claustrophobic these Sonnets may have lived up to the skinny we hear that they are supposed to be love poems - yikes but then if your sensibilities are challenged when guys lust after both young boys and although married, lusts after 'ladies of the night' reading about all this feels unwashed.
This one got to me as a prime example of women's place - grrrr - reminds me of the Burka's and head scarves, cover her up she may tempt me...
The worser spirit a woman colour'd ill.
To win me soon to hell, my female evil
Tempteth my better angel from my side,
The anachronism, The Devil Made Me Do It - and she is the devil.... grrr
Frybabe the painting is probably either a Waterhouse or a Leighton - I'll see if I can find the original again.
-
I LOVE Tom Cruise movies, but he made a few that were just strange, that is why Shakespeare's Sonnet 143 brought that particular movie to my mind. I am pretty sure I have watched every movie he has ever made. I adored Katie Holmes, she is from Toledo, Ohio where I live, my oldest granddaughter went to the same modeling school and high school as Katie. I was overjoyed to see two of my favorite actors marry and be so full of love, but much like Shakespeare's sonnets, it did not last and the separation and divorce turned very dark and sad.
Sonnet 144
The better angel is a man right fair,
The worser spirit a woman colour'd ill.
Okay now this sonnet reminds me of the song Devil or Angel by The Clovers 1956
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=f3NgHVcnjVg
Poor Shakespeare, he has himself in a bit of a quandary.
I guess one angel in another's hell:
-
Found it Frybabe - the artwork is Waterhouse - here is a link
http://www.art-prints-on-demand.com/a/waterhouse/jwwaterhousedolcepainting.html
-
Shakespeare Sonnet CXXXXV(http://68.media.tumblr.com/76bc4a5b28e32cb1416a1a701624443e/tumblr_ogxt44txjU1ro4v2no1_540.jpg)
Those lips that Love's own hand did make
Breathed forth the sound that said 'I hate,'
To me that languish'd for her sake:
But when she saw my woeful state,
Straight in her heart did mercy come,
Chiding that tongue that ever sweet
Was used in giving gentle doom,
And taught it thus anew to greet:
'I hate' she alter'd with an end,
That follow'd it as gentle day
Doth follow night, who like a fiend
From heaven to hell is flown away;
'I hate' from hate away she threw,
And saved my life, saying -- 'not you.' |
Shakespeare Sonnet 145https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=AM9RimYWDFQ
-
Not sure who she hates - she said it - even with her lips made by love's own hand - she said she hates - but then the last says - she saved his life - I imagine he means his feeling of doom since according to this she says to him "not you" so then whom does she hate or did he imagine she was referring to him when she said, "not you" - whatever - this Sonnet sounds rather wimpy compared to the passion, even if mis-placed of the other Sonnets - as if he ran out of steam - ah so my mind is not into the mystery of his obsession with this woman - it is Thanksgiving and I am NOT feeling thankful to someone who says they hate but excludes someone from their hate - sounds like an exclusive club to be a part of her hate - also, thanksgiving and hate remind me too much of the Pipeline army versus the water protectors most of whom are members of a native tribe - Onward...
-
Shakespeare Sonnet CXXXXVI
(http://richardmcbee.com/images/writings/jewish_art_before_1945/the_problem_with_god/nussbaum-detail-Triumph-of-Death.jpg)
Poor soul, the centre of my sinful earth,
[Why feed'st] these rebel powers that thee array?
Why dost thou pine within, and suffer dearth,
Painting thy outward walls so costly gay?
Why so large cost, having so short a lease,
Dost thou upon thy fading mansion spend?
Shall worms, inheritors of this excess,
Eat up thy charge? is this thy body's end?
Then soul, live thou upon thy servant's loss,
And let that pine to aggravate thy store;
Buy terms divine in selling hours of dross;
Within be fed, without be rich no more:
So shalt thou feed on Death, that feeds on men,
And, Death once dead, there's no more dying then.
|
William Shakespeare Sonnet 146https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=8vm4BpI3mlY
-
These last two sonnets sounds like he is returning to prior ones referring to death and cheating it. Hum drum.....
On a happier note, hope you have a very Happy Thanksgiving Barb!
-
Full day - after eating more than usual and re-reading this Sonnet I thought the one thought too perfect - worth a smile :)
Shall worms, inheritors of this excess,
Eat up thy charge? is this thy body's end?
And then I had to backtrack because it was fascinating to dwell on the thoughts in the preceding few lines added to the line thinking, not so much of what we put into our body or how we care for our body but interesting, we pine within for many reasons and keep it inside covering our suffering by dressing our body, our outer public self and acting as if all is well - some would call it putting on a false front and yet, we do not want to either affect others with our suffering which is a downer for all in our company nor do we want to call attention to our suffering because we do not want to attract the attention albeit compassion to our suffering.
Why dost thou pine within, and suffer dearth,
Painting thy outward walls so costly gay?
This thought as well - reminds me of Tevye, in Fiddler On the Roof shaking his fist at God - and yes, why so large a cost - for some, a really large cost to experience when we really have a short lease on life - that our soul is encased within our body as our mansion for a short time given the history of mankind much less the history of the universe.
Why so large cost, having so short a lease,
Dost thou upon thy fading mansion spend?
Yep, truth - And, Death once dead, there's no more dying then. I guess an ironic benefit to look forward to. ;)
-
Shakespeare Sonnet CXXXXVII
(https://thedevilsdavenport.files.wordpress.com/2016/10/screenshot2012-02-29at3-35-57pm.png)
My love is as a fever, longing still
For that which longer nurseth the disease,
Feeding on that which doth preserve the ill,
The uncertain sickly appetite to please.
My reason, the physician to my love,
Angry that his prescriptions are not kept,
Hath left me, and I desperate now approve
Desire is death, which physic did except.
Past cure I am, now reason is past care,
And frantic-mad with evermore unrest;
My thoughts and my discourse as madmen's are,
At random from the truth vainly express'd;
For I have sworn thee fair and thought thee bright,
Who art as black as hell, as dark as night.
|
William Shakespeare's Sonnet 147https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=YM2OYHunShM
-
Well he is not getting the love and attention he seeks is he... and so to him she is as black as hell and as dark as night -
Taking the poem away for the idea of this women we have been reading about and place the suasion towards anyone whose attention we've longed, that we desperately try to get their approval with an appetite to please; from a boss or client or even a family member whom you see only infrequently and there is no reaction much less action from them, if we're smart enough and not really want the attention then, we can see our actions to gain approval as a disease and that is where it becomes confusing.
How often we try to please someone with no acknowledgement or response. We may feel good about what we have done but without any response and later, we see no particular attention to our friendly and loving gesture we seldom think we have a problem - It is only when there is out and out disdain to our overture by this person whom we though incapable of such ugly or unbecoming behavior that we have dark thoughts about them and still we seldom see our own actions as vanity - wanting friendship or approval. Relationships are tricky and it is not always an inappropriate relationship that allows our emotions to be toyed with. Even being taken for granted stings.
-
Our Poetry Page Reads
Shakespeare Sonnets
2016 the world commemorates
400 years since the death of William Shakespeare.
(http://d13a6ytc0s97c3.cloudfront.net/uploads/listing/image/67/event_RS556808_36980_ROY210915_010-lpr.jpg)
April, 1616. A man died, but a legacy was born; one which proved
so essential not only to the development of
drama and literature, but to language, to thoughts and ideas.
A Sonnet a Day
July 1, till December 1,
We read in order, from 1 to 154
A Shakespeare Sonnet each day.
Welcome
Please share your comments about the day's Sonnet.
Discussion Leaders: Barb (augere@ix.netcom.com)
Oh Barb, I love your insight here. I so badly longed to have the friendship and approval of my sister in law years ago. When I first met her she was so close to her brother (my hubby) that had I not known I would have thought she was his girlfriend the way she hung all over him and hugged on him. It made me just a little uncomfortable since I came from a family of non-huggers and no open display of affection what so ever. She friended me early on, but as I became the mother of his children she got more and more distant, by the time our third child was born she made up a untruthfulness to cause a rift in our relationship. I desperately wanted her approval and love, and I know my hubby wanted his sister/brother relationship back. I went to confession and mentioned this to our priest. He gave me the best advice ever, he said, "Not everyone is going to like you, do as Jesus did, knock on the door, if it opens enter, if they do not answer, walk to the next door."
Shakespeare could use this advice...... let it go, walk to the next door. We don't need to demean, slander, hate, or gossip about others who choose not to accept us. In reading these sonnets I have seen Shakespeare use the most beautiful descriptives, and the most ugly descriptives where the young boy Will, and this mistress are concerned. No one should have to work so hard at having love, as Shakespeare has in these sonnets.
-
It is even more confusing isn't it when the one whose affection or attention we desire is a family member - regardless how we see their behavior differently from our own, we just really want a smooth relationship - I do like the advise given to you by the priest in confession - I need to remember that because I too have family who gossips untruths about me - I struggle and struggle - I feel that if I attempt to say anything it becomes a she said / I said and then also I lower myself to their ways - one thing I have learned is the one acting in the unfriendly way to put it mildly is actually feeling inadequate - but then it is not up to us to shore up their self-esteem especially at our expense.
If nothing else these Sonnets have a few times allowed us to share some important facets of life that I have received new insight - not exactly what I expected from Shakespeare's Sonnets but like walking any new path you never know what you will see or hear till you start walking.
And yes, I missed the last post again and so you are in the heading - at least I've learned that as long as I do not put lines across the post to separate the heading from your comments, all is well.
-
Shakespeare Sonnet CXXXXVIII
(https://s-media-cache-ak0.pinimg.com/564x/f7/c9/75/f7c97536836dc44ea7a1faaa02ab1a6a.jpg)
O me, what eyes hath Love put in my head,
Which have no correspondence with true sight!
Or, if they have, where is my judgment fled,
That censures falsely what they see aright?
If that be fair whereon my false eyes dote,
What means the world to say it is not so?
If it be not, then love doth well denote
Love's eye is not so true as all men's 'No.'
How can it? O, how can Love's eye be true,
That is so vex'd with watching and with tears?
No marvel then, though I mistake my view;
The sun itself sees not till heaven clears.
O cunning Love! with tears thou keep'st me blind,
Lest eyes well-seeing thy foul faults should find. |
Shakespeare Sonnet 148https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=a3WCy-a6uPk
-
Yes, it is true when we look at anyone with love we just do not see their faults or even their chicanery - any behavior problems we either overlook or brush aside as not serious - I think that is the most difficult to deal with when you are a mother, sister, daughter, wife of someone addicted to either drink or drugs - to have to face that reality is difficult when you see them through your loving eyes.
It is even a problem for women who are being mistreated - till it really gets bad it is dismissed as - oh he didn't mean it or he is under a lot of stress - and if we react to every time we feel we are being ignored by someone, it is really about us and our feeling or our fear of being thought less of, rather than accepting it is the other who has the problem.
It really is easy to see the world through our own eyes regardless, if love is blinding us or, if our desire to be accepted or, to just please the one we love is self-centered rather than, other-centered. And I do think there is a difference between noting what is going on that is not best for the other in order to bring opportunity for them to change versus, judging, blaming and pulling away or even bemoaning what we observe.
-
Shakespeare Sonnet CXXXXIX
(https://s-media-cache-ak0.pinimg.com/236x/d9/79/6e/d9796e801f4331b9f2df68e6fc184f63.jpg)
Canst thou, O cruel! say I love thee not,
When I against myself with thee partake?
Do I not think on thee, when I forgot
Am of myself, all tyrant, for thy sake?
Who hateth thee that I do call my friend?
On whom frown'st thou that I do fawn upon?
Nay, if thou lour'st on me, do I not spend
Revenge upon myself with present moan?
What merit do I in myself respect,
That is so proud thy service to despise,
When all my best doth worship thy defect,
Commanded by the motion of thine eyes?
But, love, hate on, for now I know thy mind;
Those that can see thou lovest, and I am blind. |
William Shakespeare's Sonnet 149https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Ox4Hv2zlEdg
-
Sonnet 148
O cunning Love! with tears thou keep'st me blind,
Lest eyes well-seeing thy foul faults should find.
Sonnet 149
But, love, hate on, for now I know thy mind;
Those that can see thou lovest, and I am blind.
Well this is a huge contradiction to him finding all her faults in the earlier sonnets, and now he says, love has blinded him to them.
-
Yes, he goes through a lot of mood changes: loving in spite of faults, jealousy at the betrayal of her and the young man, a self-loathing for his own behavoir, which turrns more and more to criticism of her, ending up savagely in 147: black as hell, as dark as night.
Now he's turned softer again.
-
Barb, if it's easy to answer, what is the picture for 148?
-
Pat, it is Austrian Symbolist painter Gustav Klimt 'Crying Woman'
I guess we question if he is really professing love or an obsession but that is neither here nor there - for sure this one he is seeing her actions as a lack of love and in fact hate - and his woebegone self-concern or maybe it is his love that blinds him to the sting that he knows is there but would like to ignore. Not completely because he does write about it.
I guess anyone who has been hurt unnecessarily by another they care about goes past the sting - this is where forgiveness is a muddle - some say to forgive is not to forget and so there would have to be a change of feeling - a feeling of being wary rather than full trust - or for some they successfully set boundaries to protect themselves realizing no one is going to protect them, even this person they love - this business of independence versus dependence in relation to the circle of humanity gets confusing and muddled.
Is the truth that we think everyone we care about shares the same values as we and if not than a boundary - hmm sure explains national boundaries then - I guess peace on earth also must include boundaries or we are not honoring differences - lot to think about that this simple Sonnet that may be about his love or obsession can easily be transferred to anyone or group we care about.
-
Barb that's an interesting point of view on boundaries. I just don't know if Shakespeare even knows what real love is. He has throughout these sonnets gone from obsessive love for young Will, to almost destructive love for the Mistress, back to obsessiveness yet cruelness toward young Will, then to as Pat points out a very savagely toward her in 147. The man is a mess! But I suppose if we the readers hundreds of years later, can take away something from any of these sonnets, then hurray or us!
-
Shakespeare Sonnet CXXXXX
(http://68.media.tumblr.com/a6c24864026b3be8a4b1d10b4f5d2cbf/tumblr_nx7b143I0I1ro4v2no2_r1_1280.jpg)
O, from what power hast thou this powerful might
With insufficiency my heart to sway?
To make me give the lie to my true sight,
And swear that brightness doth not grace the day?
Whence hast thou this becoming of things ill,
That in the very refuse of thy deeds
There is such strength and warrantise of skill
That, in my mind, thy worst all best exceeds?
Who taught thee how to make me love thee more
The more I hear and see just cause of hate?
O, though I love what others do abhor,
With others thou shouldst not abhor my state;
If thy unworthiness rais'd love in me,
More worthy I to be beloved of thee. |
William Shakespeare's Sonnet 150https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=PRRgGGeOLzo
-
Sounds like others do not think her worthy or pretty or whatever but they do abhor her - and he sees that she abhors him because he is besotted with her - and he loves her because she is abhorred by others and therefore he pleads she should love him the more...
Which sounds nuts since for her to love him the more she has to accept her inferior position or inferior looks that are the cause of others abhorring her - what a circle -
-
Sonnet 150
If thy unworthiness rais'd love in me,
More worthy I to be beloved of thee.
I hear misery loves company. Two unworthy people deserve each other.
-
Shakespeare Sonnet CXXXXXI
(https://artpassions.files.wordpress.com/2010/03/collier_guinevere.jpg)
Love is too young to know what conscience is;
Yet who knows not, conscience is born of love?
Then, gentle cheater, urge not my amiss,
Lest guilty of my faults thy sweet self prove.
For thou betraying me, I do betray
My nobler part to my gross body's treason;
My soul doth tell my body that he may
Triumph in love; flesh stays no farther reason,
But rising at thy name, doth point out thee
As his triumphant prize. Proud of this pride,
He is contented thy poor drudge to be,
To stand in thy affairs, fall by thy side.
No want of conscience hold it that I call
Her 'love,' for whose dear love I rise and fall. |
William Shakespeare's Sonnet 151https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=V02lJM7NNeY
-
Decided to celebrate with a heading photo of art, the last line rather than the admission of either of their cheating - So, as a glorious procession - "Her 'love,' for whose dear love I rise and fall."
Regardless who said what or who did or did not do what - bottom line he does love her and that is what is important.
Reminds me of last Sunday night seeing the last in the first series of Poldark - they each cheat but bottom line they are as he says, regular, normal people that are not perfect and his wanting all those years his perfect love was impossible - all he did was bring his years of fantasy down to the level of average.
And so, for what ever happened between these two that Shakespeare writes about, bottom line they are regular, normal, average people who make mistakes and sin. If sin was not a part of life there would be no sacrament of confession. And so with their faults he loves her...
-
I see him saying his body won out, in betraying her, and she can not judge him for she can in fact find herself doing the same. His conscious calls her "love" yet his body/flesh is the betrayer/treason. He says, just because his conscious calls her "love" don't be fooled, because his body rises and falls for her love. His lust wins out still!
I don't think Shakespeare is at all "in love" he is simply saying they both are responsible for allowing themselves to betray and cheat on each other, because they allowed their flesh (lust) to win out over love. I'm not seeing a mea culpa, nor a reunion. I see him and her, incapable of loving. Not that we can believe she ever did love him in the first place. I am still seeing him writing these as a grand fantasy in his mind.
-
And it appears the Grand Fantasy continues doesn't it Bellamarie - ah so - I was tired of seeing the cheating and and and so decided to only take to heart the words of the Sonnet that allowed me to feel good ;) - had someone email me today and I am thinking it is what makes it so hard to be upbeat -
My note from a friend here in Austin - Is it just me or did this election suck the sense of humor away from our country? I feel like I'm walking on eggshells over here. Everything hurts everyone's feelings. Life ain't that serious folks. Have a little fun along the way.....smile, LAUGH....come on people!
When I was a kid we had a laughing record - I would give my eyeteeth for a copy of that laughing record to play on my CD now... :)
Well we only have 3 more of his Sonnets to go - Bellamarie I am thinking - I do not know about you but I am ready to get into another mood - Let's just finish this up - I will post another today and if you do not get back it will be here and then tomorrow is the last day of November and I'm thinking let's do the last two Sonnets tomorrow so that we can start December off with a glow -
These sonnets were more of a drain than uplifting - although for two reasons I am glad we did them - one to have the knowledge for ourselves and then there were some that really had me thinking and relating what was said to my own values and thoughts. I enjoyed hearing them and the one thing I noted looking for a clear read - there are many that are either over dramatic reading these Sonnets and some who are so dull I wish they were not on Youtube - as to the Sonnets the more famous are probably the loveliest and the only ones worth repeating without the story of several preceding or continuing his issues or storyline.
So next post is the next Sonnet and then two tomorrow and thanks for staying with this - it was a slog but we did it...
-
Shakespeare Sonnet CXXXXXII(http://68.media.tumblr.com/2e8da7de53751564dbe2b0c64b71a502/tumblr_oh5ym2hjEO1ro4v2no1_1280.jpg)
In loving thee thou know'st I am forsworn,
But thou art twice forsworn; to me love swearing,
In act thy bed-vow broke and new faith torn,
In vowing new hate after new love bearing.
But why of two oaths' breach do I accuse thee,
When I break twenty? I am perjured most;
For all my vows are oaths but to misuse thee
And all my honest faith in thee is lost,
For I have sworn deep oaths of thy deep kindness,
Oaths of thy love, thy truth, thy constancy,
And, to enlighten thee, gave eyes to blindness,
Or made them swear against the thing they see;
For I have sworn thee fair; more perjur'd I,
To swear against the truth so foul a lie! |
Shakespeare Sonnet 152https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=2xd0d8nB92U
-
Same ol' same ol' isn't it - I need to walk away for a bit and see if I can see something else in this Sonnet - as if it were not part of this string of Sonnets about their infidelity and unworthiness but yet this declaration of love that as you say Bellamarie is really about Lust... be back
-
In loving thee thou know'st I am forsworn,
Ok but then he has to ruin it with all this about her - oh it is easy to blame him for this or that being the cause of his accusing her of unfaithfulness but frankly, let's face it - if you have ever been betrayed you do blame yourself for trusting - you feel angry and vindictive and when it comes down to it it still hurts even though you have done some betraying yourself -
I am thinking of Ross Poldark and how hurt he felt when he learned that Demelza had courted in her room his old army buddy Captain Henshawe - tit for tat but he did not feel it was justified - not just because she was a she but he was hurt - he did not see it as payback - that would belittle his hurt as if he had no right to feel.
That is the message I am getting from this Sonnet - not the string of Sonnets or the story behind these Sonnets but from this Sonnet as a stand alone I am seeing he is hurt and is justifying the hurt by remembering his own miss-deeds - and he is caught in his own logic because he still feels love for her -
I think he feels more than simply lust - lust wears thin after a time - yes, with his love there is lust but I do think there is hurt here - Lust does not feel wounded - lust can be denied, ignored, minimized, degraded, shamed, belittled but not hurt or wounded - do not see it - I can see a hurt or wounded pride that may be behind lust - but pride in not love unless it is pride in the one loved - where as wounded or hurt pride is self-pride - you can lust for someone without necessarily loving them but then there is no hurt or wound - and so I think he loved her.
OK I am going to upload one more Sonnet tonight and the last Sonnet tomorrow late afternoon...
-
Shakespeare Sonnet CXXXXXIII
(https://66.media.tumblr.com/8707c56f18756ec950952fa787bce3cb/tumblr_nujvq07ndO1uuensxo1_500.jpg)
Cupid laid by his brand, and fell asleep:
A maid of Dian's this advantage found,
And his love-kindling fire did quickly steep
In a cold valley-fountain of that ground;
Which borrow'd from this holy fire of love
A dateless lively heat, still to endure,
And grew a seething bath, which yet men prove
Against strange maladies a sovereign cure.
But at my mistress' eye Love's brand new-fired,
The boy for trial needs would touch my breast;
I, sick withal, the help of bath desired,
And thither hied, a sad distemper'd guest,
But found no cure: the bath for my help lies
Where Cupid got new fire; my mistress' eyes.
|
William Shakespeare Sonnet 153https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=ERehCH06NsU
-
Barb, before I post on the last sonnets I want to respond to the feelings of your email you received. I do feel the election has taken the wind out of all of us no matter who we were voting for. It went on way too long to begin with.... months and months of news media stuffing it down our throats. I would be excited to open my Facebook account to see what was new with my friends and family and instead what do I see.... more political jabs and horrible behaviors from the people I would least expect to see it from. I went to lunch with my group of high school alumni friends and it was so difficult hearing them express how disappointed they are in their family and friends hurtful comments, because they do not vote along the same party line with them. Never in my lifetime have I felt the need to suppress my words and feelings to prevent a family blow up or ending a friendship. I truly thought we were better than this. I quit watching tv the past few weeks, and only watched some of my shows I dvr so I would not get over stressed with all the ugly, smearing of both candidates. Let's face it, as a nation to bring it down to having to decide on two characters with the baggage they brought to the ticket was appalling to say the least. I focused on the issue that was the most important to me personally, and then blocked all the rest out. Phew... I am so glad it is over, I am glad for the outcome, and I am going to keep my prayers strong that this nation can find it in their hearts to try to mend the damage done over this election cycle. The hate displayed is overwhelming.
And, if that was not enough to deal with I am a Michigan football fan and the biggest game of the year is against our rival Ohio State. So, just off of Thanksgiving we had the big game on Saturday. The officiating was atrocious to put it mildly. Michigan lost in the second over time with the officials interfering greatly with the one sided calls throughout the game and into overtime. I'm pretty sure there is no game in history that had only two penalties called against them, for a loss of only six yards, in an entire game with two overtimes to boot. So, of course.... more hateful remarks all over the media and Facebook. Is it because we have such easy access to a large format now, that the hate seems to be more so than ever?
Phew........ Shakespeare's sonnets was actually a nice change even in his darkest moments.
I hope the spirit of the Christmas season can change the narrative in the news and on social media. Tis the season to be jolly!!
-
Sonnet 152
And, to enlighten thee, gave eyes to blindness,
Or made them swear against the thing they see;
I see Shakespeare struggling with all he has said and felt about her. He feels he has allowed himself to be tricked into seeing her the way he wanted her to be, only to find he sees the truth, she is not any of the things he hoped for.
This is the first sonnet that actually mentions "bed-vow" meaning she is married. Is he saying the two of them are married, and she has broken her marriage vow to him, or is he saying she is married to someone else and has broken her marriage vow to her husband, by sleeping with him (Shakespeare)? I am assuming because he used the word, "mistress" to describe her throughout the sonnets, it is her committing adultery with Shakespeare, and many others according to him.
In this sonnet he seems remorseful for not seeing her for who she really was all along. He allowed his lust for her to blind him. I see him as being angry at himself. She has made a fool of him, and sadly enough, he has made a fool of himself.
-
Sonnet 153
Cupid laid by his brand, and fell asleep:
A maid of Dian's this advantage found,
And his love-kindling fire did quickly steep
In a cold valley-fountain of that ground;
Which borrow'd from this holy fire of love
A dateless lively heat, still to endure,
And grew a seething bath, which yet men prove
Against strange maladies a sovereign cure.
But at my mistress' eye Love's brand new-fired,
The boy for trial needs would touch my breast;
I, sick withal, the help of bath desired,
And thither hied, a sad distemper'd guest,
But found no cure: the bath for my help lies
Where Cupid got new fire; my mistress' eyes.
WOW! Where do I begin? Cupid has always been thought of as the angel of true love, but he is in fact, "In classical mythology, Cupid (Latin Cupido, meaning "desire") is the god of desire, erotic love, attraction and affection."[/b] https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Cupid
All these are lustful, not loving emotions.
We have read throughout mythological writings how this little devil shoots arrows at people, and they end up miserable. In knowing this, it appears poor Shakespeare is saying, Cupid shot him with his arrow, which only brought him misery and pain, by being lustful and seduced by this mistress.
And thither hied, a sad distemper'd guest,
But found no cure: the bath for my help lies
It seems Shakespeare has caught some sort of venereal disease from having sex with this mistress, and it is incurable. Does not surprise me after knowing she has slept around with many others. Like the saying goes,
"He that lieth down with dogs shall rise up with fleas"
(has been attributed to Benjamin Franklin's Poor Richard's Almanack. The Latin has been unreliably attributed to Seneca, but not linked to any specific work. The quote has a large almost universally agreed meaning of "You should be cautious of the company you keep.) https://www.google.com/search?q=meaning+of+bed+vow&rlz=1C1RNRA_enUS507US507&oq=meaning+of+bed+vow&aqs=chrome..69i57.3969j0j8&sourceid=chrome&ie=UTF-8#q=saying+about+lying+with+dogs
-
oh I forgot that saying, "He that lieth down with dogs shall rise up with fleas" - yes, it fits almost too well doesn't it.
I'm wondering when cupid became this cute symbol of love - it is almost like growing up and learning the myth that is Santa Clause. However, I think most folks today, at least here in the states think of cupid and this cute symbol of love.
the last two lines suggest to me she finds another - oh yes, I do think the word mistress is just how women are referred to - many of the stories even into the nineteenth century refer to women as mistress - the mistress of the house, kind of thing.
But found no cure: the bath for my help lies
Where Cupid got new fire; my mistress' eyes.
I am reading it that Cupid has new fire meaning another that my mistress' has an eye on - saying my mistress' suggests ownership - it could be a feeling of ownership with an exclusive sex partner because certainly someone that is a prostitute would not be exclusive to any one of their clients.
Almost could build a scenario that it was about his wife who was if I remember 5 years older then he so, this desire to marry at a young age for him, I believe he was only eighteen, could be what he is writing about. Then it seems reasonable to question all those years he is in London and she is in Stratford on Avon - granted they had 3 children, the older girl then twins, a boy and a girl and the boy dies when he is around 10 or 11 but, he does not return home till the girls are married - who knows maybe there was more reason for that than just his career required he be in London.
Probably though you earlier take is the most reasonable - he was writing from his own fantasy or creativity where stories are made up and then would explore various ways of saying whatever the thought.
-
Barb, I found this which concurs that he was not referring to his "mistress" as his wife. Back in Shakespeare's days it had a vulgar connotation, as in being a kept woman.
http://ell.stackexchange.com/questions/19281/why-was-use-of-mistress-was-considered-vulgar-during-1800s
I don't see these sonnets being biographical as I stated before. If he was indeed a lonely man being separated from his family for so many years I can see him sitting and fantasizing about what she was doing while he was away. I tend to think of the young Will he mentions in these sonnets, as Shakespeare seeing himself being that particular character in his fantasy. He was known to have affectionate feelings for a certain young man, so I can see him adding that into his sonnets, the what ifs..... the life he imagined, played out in his sonnets, much like in his plays.
-
Ah so - not his wife - yes, I can see that regardless of his personal life, like his plays he wrote from his imagination or fantasy life.
Another subject - got thinking - your quote fits more than Shakespeare - I think if fits this nation we are both bemoaning over how folks are in reaction - both candidates were awful and so it was pick one awful over the other awful. Which is amazing they are still fighting without realizing it, which awful was the better awful - anyhow...
"He that lieth down with dogs shall rise up with fleas"
Trump may or may not be awful as a leader - we do not know but he chose to lower himself to the worst aspects of the population - I do not think all folks voted for him because of the things he said about others but because he seemed to be the best hope for a different future and as a bully he could match the bully behavior shown by those in Congress. So he had fleas if only because of the aspect of some in this nation he chose to acknowledge. And of course she had fleas because of years of manipulating and staying with Bill, which I am sorry that is not love - that is either need or more manipulation so she would not end up on the wood pile or forgotten.
So this nation had two dogs, both with fleas and the media churned up like the cupid of mythology which dog we were going to choose - problem - now the entire nation has fleas and we are itching and scratching and growling at each other with no relief in sight. And to top it off the pedestal many of us had place Obama is chipped away as we are seeing many of his initiatives or lack of initiative to help those who need it and who he promised he would help, all this is making him less perfect - as a couple and family top honors but the pedestal is been badly chipped and leaning. All our heroes have been laid to waste in just a matter of months - Bernie Sanders did an about face that the best of thinking is he was threatened, Elizabeth Warren lays down with the flea infested dog, on and on it goes.
I think we need to pray for some flea powder - even war would only take the flea bitten nation into a mindset that would take away from the scratching but the fleas would still be a huge infestation. Well for sure we cannot look to the media for flea powder. The media laid down with the flea ridden dogs long before the public was required to in order for us to vote one dog over the other flea bitten dog.
hahah well I sure used up that metaphor... onward I will upload our last Sonnet...
-
Shakespeare Sonnet CXXXXXIV(https://2.bp.blogspot.com/-AzCZl80yw-M/WCXnb2v7HmI/AAAAAAAAHNY/NpvjwQrkRhwn1aMqr_veOgK4Z1Kr9cSOACLcB/s1600/Caravaggio%252C%2BSleeping%2BCupid%2B%2528Indianapolis%2529%252C%2B1595-6.jpg)
The little Love-god lying once asleep
Laid by his side his heart-inflaming brand,
Whilst many nymphs that vow'd chaste life to keep
Came tripping by; but in her maiden hand
The fairest votary took up that fire
Which many legions of true hearts had warm'd;
And so the general of hot desire
Was sleeping by a virgin hand disarm'd.
This brand she quenched in a cool well by,
Which from Love's fire took heat perpetual,
Growing a bath and healthful remedy
For men diseased; but I, my mistress' thrall,
Came there for cure, and this by that I prove,
Love's fire heats water, water cools not love.
|
William Shakespeare's Sonnet 154https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=C5OLBs-vX7Y
-
I like this one better than the last one, Barb. I can understand it. The other was mostly gibberish to me, other than remembering in my mythology something about a nymph swiping Cupid's bow and arrows.
Now I wonder about this quenching in a pool business. It reminds me of the mineral hot springs that people go to for "the cure". Did that feature in a cupid story somewhere?
-
In both these poems Cupid's fire is stolen by one of Diana's maidens, and quenched in water, which becomes hot and healing, a fountain in one, a well in the other. The poet seeks relief in them, but doesn't find it. In the first, only the flame in his love's eyes can heal him, in the second, love's fire heats water, water cools not love. They are the same thing, but the second one is neater and clearer.
-
Ok what we know about Cupid - some of which we read while reading Ovid last winter -
Cupid is winged, allegedly, because lovers are flighty and likely to change their minds, and boyish because love is irrational. His symbols are the arrow and torch, "because love wounds and inflames the heart." Cupid is also sometimes depicted blindfolded and described as blind, not so much in the sense of sightless—since the sight of the beloved can be a spur to love
Cupid carries two kinds of arrows, one with a sharp golden point, and the other with a blunt tip of lead. A person wounded by the golden arrow is filled with uncontrollable desire, but the one struck by the lead feels aversion and desires only to flee. - In Metamorphous we read how Apollo taunts Cupid as the lesser archer, Cupid shoots him with the golden arrow, but strikes the object of his desire, the nymph Daphne, with the lead. Trapped by Apollo's unwanted advances, Daphne prays to her father, the river god Peneus, who turns her into a laurel, the tree sacred to Apollo.
In Ovid’s Metamorphoses we also have the story how Cupid accidentally wounded Venus with one of his arrows when he leaned in for a kiss, he causes the goddess’s tragic infatuation with Adonis. We also have Venus eager to demonstrate love’s power over the underworld. At her command, Cupid fires an arrow at Pluto who becomes enamored of Ceres’ daughter, Proserpine.
Cupid is often shown riding a dolphin. One interpretation is the image represent the soul's journey, originally associated with Dionysian religion. Dolphins were often portrayed in antiquity as friendly to humans, and the dolphin itself could represent affection.
Cupid's triumph over mankind is signified by his driving a chariot pulled by lions
Cupid sleeping became a symbol of absent or languishing love in Renaissance poetry and art, including a Sleeping Cupid (1496) by Michelangelo that is now lost. The image of Cupid or Amore sleeping represents the indolence of Love in the lap of Idleness.
(https://upload.wikimedia.org/wikipedia/commons/thumb/5/51/WLA_vanda_Sleeping_Cupid.jpg/580px-WLA_vanda_Sleeping_Cupid.jpg)
I cannot find anything in the Cupid Psyche myth where Cupid is sleeping by the water with his bow and arrow by his side however, there are several paintings of that scene.
(https://s-media-cache-ak0.pinimg.com/236x/fb/2e/0e/fb2e0eb8e3cf6176b85df76d6e27c02e.jpg)
In his play, Midsummer Night's Dream there are all sorts of children type angles and there is a time they are often shown by a pond as well as asleep in the forest or in a large bed. The play does not specify that any of them represent cupid but given the nature of the story it could be and therefore in this Sonnet Shakespeare could be carrying that thought describing cupid and water both heated by fire or cooling love.
Now here is a story I did not know and I find fascinating - According to Cicero and Pausanias, Cupid had a brother, born after him to the same parents: Venus and Mars. Anteros is sometimes viewed as Cupid’s enemy, representing spiritual rather than carnal love, and featured struggling for victory in a contest over a palm. Anteros is symbolic of Reciprocal or Virtuous love, and his tussling with Cupid is associated with the celebration of marriage, which required both Loves to prove fruitful and fulfilling.
-
Haha I just thought I wonder if that last Sonnet is where we get the jest of taking a cold shower - or when I was a kid there were dogs that ran wild and if they were at it some adult always threw a basin of water on them, usually a women with a look of annoyance on her face, including my grandmother. The men usually just yelled at them and waved their arm yelling to get out of here. I'm chuckling with the memories.
Well I can say bath water is the perfect ending - at times he did fire up the imagination and the Sonnet was as delightful as a warm bath and other times it was like drenched by a pail of cold water and sometimes they were as tepid as a bath that sat too long and left you feeling dissatisfied and glad to get into your Pj's.
Thought it appropriate to end this with a photo of his oldest daughter's home in Stratford upon Avon
Hall's Croft - home of Shakespeare’s daughter, Susanna
(https://www.shakespeare.org.uk/media/images/HC_Garden.2e16d0ba.fill-1920x1080-c75.jpg)
-
Thanks for the comparison of the two last poems, PatH. I've been quite lazy about even trying to figure out what Shakespeare was saying let alone figuring out to what he was alluding. It needs more mental energy than I cared to make.
When I first read Shakespeare's plays in high school (Hamlet and Julius Caesar), it was tough going trying to figure it out. What helped immensely was the class discussion and actually seeing the plays which had the advantage of visual clues to the verbiage. It is much easier to read his plays now, but the sonnets seem even more convoluted and difficult to understand what he was getting at than his plays did back then.
Barb, what a great association you've made between the hot/warm water baths and cold showers. My first chuckle of the day.
-
Yes, some of the sonnets are really tough going. The grammar is so convoluted, and some of the words have changed meaning, and the constrictions of the sonnet form twist things even more. sometimes you have to read one several times to match up subject and verb.
-
Oh Barb you did give me a bit of a chuckle with the comparison of the dogs in heat, needing to be hosed down with cold water to break them up. Seems our Shakespeare, the mistress and young Will could have used a good hosing down throughout these sonnets.
I remember in Ovid how Cupid was a bit of a devil and shot men with his arrows causing them to go after fair maidens and actually raping them. I sure do look at Cupid in a whole new light since reading Ovid.
PatH., I'm with you, these sonnets had double and triple meanings. Just like in these last two sonnets they are full of double entendres of sexual intercourse followed by venereal disease. He goes to the water to be cured, yet in his last sentence he says:
Came there for cure, and this by that I prove,
Love's fire heats water, water cools not love.
He chooses to end this sonnet as a chiasmus.... but without an end of time or love: "Love's fire heats water, water cools not.
love.
Seems to me it is a perfect ending, considering he was constantly going a bit in circles in these sonnets. There seems to be no cure for his disease, or for love. Or is he seeing them as one in the same?
Gotta run, Christmas shopping is on my to do list today. Ciao for now!
-
Perfect - I feel we did the 400th anniversary of the death of Shakespeare proud - England had all sorts of activities and celebrations but for us to do this in the midst of all that has been happening since July between elections and storms and North Dakota and our own reading and catching up on various TV shows I think we did super.
Thanks folks for sharing - there were a few who posted along the way that are not with us at the end but their contributions were invaluable - we end with the fun of a new word to the discussion - chiasmus - thanks Bellamarie, and to Pat of so often sorted us out, and Frybabe for sharing your thoughts.
The Poetry pages will continue - without a daily change - We'll be in holiday mode when we change the page - just share a poem as you find one that speaks to you - looking forward to holiday and early winter poems by any author.
I'm thinking we may start off next year by featuring poets from the same time frame as the book we are discussing that month - so that in January while reading Cranford here in Poetry we will share poems written during the same time period, Victorian poetry.
Almost hate to see us put Ol' Will to bed - till the new poetry page...
-
Barb, this is a tremendous accomplishment you did here, to put up a sonnet every single day, and comment on it. Your choice of pictures was inspired, and added a lot, and I know it's not quick to find such.
I'm grateful to you for getting me to read all the sonnets. They range from wonderful to awful, and they take a lot of work to understand. I never would have gotten through them without the discussion. I didn't comment as much as I would have liked, because I was often behind, but I read them all, and all the comments, and got many fresh insights in doing so.
Thank you; I'm very grateful.
-
Thanks Pat and Bellamarie - glad you found something to stir your thinking and tickle a different way of seeing things - where it was not exactly always fun it was exhilarating to get to the nub of his 'fantasies' as Bellamarie would label the plot of these Sonnets -
Been having fun finding what he had to say about Christmas - not familiar with 12th Night but it appears to have been performed during Christmas time - found this...
(http://theshakespeareblog.com/wp-content/uploads/2012/12/middle-temple-hall.jpg)
Going up the social scale, it is said that Queen Elizabeth herself made a Christmas pudding for the lawyers of the Middle Temple. The story goes that she gave them the twenty-nine foot-long Bench Table which still stands in Middle Temple Hall.
Middle Temple Hall was renowned for its Christmas-time celebrations, with Shakespeare’s Twelfth Night being performed there in 1602. The table was made from an oak tree from Windsor Great Park whose planks had had been sailed down river especially for them, and the first pudding was mixed on this very table. A small amount of this pudding was saved to be mixed in the following year, and this tradition continued until 1966 when it died out until revived by the Queen Mother in 1971.
-
Barb thank you so very much for all the work you put into celebrating the 400th Anniversary of Shakespeare's death. The pictures you chose for each of the sonnets were simply amazing. I know you had to have put in a lot more time than ever expected, and it was greatly appreciated. YEA!!! We did get through all 154 in spite of all that was happening in our lives, the country and yes, even our losing our dear Ella. I think the election cycle really took the wind out of our sails these past few weeks, and yet we managed to stay on track with the sonnets.
So now as you said, we shall put Ol' Will and young Will to bed. As he ended this last sonnet leaving us with and endless feeling, I will see his sonnets as timeless. I would certainly not recommend these sonnets to anyone as "love letters," on the contrary more like betrayals and revenge. But I am glad I was able to share them with all of you. So my dear Shakespeare, here is where we shall part, and I will bid you adieu. May he rest in peace.
I like the idea of keeping the Poetry page open for poems of future book discussions.
-
Thanks Bellamarie - a double thank you from you and yes, we sure did it - maybe the Sonnets were an touchstone for us - about the only thing we could depend upon and now you have to wonder with all that was going on as Elizabeth stripped her kingdom of Catholics if he too had his writing and maybe even his Sonnets as his touchstone - we were turned upside down and inside out the last few months but nothing like he must have had as a constant between his uncle being drawn and quartered and he hiding not only his own religious affiliation but also his family and friends who were also Catholic - Catholic, Black, Native Indigenous People, Muslim, Jew - golly we just keep it up don't we...
-
Our Poetry Page Celebrates
The December Holidays
Our Poetry Page has been a haven for those of us who listen to words that opens our heart and stirs our imagination. We tread lightly when acknowledging the moving sound that touches someone's inner-self...
(http://68.media.tumblr.com/5c4b3365f23cd9c9566028ca832e8199/tumblr_ohez7yKjTT1uoyugzo1_1280.jpg)
Snow was falling,
so much like stars
filling the dark trees
that one could easily imagine
its reason for being was nothing more
than prettiness.
Mary Oliver
Welcome! Please share
December's Holiday and Early Winter Poems.
Discussion Leaders: Barb (augere@ix.netcom.com)
-
Ring the bells that still can ring
Forget your perfect offering
There is a crack in everything
That’s how the light gets in.
Leonard Cohen |
-
I heard a bird sing
In the dark of December
A magical thing
And sweet to remember.
‘We are nearer to Spring
Than we were in September,'
I heard a bird sing
In the dark of December.
| (http://68.media.tumblr.com/0695aaa3c1ef5f85106632142a0b8628/tumblr_mw7lcpF8D11ro4v2no1_500.jpg)
|
-
This World's Joy - Anonymous. c. 1300
WYNTER wakeneth al my care,
Nou this leves waxeth bare;
Ofte I sike ant mourne sare
When hit cometh in my thoht
Of this worldes joie, hou hit goth al to noht.
Nou hit is, and nou hit nys,
Al so hit ner nere, ywys;
That moni mon seith, soth hit ys:
Al goth bote Godes wille:
Alle we shule deye, thah us like ylle.
Al that gren me graueth grene,
Nou hit faleweth albydene:
Jesu, help that hit be sene
Ant shild us from helle!
For y not whider y shal, ne hou longe her duelle.
| (http://68.media.tumblr.com/e9fce4d574a95944c5f7066b4b2e0764/tumblr_ohbatqDT5s1rttk8po1_1280.jpg)
|
GLOSS: [leves waxeth bare;] leaves grow bare. --- [sike] sigh. --- [Of this worldes joie, hou hit goth al to noht.] Of this world's joy, how it all goes to nothing. --- [nys] is not. --- [al so hit ner nere] as though it had never been. --- [That moni mon seith, soth hit ys:] What many man say, sooth is truth: --- [bote] but, except. --- [thah] though. --- [ylle] ill --- [faleweth] fadeth. --- [albydene] altogether. --- [hit be sene] this be understood --- [y not whider] I know not whither. --- [her duelle] here dwell.
-
Barb, thank you for that. I would never even have come across that poem, much less made sense of it, but with the aid of your nice translation system, I was able to work through it, and after going over it several times, read it through more smoothly, getting the feel and spirit of it. It fits beautifully into our winter mood, mournful, with a plea for Christ's mercy.
-
Old English is really a different language isn't it Pat - you can get some words but the spelling adds to the problem of understanding - to think this was the language that became our language today. Interesting isn't it to get a glimpse into the hearts of men before they knew the earth was round, when the only thing that held them together was a God and among the educated in Europe that was a Christian God.
Only read last year that in order to get an education the only place was with the clergy - took me a bit to think it through - I guess I imagined private schools had secular teachers but evidently only a few - never really thought that through either, that the church was an empire the Holy Roman Empire and all these nations were subject to the Empire and so all thinking saw the Christ as a power and even after Henry, his Anglican Church was a form of Christianity with the clergy doing the lion's share of teaching.
Donne wrote some raunchy poems, married, had 12 children yet, he becomes a priest and in time becomes Dean of St Paul's. Other well known poets like Ben Johnson attended Westminster School that was within the precincts of Westminster Abbey and Christopher Marlowe attended Corpus College, Cambridge - read a biography of Petrarch. He and his brother had to become priests in order to be educated - one of his quotes is that it requires time to be devoted to God that does not leave the time needed to study Law. Both studied law but his brother, although he married, remained an active priest (marriage for priests only became a serious no no at the Council of Trent 1563) where as Petrarch never said Mass and did not live the life of a priest.
Trying to get a grasp on the thinking that went into these poems - found another that I will post next...
-
Winter's Coming - Anon. 11th century
Translated into modern English
The wise hero must perceive how terrible it will be
when all this world's wealth lies waste,
as now in various places throughout this earth
walls stand blown by the wind,
covered with frost, the buildings snow-swept...
The warriors were taken away by the power of spears,
weapons greedy for slaughter, fate the famous;
and storms batter those rocky cliffs,
snow falling fetters the earth,
the tumult of winter. Then dark comes,
night-shadows deepen; from the north comes
a fierce hailstorm hostile to men.
All is full of hardship in this earthly realm,
the course of events changes the world under the heavens.
Here wealth is fleeting, here friend is fleeting,
here man is fleeting, here kinsman is fleeting,
all the foundation of this world turns to waste.
|
(https://s-media-cache-ak0.pinimg.com/736x/ba/4d/ee/ba4dee0f1456afc941e2242fb7e58b9b.jpg)
|
-
This is beyond the personal, it is a universal sorrow, the bleak fate of all human society,
as if the future of the world is summed up in one phrase: Winter's Coming.
The more you read it the poem reminds me of Elliot's The Waste Land
http://www.bartleby.com/201/1.html
-
I really like the old Anglo Saxon poems, and the harsh strange world they depict. This one seemed familiar, and I tracked down a quote of the last 3 lines in my English Lit textbook:
Here wealth is fleeting, friends are fleeting,
Man is fleeting, maid is fleeting;
All the foundation of earth shall fall!
They mostly have the same rhythmic scheme. No rhymes, and no steady rhythm like iambic pentameter. Each line has four strong beats, with a pause between halves, so you could equally make it into two lines with two beats each. In place of rhyme there is strong alliteration. It's a time when Christianity replaces the older beliefs, and you can still see the mixture of attitudes, the realization of the possibility of redemption.
-
Just a little tidbit:
https://osr.org/blog/tips-gifts/20-beautiful-christmas-poems/
-
Ah yes Pat - it is almost like a big drum beating out the rhythm, matching heart beat with the beat of the earth - particularly strong in those last few lines - just the alliterations are wonderful
wise
world's wealth waste,
walls wind,
warriors were
weapons
storms batter
snow fetters
night north
hailstorm hostile
hardship
heavens.
wealth is fleeting, friend is fleeting,
man is fleeting, maid is fleeting,
foundations fall.
You can almost hear the clash of spears and the beat of the drum urging them on and then keeping in rhythm the oars as they battle the elements to go forth or to return home.
-
Bellamarie let's shine a light on the wonderful site of Christmas poetry you've brought into our discussion...
A really nice selection of poets - Of course any site that quotes Voltaire is tops in my book...
Each of the poems on the linked page is a link to the poem.
Here again is the link -
https://osr.org/blog/tips-gifts/20-beautiful-christmas-poems/
(https://osr.org/wp-content/uploads/2015/11/osr-blog-christmas.jpg)
Voltaire once said,
“Poetry is the music of the soul, and, above all, of great and feeling souls.”
Index of Poems1. Twas the Night before Christmas – Clement Clark Moore
2. The Three Kings – Henry Wadsworth Longfellow
3. A Cradle Song – William Blake
4. Christmas Trees – Robert Frost
5. Minstrels – William Wordsworth
6. Ring Out, Wild Bells – Alfred Tennyson
7. Christmas at Sea – Robert Louis Stevenson
8. Christmas Carol – Sara Teasdale
9. Christmas in India – Rudyard Kipling
10. In the Bleak Midwinter – Christina Rossetti
11. The Boy who Laughed at Santa Claus – Ogden Nash
12. For the Time Being: A Christmas Oratorio – W.H. Auden
13. The Last Christmas Tree – Howard D. Fencl
14. Missing you At Christmas – Tamara Hillman
15. Mistletoe – Walter de la Mare
16. Away in a Manger – Unknown
17. Good King Wenceslas – John Mason Neale
18. How the Grinch Stole Christmas – Dr. Seuss
19. At Christmas – Edgar Guest
20. Little Tree – E.E. Cummings
|
-
In Maxims, the Old English Saxon poems, there is most of the long argument the pagan prince Saturn has with Solomon in; The Dialogue of Solomon and Saturn in which is this lovely exchange...
Solomon:
Old age is crafty over everything earthly—
reaching widely with a ravaging captive-chain,
with spacious fetters and a lengthy rope,
overwhelming all whom she wishes to.
It destroys the tree and shatters its branches,
tumbling the standing stock from its course,
felling it to the ground, and devouring it afterwards.
Saturnus:
But why does the snow fall, hiding the earth,
veiling the seeds of herbs, binding the blossoms.
It crushes and checks them so that they shall be
withered by the cold for a season?
| (http://68.media.tumblr.com/c854ed3d42110a62b01ad5cc274dc007/tumblr_ogsoxrTM2Q1uoyugzo1_500.jpg)
|
-
The retort by Solomon is a missing page however, the question by Saturn is in response to the statement by Solomon about aging where Saturn speaks to aging as a cycle of nature veiling hope, as nature is the cycle in Christmas that hope is symbolized by this new born babe and from darkness the light shines from the Menorah.
-
Barb, what a powerful poem you found in "Winter's Coming" - the imagery it invokes.
Pat, I never read "The Waste Land". On the whole when I skimmed down over it, it did not interest me much until I got to IV and V. I perked up. The notes at the end were even more interesting. I can tell this is a poem that requires some study, not to mention reading some of the referenced passages and books. I do have in my library, The Golden Bough, The Vicar of Wakefield, Metamorphosis, and of course, a complete Shakespeare. Somewhere in my e-library I think I still have Tristan and Isolde. I used to have a book on St. Augustine and Milton's Paradise Lost, but no longer.
-
It was Barb who was reminded of The Waste Land. We discussed it here at great length, but it seems to be one of the discussions that were lost. It's tremendously complex, full of unexplained references to mythical, literary, classical, historical, cultural themes, and some that only make sense in the context of Eliot's life. So you have to put a lot of work into it.
-
Oops! Thanks for the correction Pat.
-
I remember that discussion on the Waste Land - were you part of that Pat? I do not think we really got as much out of it as could be but then it is one of those poems we could have read a dozen times for a dozen years and see something we missed with each new read.
There is so much more on the internet now - what fun looking up and actually finding poetry written in those years we often refer to as the Dark Ages. I guess it took a certain number of lit and history students to dwell into this time period and be fascinated enough with language to learn how to read and then share their findings - but more, to pick from what is there the bits and pieces that they could translate and bring to a web site - I found the copy of The Dialogue of Solomon and Saturn on the Gutenberg site - me oh my - it is huge and not translated - to find bits translated is such the gift.
OK Pat do you know among the four 'rime' forms of Saxon poetry is the Cyrch, or supplemental foot - I have been trying to understand and I am getting both muddled plus, I'm exposed to more information that I ever dreamed that is getting in the way of my understanding.
Everything from who and how the Saxon poetry was destroyed, to the Saxons striking out from the Elbe, the influence or lack of in both Iceland and Scandinavia - how it relates to St. Bede plus a whole slew of saints I never heard of plus, finding a poem mentioned in the Exeter Manuscript that is a dialogue between Mary and Joseph and her deep concern "she should be subjected by the rigour of the Jewish law to the punishment of an adulteress ; and the answer of Joseph is occupied, partly by the assurance of his steady belief in her purity, and other expressions calculated to remove her distress;"
-- all that and still no closer to understanding Cyrch - Pat do you know?
-
An
Acrostic...
Hearth
Home beckons; my work here is done.
Every moment I did desire
Always to be by my hearth's fire;
Ravenous winter leaves no sun.
Towards the fire's warmth I now run.
Heat fills my home's hearth in the shire.
| (http://68.media.tumblr.com/tumblr_m3pplxwJcD1qkvpg7o1_500.jpg)
|
-
Those Winter Sundays
Robert Hayden, 1913 - 1980
Sundays too my father got up early
and put his clothes on in the blueblack cold,
then with cracked hands that ached
from labor in the weekday weather made
banked fires blaze. No one ever thanked him.
I’d wake and hear the cold splintering, breaking.
When the rooms were warm, he’d call,
and slowly I would rise and dress,
fearing the chronic angers of that house,
Speaking indifferently to him,
who had driven out the cold
and polished my good shoes as well.
What did I know, what did I know
of love’s austere and lonely offices?
| (https://s-media-cache-ak0.pinimg.com/736x/59/cb/36/59cb36420693109cec78a655098c55a5.jpg)
|
-
Excerpt from:
The Stag Hunt
Sir Walter Scott
Then, dashing down a darksome glen,
Soon lost to hound and hunter’s ken,
In the deep Trosachs’ wildest nook
His solitary refuge took.
There while, close couched, the thicket shed
Cold dews and wild-flowers on his head,
He heard the baffled dogs in vain
Rave through the hollow pass amain,
Chiding the rocks that yelled again.
|
(http://68.media.tumblr.com/6b89f0bb24f627cedc09d7a13b7b7143/tumblr_nflxbasPfN1ro4v2no1_1280.jpg)
|
-
Some phrases really hit the mark; in Hayden's poem it's "fearing the chronic angers of that house". Thank goodness I've never felt that in a house I've lived in, but I've seen it, and it's lethal.
-
Barb, with regard to Anglo Saxon poetry, my technical knowledge is extremely limited; it's just that I love the examples I've read. I never even heard of the Cyrch, though now I will see what I can find out about it. One poem I particularly like is The Seafarer, an interesting contrast between the pagan and Christian. I'll see if I can find a good translation online.
-
Great Pat - The Seafarer sounds wonderful - hope you can find it in English - the old English or maybe it is Saxon is difficult - the poetry is strong - you can hear a deep resounding beat - or maybe my imagination of what that time in history represents to me - these men who often clashed body against metal or even wooden shields and their enormous physical strength from labor - I can only admire knowing on their shoulders we are born.
I've been searching and so far this is what I have found - Cyrch It is a Welsh word with several meanings - not associated with poetry it means: A center; a goal, or mark; gravity or tendency towards a center; an inroad or invasion; an onset, assault or attack.
For our purposes Cyrch means: a recurrent word, a term in prosody; a kind of stanza, a pause of recurrence, and ending with a line shorter than the preceding ones.
Prosody: The patterns of rhythm and sound used in poetry. The patterns of stress and intonation in a language.
this poem does have the repetition but not the last line shorter than the proceeding ones.
Amergin's Challenge
I am a wind across the sea
I am a flood across the plain
I am the roar of the tides
I am a stag* of seven (pair) tines
I am a dewdrop let fall by the sun
I am the fierceness of boars*
I am a hawk, my nest on a cliff
I am a height of poetry (magical skill)
I am the most beautiful among flowers
I am the salmon* of wisdom
Who (but I) is both the tree and the lightning strikes it
Who is the dark secret of the dolmen not yet hewn
I am the queen of every hive
I am the fire on every hill
I am the shield over every head
I am the spear of battle
I am the ninth* wave of eternal return
I am the grave of every vain hope
Who knows the path of the sun, the periods of the moon
Who gathers the divisions, enthralls the sea,
sets in order the mountains. the rivers, the peoples
|
Found this which seems to be saying something similar...
Gaelic Poetry was based on sound structures to make them easy to remember, with rhyme not as important as repetition, alliteration and rhythm.
Irish poetry is cyclic and the last line should end with the first syllable word or the complete line.
Purring came from the kitten
smitten, no whisker stirring,
sounding sleep on the cushion,
paws pushing for the purring.
|
-
Beautiful, Barb. I looked it up and came across this site, among others. http://www.angelfire.com/de2/newconcepts/wicca/amergin.html There are a number of versions to this poem, which represents man's (Amhairghin) challenge to take possession of Ireland from a fairy clan (the Tuatha Dé Danann). BTW, Robert Graves translated a version for his book, The White Godess, that has generated some criticism.
I have been quite taken by a piece of artwork that was used by someone who posted a piece of music by Tom Bergensen and his organization, Two Steps from Hell. Because the poster didn't credit the art, I've been trying to find more out about who painted it and what (who) it represents. Although I have been unsuccessful so far, it has led me to checking out a number of other clips and lightly researching several video games. The games are medieval and or include battles with elves, fairies and orcs. Your post is timely, and a pleasure to read, as is the inspiration for it.
-
I know very little of the Irish myths; they seem weirdly strange to me.
I knew which translation I wanted of The Seafarer, the one in my English Lit book, but I didn't want to violate any copyrights. I found it online in a downloadable version, but couldn't copy the link, just could download the poem. Here it is; sorry it's so long.
THE SEAFARER
A song I sing of my sea-adventure, 1
The strain of peril, the stress of toil, 2
Which oft I endured in anguish of spirit 3
Through weary hours of aching woe. 4
My bark was swept by the breaking seas; 5
Bitter the watch from the bow by night 6
As my ship drove on within sound of the rocks. 7
My feet were numb with the nipping cold, 8
Hunger sapped a sea-weary spirit, 9
And care weighed heavy upon my heart. 10
Little the land-lubber, safe on shore, 11
Knows what I've suffered in icy seas 12
Wretched and worn by the winter storms, 13
Hung with icicles, stung by hail, 14
Lonely and friendless and far from home. 15
In my ears no sound but the roar of the sea, 16
The icy combers, the cry of the swan; 17
In place of the mead-hall and laughter of men 18
My only singing the sea-mew's call, 19
The scream of the gannet, the shriek of the gull, 20
Through the wail of the wild gale beating the bluffs 21
The piercing cry of the ice-coated petrel, 22
The storm-drenched eagle's echoing scream. 23
In all my wretchedness, weary and long, 24
I had no comfort of comrade or kin. 25
Little indeed can be credit, whose town-life 26
Pleasantly passes in feasting and joy, 27
Sheltered from peril, what weary pain 28
Often I've suffered in foreign seas. 29
Night shades darkened with driving snow 30
From the freezing north, and the bonds of frost 31
Firm-locked and land, while falling hail, 32
Coldest of kernels, encrusted earth. 33
Yet still, even now, my spirit within me 34
Drives me seaward to sail the deep, 35
To ride the long swell of the salt sea-wave. 36
Never a day but my heart's desire 37
Would launch me forth on the long sea-path, 38
Fain of far harbors and foreign shores. 39
Yet lives no man so lordly of mood, 40
So eager in giving, so ardent in youth, 41
So bold in his deeds, or so dear to his lord, 42
Who is free from dread in his far sea-travel, 43
Or fear of God's purpose and plan for his fate. 44
The beat of the harp, and bestowal of treasure, 45
The love of woman, and worldly hope, 46
Nor other interest can hold his heart 47
Save only the sweep of the surging billows; 48
His heart is haunted by love of the sea. 49
Trees are budding and towns are fair, 50
Meadows kindle and all life quickens, 51
All things hasten the eager-hearted, 52
Who joyeth therein, to journey afar, 53
Turning seaward to distant shores. 54
The cuckoo stirs him with plaintive call, 55
The herald of summer, with mournful song, 56
Foretelling the sorrow that stabs the heart. 57
Who liveth in luxury, little he knows 58
What woe men endure in exile's doom. 59
Yet still, even now, my desire outreaches, 60
My spirit sours over tracts of sea, 61
O'er the home of the whale, and the world's expanse. 62
Eager, desirous, the lone sprite returneth; 63
It cries in my ears and it calls to my heart 64
To launch where the whales plough their paths through the deep. 65
But fairer indeed are the joys God has fashioned 66
Than the mortal and mutable life of this world. 67
Truly earth's blessings are never abiding; 68
To the day of fulfillment remaineth a doubt 69
Whether old age, or sickness, or sword-edge shall ravish 70
Man's life when the fall of his fate is at hand. 71
Of memorials the noblest for man is the praise 72
Of men who survive him, who speak of his deeds, 73
That striving on earth ere the hour of death 74
He carry on boldly the battle with Satan, 75
And put to confusion the malice of fiends. 76
So, in ages long after, men still shall exalt 77
His fame, and his glory eternally gleam 78
Among angels forever, a splendor unending, 79
A joy with the heavenly hosts on high. 80
Gone are the days of earth's grandeur and pomp; 81
Gone are the princes, and givers of gold, 82
The kings of the past in pageant of glory 83
Living in splendor in lordly wise. 84
The heroes have fallen, the hall-joys have vanished, 85
Weaker men linger possessing the world 86
In days that are troubled; all glory is dead. 87
Earth's grandeur withers and wanes in decay 88
As man's earthly fate droops and dwindles toward death. 89
Old age oppresses, man's countenance pales, 90
Gray are his locks, and he grieves in his heart 91
For the friends of his prime, the children of princes, 92
Long since laid in the arms of earth. 93
And the flesh at last, when the life has fled, 94
Savors not sweet, suffers not pain; 95
The hand does not strive, the mind does not stir. 96
Though one strew with gold the grave of his brother, 97
With manifold treasure endowing the dead, 98
It will not go with him; gold hoarded on earth 99
Is no help to a soul that is burdened with sin, 100
In the terror of doomsday; and dreadful shall be 101
The fear of the Judge whereby earth is transformed. 102
For He it was fashioned the firm foundations, 103
The borders of earth, and the heavens above it. 104
Foolish is he who fears not his God; 105
All unready he runs toward death. 106
But blessed the heart that is humble, for mercy 107
Cometh upon him from heaven on high. 108
His heart God will stablish who trusts in His strength. 109
Man must rule a fierce mood, and hold it in rein, 110
Loyal to comrade, in cleanness of life; 111
Love of friend or hatred of foe 112
He must lock within limits, though longing in heart. . . 113
For his dear lord laid in the funeral flame. 114
Firmer is fate, greater is God, 115
Than the thoughts of man can ever imagine. 116
Let us muse in our hearts on our heavenly mansions, 117
Thitherward planning our pilgrimage, 118
Seeking the way to the blessed stronghold 119
Of life and joy in the love of the Lord. 120
And thanks be to God, the Giver of glory, 121
The Lord everlasting, the holy King, 122
Who hath granted us honor through ages to come. 123
Amen.
Charles W. Kennedy, Trans. Old English Elegies. Princeton: Princeton UP, 1936.
-
So heroic did they see their life - I got so lost in the story that only the first few lines did I see the alliterations - this is one to read several times to get it - thank you for finding it and bringing it to us.
I'm wondering if they saw their life as a physical exertion so that age had less value if that had them feel like they had to hurry up and be their most heroic early in life not only because of the physical incapabilities of age but because of the early deaths acknowledged in the poem.
Seeing so many of the videos taken during this blizzard at Standing Rock it is easier to grasp this winter the poem speaks to.
History seems to be wound into these poems - as you say you are not that familiar with Celtic poetry and now what I want to know is how the Celts and Saxons relate - were they from different areas of Europe and what was their timing and then were the Welsh poets more Celtic or of their own - I did read that the Welsh Bards completely disappeared after the Reformation - since more of this time in history is translated into modern English not only is it easier to find out about but I'm seeing because of that ease we are becoming aware of this history that was lost to us when we were young.
I had a thought - I wonder - this Cyrch - if it is really a beat created by repetition that reminds me of several of the speeches by Martin Luther King and in fact Obama does it to a lessor degree - I just need to find someone - maybe after the holidays - I am thinking a graduate student at UT that I could email and get some information.
-
I hate it - lost a whole post - of course cannot share exactly nor with the same enthusiasm and excitement when I first wrote out my thoughts and feelings - grrr - the post was to you Frybabe - I was excited to see what was included on your link - I love the stories, the myths, of this time in history - you just reminded me to get back to reading what took my imagination as a young reader - I remember when I past my youth, the story of Tristram and Isolde was printed as a series over several months in the Ladies Home Companion back in the early 1950s - back when all the Women's magazines included a short story written by a substantial author.
I quick looked and yes, in my library I do have Robert Graves translation of The White Goddess - if I remember it arrived after I was onto another interest so that I never did read it.
All this harking back to reading from early history reminds me also of the kinds of myths and legends in our so called 'readers' that was part of our curriculum through the 6th grade. Since I already saw a lack of decent literature in the classroom for my children I was so pleased when I found this wonderful old set of 12 books My Book House - each filled with great literature, age appropriate from the first book filled with nursery rhymes and pre-school stories on to the last with the likes of Dante, Browning both Elizabeth and Robert, Bryant, Cervantes, Chaucer, Hawthorn, Sir Walter, Spenser, Tolstoy etc. etc. typical 1920s illustrations, the series is edited by Olive Beaupré Miller.
Best of all is his index - unbelievable - in book 12 he devotes 77 pages to this extensive index - First by; Author, Title and get this by Leading Character
The next index Special Interests - - - Countries of the World - Nature_Birds_Animals_Seasons - Boats or Trains - Famous People - Artists and Illustrators - Holidays - Epics - Fairy Tales - Elves and Brownies - Fables - Folk Lore and Legends - Myths - Giants - Farm and Country - Games - Festivals - Hero and Heroines - Gods and Goddesses - Humor - Music - Musical Instruments - Nobel Prize Winners included in the books - Pulitzer Prize Winners in the books - Occupations - Toys - True Stories.
And then another whole section A Guide for Parents Character Building Index from alertness, ambition, anger to unselfishness, willingness, wisdom, work habits and a secondary section on Child's Daily Activities from getting up, dressing, eating, to a trip to the city, complaining and consideration of others.
He is still not finished - included is a Guide to Pronunciation of Proper Names with the list of Diactritical Marks as given in Webster's New International Dictionary.
Such a wonderful way to teach - not by telling or policing children but with reading page turning stories and the stories that interest me now that are included; Cuculain, the Irish Hound and The Story Of Mac Dathó's Pig along with several poems from Yeats.
-
Winter
By Billy Collins
A little heat in the iron radiator,
the dog breathing at the foot of the bed,
and the windows shut tight,
encrusted with hexagons of frost.
I can barely hear the geese
complaining in the vast sky,
flying over the living and the dead,
schools and prisons, and the whitened fields.
| (http://petapixel.com/assets/uploads/2012/12/05-sOsXZ.jpg)
|
-
Happy, happy Christmas,
that can win us back
to the delusions
of our childhood days,
recall to the old man
the pleasures of his youth, and
transport the traveler
back to his own
fireside and quiet home!
Charles Dickens
| (http://68.media.tumblr.com/tumblr_m9ld7m28pM1qzuealo1_1280.jpg)
|
-
Haha look what I found - did not know about this one...
Song of the Holly
By William Shakespeare
Blow, blow thou winter wind --
Thou art not so unkind
As man's ingratitude!
Thy tooth is not so keen,
Because thou art not seen,
Although thy breath be rude.
Heigh ho! sing heigh ho! unto the green holly:
Most friendship is feigning, most loving mere folly.
Then heigh ho! the holly!
This life is most jolly! | (http://68.media.tumblr.com/tumblr_m9qtq6mqJy1re9eaho1_1280.jpg) |
-
Barb your timing could not be more perfect posting Song of the holly, with that perfect picture. It has been snowing here in Toledo, Ohio since I woke up this morning. I recently bought a holly bush and planted it and oh how pretty it looks with the snow on it. We've been snowed in since we got back from church. I'm sure schools will be cancelled tomorrow.
-
Snow - I hope the children have at home a parent that can make the day special in preparation for Christmas - nice to be snowed in during this festive season - I bet though it will be a bit more difficult by late January when the next holiday isn't till mid February - well enjoy now instead of looking ahead - warm woolly socks and a book to read - maybe something wonderful baking in the oven - enjoy...
-
In a utilitarian age,
Of all other times,
It is a matter of
Grave importance
That fairy tales
Should be respected.
Charles Dickens | (http://68.media.tumblr.com/8705fa0bdb22671f4e0ac3b9045cd127/tumblr_ohoib74ZZw1ro4v2no2_400.jpg) |
-
Barb, you've certainly done a good job of shifting us into Christmas mood, with poems and pictures.
-
Thanks Pat - here is something a bit deeper for the season...
Christmas Trees
by Geoffrey Hill
Bonhoeffer in his skylit cell
bleached by the flares’ candescent fall,
pacing out his own citadel,
restores the broken themes of praise,
encourages our borrowed days,
by logic of his sacrifice.
Against wild reasons of the state
his words are quiet but not too quiet.
We hear too late or not too late.
| (http://68.media.tumblr.com/f7128dd02f27953d0ba0ef6a33708bd7/tumblr_mvnsbdT3NL1r6mx2go1_540.jpg) |
-
By Advent 1944, Bonhoeffer had been transferred to the infamous Gestapo prison on Prinz-Albrecht-Straße.
There, the conditions were harsher and his ability to communicate with the outside world more restricted.
But in a letter Bonhoeffer was able to smuggle out to Maria von Wedemeyer,
he expressed the faith that had sustained him during his long ordeal and that would see him through to the very end.
Dietrich’s words to Maria continue to inspire courage and hope in our own dark times.
In the form of the hymn, Von guten Mächten (“By Gracious Powers,” tr. Fred Pratt Green), they are still sung
by Christians in Germany and around the world today. Von guten Mächten (By Gracious Powers)
By gracious pow’rs so wonderfully sheltered,
and confidently waiting come what may,
we know that God is with us night and morning,
and never fails to greet us each new day.
And when this cup you give is filled to brimming
with bitter suffering, hard to understand,
we take it thankfully and without trembling
out of so good and so beloved a hand.
Yet when again in this same world you give us
the joy we had, the brightness of your sun,
we shall remember all the days we lived through
and our whole life shall then be yours alone. | (http://www.faithgateway.com/wp-content/uploads/2013/11/devodaily_3_400x400-e1385484117200.jpg)
|
-
| (http://68.media.tumblr.com/b1207b92c22dfc136bf6ee07c6c7fad5/tumblr_mungptwD7s1r4az5so1_1280.jpg) |
Christmas Magic
is silent. You don't
hear it -- You feel it,
You know it,
You believe it.
|
-
AWWWWW!
-
(http://www.fergusreilly.org/An_Tairseach/Mary_Oliver_files/First%20Snow.jpg)
-
Our Poetry Page Celebrates
The December Holidays
Our Poetry Page has been a haven for those of us who listen to words that opens our heart and stirs our imagination. We tread lightly when acknowledging the moving sound that touches someone's inner-self...
(http://68.media.tumblr.com/5c4b3365f23cd9c9566028ca832e8199/tumblr_ohez7yKjTT1uoyugzo1_1280.jpg)
Snow was falling,
so much like stars
filling the dark trees
that one could easily imagine
its reason for being was nothing more
than prettiness.
Mary Oliver
Welcome! Please share
December's Holiday and Early Winter Poems.
Discussion Leaders: Barb (augere@ix.netcom.com)
-
For there in his evergreen dress he stood,
A pointed fir in the midst of the wood!
His branches were sweet with the balsam smell,
His needles were green when the white snow fell.
And always contented and happy was he,
The very best kind of a Christmas tree. | (http://68.media.tumblr.com/6d39de661d2a38e7d24c786f04131fb5/tumblr_ngzd30TMu41tvru0mo1_1280.jpg) |
-
These lovely poems set me thinking and reminiscing. When I was maybe 7 or 8, a long time ago, I attended a one-room school in a rural area. We walked about half a mile to the village proper and rehearsed our Christmas program in the community hall above the general store. Then one evening right before Christmas, we would have our Christmas program there, which, public school or not, included a pageant, lots of holiday songs and recitations. 60+ years ago, but I still remember this one that I recited: (The Christmas Story - no author that I know of, just part of a recitation book that teachers used back then.)
THE brightest tale of Christmas
The world will ever know
Was told one radiant morning,
Long ages, dears, ago.
The shades of night had fallen,
Just as they fell to-day;
But morning brought a sunshine
That never passed away.
For, in a' lowly manger,
A wondrous life had birth;
A life so pure and gentle
It gladdened all the earth.
That life is our best sunshine,
In lessons, or in play;
’Tis well we should remember
The Child of Christmas Day.
I was terrified, and I was such a meek child I wonder if anyone could hear me.
-
Lovely memory - there will not be many of us that have those kind of memories - it is all so different now - I wonder if the sense of awe is still there for the youngsters today - for most of us we did not receive gifts during the year except for our birthday so the whole celebration of Christmas was one wonder after the other and we did have pageants and we sang - even in the movie I remember we sang waiting for the film to start - I do not hear that there are school plays any longer - I bet some churches still put on nativity plays but no more community halls for Christmas as we moved to an eclectic view of God. Ah so, do not see that it improved relations or behavior in this nation by removing everything Christian.
-
A Babe is born, all of a maid,
To bring salvation unto us;
No more are we to sing afraid,
Veni Creator Spiritus.
At Bethlehem, that blessèd place,
The Child of bliss then born He was;
Him aye to serve, God give us grace,
O Lux beata Trinitas.
There came three kings out of the East,
To worship there that King so free;
With gold and myrrh and frankincense,
A solis ortus cardine.
The shepherds heard an angel cry,
A merry song that night sang he,
"Why are ye all so sore aghast?"
Iam lucis orto sidere.
The angel came down with a cry,
A fair and joyful song sang he,
All in the worship of that child,
Gloria Tibi Domine. |
(http://3.bp.blogspot.com/---6BFAzw1Mk/UPU0HsXQ2hI/AAAAAAAARvA/AWTstDu14l4/s1600/epiphany-2013.jpg) |
-
A Christmas Tree
Star
If you are
A love compassionate,
You will walk with us this year.
We face a glacial distance, who are here
Huddld
At your feet.
William Burford
-
Great Pat - I think it is called Concrete poetry when the lines form a shape of the poem - this is a gift - thanks
-
This bit of Yeats, The Wanderings of Oisin is just too perfect to describe the end of a year in it's dying flame.
But now the moon like a white rose shone
In the pale west, and the sun's rim sank,
And clouds arrayed their rank on rank
About his fading crimson ball:
The floor of Almhuin's hosting hall
Was not more level than the sea,
As, full of loving fantasy,
And with low murmurs, we rode on,
Where many a trumpet-twisted shell
That in immortal silence sleeps
Dreaming of her own melting hues,
Her golds, her ambers, and her blues,
Pierced with soft light the shallowing deeps.
But now a wandering land breeze came
And a far sound of feathery quires;
It seemed to blow from the dying flame,
They seemed to sing in the smouldering fires.
|
(http://68.media.tumblr.com/85373d0b1c237e77d7ff55e20c538d22/tumblr_my5h778s5X1ro4v2no1_400.jpg)
|
-
That is a perfect picture to go with the poem, Barb. It really emphasizes the mood of the poem.
-
It is indeed a perfect match for the poem. Barb, I don't know how you find all these pictures; I sure appreciate it.
I was also reminded, and I suspect Frybabe was too, of a certain classic sci-fi film. Gave me a chuckle.
-
First January is here,
With eyes that keenly glow—
A frost-mailed warrior striding
A shadowy steed of snow…
Edgar Fawcett
The Masque of Months..1878 | (http://68.media.tumblr.com/bf9b5835b2180f8109a31683bfc5b702/tumblr_oj0g3fF1Xf1soc97qo1_500.jpg) |
-
The Old Year has gone.
Let the dead past bury its own dead.
The New Year has taken possession of
the clock of time.
All hail the duties and possibilities of
the coming twelve months! | (http://68.media.tumblr.com/0afe14d632eec74d936f1a9d6dd55b9f/tumblr_nhb5b4AjoG1ro4v2no1_r1_1280.jpg) |
-
I know this poem has been done and redone, but it is my favorite winter poem. In fact I took a quiz today to find out which poem really goes to my soul. I am a New England woman.
Stopping by Woods on a Snowy Evening
BY ROBERT FROST
Whose woods these are I think I know.
His house is in the village though;
He will not see me stopping here
To watch his woods fill up with snow.
My little horse must think it queer
To stop without a farmhouse near
Between the woods and frozen lake
The darkest evening of the year.
He gives his harness bells a shake
To ask if there is some mistake.
The only other sound’s the sweep
Of easy wind and downy flake.
The woods are lovely, dark and deep,
But I have promises to keep,
And miles to go before I sleep,
And miles to go before I sleep.
I know because every teacher of poetry I ever had told me that there are layers and layers of meaning in every Frost poem.. In this one, first of all for me is the image. I guess it does go to my soul
-
thanks Karen - the line that hits home for me - The darkest evening of the year. - oh how I love the dark - I love the night and wish I could be awake all day and all night because I like mornings and hot afternoons and the evening breeze telling me the time in summer but best of all I like the dark - the sounds - and for me the feeling of freedom to do what I wish and not have a phone or demand trailing after me - I love watching the animals at night - about 2: in the morning when the deer slowly trail in a line to their grazing field across the street in the school yard, to me so much more magical than seeing birds and animals skitter and sail through the day - and so, snowy night or not - to me stopping at a quiet space and listening to the night is lovely, not so much dark [thoughts or feelings] but deep.
-
That's always been a favorite of mine too. My favorite line would be "The woods are lovely, dark and deep." Or maybe the whole last stanza.
-
Brew me a cup for a winter’s night.
For the wind howls loud, and the furies fight;
Spice it with love and stir it with care,
And I’ll toast your bright eyes, my sweetheart fair. | (https://68.media.tumblr.com/07ca93c7217bded10d2449d9a868677e/tumblr_oj2tpmbnO71qhoe3vo1_1280.jpg) |
-
(http://68.media.tumblr.com/3529b356aef3e25ab56794f1d587350d/tumblr_og14xeHy8k1ro4v2no1_1280.jpg)
Mother of Inspiration
Mother of inspiration,
she moves me to the well of deep love.
She is the poem that runs from my quill,
the dawning muse that awakens tired night
and stirs the soft bees from their flowery beds.
Burning fire at the heart of the temple,
she awakens mother loving wisdom
in lost sleeping hearts.
Children cling to her leg
knowing that she is the mother of lovers,
the spirit that watches over them by night.
Most angelic voice of the feminine mysteries,
she is the storyteller
who caresses the words of the bards,
from lips as tender as petals of the rose.
All words fail to tell of her grace
and the mysteries held in her every breath.
Yet the gods and poets strive to tell of her beauty in vain,
as the words fall like petals
tossed at her soft perfect feet.
They sing her songs
that the world might understand living divinity,
that the poem might give a glimpse of the pathway
illuminated by the footseps of a sacred priestess.
The generosity of her presence
fills the lives of all that walk in her midst.
Mother of care, sister of truth, daughter of dark and light,
she marries the broken heart of time in her every motion,
her black wings illuminating the dark
way with glints of rainbow as she turns.
She forever lives in the temples of long forgotten memory,
with one foot in our world
that we might for a moment remember.
With gratitude the sages bow before her beauty
in silence at last,
knowing that the words that they reach for in vain
are spoken by her very presence |
-
I love to watch the fine mist of the night come on,
The windows and the stars illumined, one by one,
The rivers of dark smoke pour upward lazily,
And the moon rise and turn them silver. I shall see
The springs, the summers, and the autumns slowly pass;
And when old Winter puts his blank face to the glass,
I shall close all my shutters, pull the curtains tight,
And build me stately palaces by candlelight.
Charles Baudelaire - Les Fleurs du Mal | (https://s-media-cache-ak0.pinimg.com/736x/21/1f/77/211f77720909e95528ff6b54033bdff5.jpg) |
-
The River-Merchant’s Wife: A Letter
Translated and Adapted by Ezra Pound, 1885 - 1972
While my hair was still cut straight across my forehead
I played about the front gate, pulling flowers.
You came by on bamboo stilts, playing horse,
You walked about my seat, playing with blue plums.
And we went on living in the village of Chokan:
Two small people, without dislike or suspicion.
At fourteen I married My Lord you.
I never laughed, being bashful.
Lowering my head, I looked at the wall.
Called to, a thousand times, I never looked back.
At fifteen I stopped scowling,
I desired my dust to be mingled with yours
Forever and forever and forever.
Why should I climb the look out?
At sixteen you departed,
You went into far Ku-to-yen, by the river of swirling eddies,
And you have been gone five months.
The monkeys make sorrowful noise overhead.
You dragged your feet when you went out.
By the gate now, the moss is grown, the different mosses,
Too deep to clear them away!
The leaves fall early this autumn, in wind.
The paired butterflies are already yellow with August
Over the grass in the West garden;
They hurt me. I grow older.
If you are coming down through the narrows of the river Kiang,
Please let me know beforehand,
And I will come out to meet you
As far as Cho-fu-Sa.
-
Pear Tree - Rachel Bluwstein
Conspiracy of spring
a man awakes and through the window sees
a pear tree blossoming,
and instantly the mountain weighing on his heart
dissolves and disappears.
O you will understand! Is there a grieving man
who can hold on stubbornly
to a single flower that withered
in last year’s autumn gale,
when spring consoles and with a smile
presents him with a giant wreath of flowers
at his very window? | (http://68.media.tumblr.com/b21daa6cbd4d9df432854f9cce1eb39b/tumblr_okcef6EM911ttv5tdo1_1280.jpg) |
-
Pilgrimage
Natasha Trethewey, 1966
United States Poet Laureate in 2012 and again in 2014
Vicksburg, Mississippi
Here, the Mississippi carved
its mud-dark path, a graveyard
for skeletons of sunken riverboats.
Here, the river changed its course,
turning away from the city
as one turns, forgetting, from the past—
the abandoned bluffs, land sloping up
above the river’s bend—where now
the Yazoo fills the Mississippi’s empty bed.
Here, the dead stand up in stone, white
marble, on Confederate Avenue. I stand
on ground once hollowed by a web of caves;
they must have seemed like catacombs,
in 1863, to the woman sitting in her parlor,
candlelit, underground. I can see her
listening to shells explode, writing herself
into history, asking what is to become
of all the living things in this place?
This whole city is a grave. Every spring—
Pilgrimage—the living come to mingle
with the dead, brush against their cold shoulders
in the long hallways, listen all night
to their silence and indifference, relive
their dying on the green battlefield.
At the museum, we marvel at their clothes—
preserved under glass—so much smaller
than our own, as if those who wore them
were only children. We sleep in their beds,
the old mansions hunkered on the bluffs, draped
in flowers—funereal—a blur
of petals against the river’s gray.
The brochure in my room calls this
living history. The brass plate on the door reads
Prissy’s Room. A window frames
the river’s crawl toward the Gulf. In my dream,
the ghost of history lies down beside me,
rolls over, pins me beneath a heavy arm.
|
-
Window
Carl Sandburg, 1878 - 1967
Night from a railroad car window
Is a great, dark, soft thing
Broken across with slashes of light.
|
-
John Greenleaf Whittier
AT EVENTIDE.
Poor and inadequate the shadow-play
Of gain and loss, of waking and of dream,
Against life's solemn background needs must seem
At this late hour. Yet, not unthankfully,
I call to mind the fountains by the way,
The breath of flowers, the bird-song on the spray,
Dear friends, sweet human loves, the joy of giving
And of receiving, the great boon of living
In grand historic years when Liberty
Had need of word and work, quick sympathies
For all who fail and suffer, song's relief,
Nature's uncloying loveliness; and chief,
The kind restraining hand of Providence,
The inward witness, the assuring sense
Of an Eternal Good which overlies
The sorrow of the world, Love which outlives
All sin and wrong, Compassion which forgives
To the uttermost, and Justice whose clear eyes
Through lapse and failure look to the intent,
And judge our frailty by the life we meant.
1878.
-
Not the greatest of poems, perhaps, but when I ran across it, it reminded me of Eloise who was a treasured member of SeniorNet and then SeniorLearn.
From A Treasury of Canadian Verse, selected and edited by Theodore H. Rand (1900)
AT QUEBEC
QUEBEC, the grey old city on the hill,
Lies with a golden glory on her head,
Dreaming throughout this hour so fair, so still,
Of other days and all her mighty dead.
The white doves perch upon the cannons grim,
The flowers bloom where once did run a tide
Of crimson, when the moon rose pale and dim
Above the battlefield so grim and wide.
Methinks within her wakes a mighty glow
Of pride, of tenderness—her stirring past—
The strife, the valor, of the long ago
Feels at her heartstrings. Strong, and tall, and vast,
She lies, touched with the sunset's golden grace,
A wondrous softness on her grey old face.
by Jean Blewett
-
The Fallen Tree.
I passed along a mountain road,
Which led me through a wooded glen,
Remote from dwelling or abode
And ordinary haunts of men;
And wearied from the dust and heat.
Beneath a tree, I found a seat.
The tree, a tall majestic spruce,
Which had, perhaps for centuries,
Withstood, without a moment's truce,
The wing-ed warfare of the breeze;
A monarch of the solitude,
Which well might grace the noblest wood.
Beneath its cool and welcome shade,
Protected from the noontide rays,
The birds amid its branches played
And caroled forth their twittering praise;
A squirrel perched upon a limb
And chattered with loquacious vim.
E'er yet that selfsame week had sped,
On my return, I sought its shade;
But where it reared its form, instead;
A fallen monarch I surveyed,
Prostrate and broken on the ground,
Nor longer cast its shade around.
Uprooted and disheveled, there
The monarch of the forest lay;
As if in desolate despair
Its last resistance fell away,
And overwhelmed, in evil hour
Went down before the tempest's power.
Such are the final works of fate;
The birds to other branches flew;
And man, whatever his estate,
Must face that same mutation, too!
To-day, I stand erect and tall,
The morrow--may record my fall.
Alfred Castner King (1904-1968)
-
Serenade (For Music) by Oscar Wilde
The western wind is blowing fair
Across the dark AEgean sea,
And at the secret marble stair
My Tyrian galley waits for thee.
Come down! the purple sail is spread,
The watchman sleeps within the town,
O leave thy lily-flowered bed,
O Lady mine come down, come down!
She will not come, I know her well,
Of lover's vows she hath no care,
And little good a man can tell
Of one so cruel and so fair.
True love is but a woman's toy,
They never know the lover's pain,
And I who loved as loves a boy
Must love in vain, must love in vain.
O noble pilot, tell me true,
Is that the sheen of golden hair?
Or is it but the tangled dew
That binds the passion-flowers there?
Good sailor come and tell me now
Is that my Lady's lily hand?
Or is it but the gleaming prow,
Or is it but the silver sand?
No! no! 'tis not the tangled dew,
'Tis not the silver-fretted sand,
It is my own dear Lady true
With golden hair and lily hand!
O noble pilot, steer for Troy,
Good sailor, ply the labouring oar,
This is the Queen of life and joy
Whom we must bear from Grecian shore!
The waning sky grows faint and blue,
It wants an hour still of day,
Aboard! aboard! my gallant crew,
O Lady mine, away! away!
O noble pilot, steer for Troy,
Good sailor, ply the labouring oar,
O loved as only loves a boy!
O loved for ever evermore!
I didn't know Oscar Wilde wrote poetry.
-
That's nice, as it turns from an anonymous love song to Paris' abduction of Helen. And it's new to me.
The only poem I knew of Wilde's before this is The Ballad of Reading Gaol. Wilde was sent to jail for two years for the crime of homosexuality. The experience was too much for the pampered aesthete, and he never really recovered. This poem describes his emotions, especially watching the last days of a man about to be hanged. It's very good, very powerful, and a real downer. It's also 654 lines long. Don't read it when you're not feeling strong.
-
PLYNLIMMON.
By Lewis Glyn Cothi.
From high Plynlimmon’s shaggy side
Three streams in three directions glide,
To thousands at their mouth who tarry
Honey, gold and mead they carry.
Flow also from Plynlimmon high
Three streams of generosity;
The first, a noble stream indeed,
Like rills of Mona runs with mead;
The second bears from vineyards thick
Wine to the feeble and the sick;
The third, till time shall be no more,
Mingled with gold shall silver pour.
Plynlimon (aka: Pumlumon) is the largest watershed in Wales and the source of the Severn, Wye and Rheidol Rivers. It is located in the Cambrian Mountains of Mid-Wales.
-
Yesterday I discovered a translation of Dante's A Vision of Hell, Purgatory and Paradise with illustrations by Gustave Dore. Wonderful artwork.
In my viewing watch-list I have lecture program on Dante, but I think it is specific to Divine Comedy. It has been sitting there waiting for me to drag out that poem to read along with the lecture. I really ought to do that before it gets removed from the offerings.
-
Been years since I read any Dante - my taste has changed and I'm reading Yeats again. But I bumped into this while browsing for poems about Owls and was taken - it is shown in both the Spanish and the English - evidently the author, a women wrote in the late 1800s from Uruguay - that I find interesting a women no less in the Spanish Culture being published from that time in history - yes we had our Bronte's and Dickinson but they were English and American - looking up Delmira Agustini lo and behold if I did not find another woman born during the same decade who was from Chile and was a Noble Prize winner Gabriela Mistral.
Well here is Delmira Agustini's poem in English.
English Murmuring preludes.
On this resplendent night
Her pearled voice quiets a fountain.
The breezes hang their celestial fifes
In the foliage.
The gray heads
Of the owls keep watch.
Flowers open themselves, as if surprised.
Ivory swans extend their necks
In the pallid lakes.
Selene watches from the blue.
Fronds
Tremble…and everything! Even the silence, quiets.
She wanders with her sad mouth
And the grand mystery of amber eyes,
Across the night, toward forgetfulness
Like a star, fugitive and white.
Like a dethroned exotic queen
With comely gestures and rare utterings.
Her undereyes are violated horizons
And her irises–two stars of amber–Open wet and weary and sad
Like ulcers of light that weep.
She is a grief which thrives and does not hope,
She is a gray aurora rising
From the shadowy bed of night,
Exhausted, without splendor, without anxiousness.
And her songs are like dolorous fairies
Jeweled in teardrops…
The strings of lyres
Are the souls' fibers.
–The blood of bitter vineyards, noble vineyards,
In goblets of regal beauty, rises
To her marble hands, to lips carved
Like the blazon of a great lineage.
Strange Princes of Fantasy! They
Have seen her languid head, once erect,
And heard her laugh, for her eyes
Tremble with the flower of aristocracies!
And her soul clean as fire, like a star,
Burns in those pupils of amber.
But with a mere glance, scarcely an intimacy,
Perhaps the echo of a profane voice,
This white and pristine soul shrinks
Like a luminous flower, folding herself up!
|
-
Barb, are you familiar with Sor Juana Inesde la Cruz, (1648-1695) a Mexican nun. She wrote both religious and secular poems, and also a passionate defense of the right of women to study, teach and write. (This was a defense against her bishop's order to stop writing.) i think it didn't work, unfortunately.
I like her poems a lot, though I don't care for the translations in the dual language book I have, and the Spanish is so difficult for me that it can take a day to read a sonnet.
-
Frybabe, Barb, which translations of Dante do youl like?
-
No I did not know of Sor Juana Inesde la Cruz - need to find some of her work -
Sor Juana Inés de la Cruz, original name Juana Ramírez de Asbaje, born November 12, 1651 - a self-taught scholar, philosopher and poet of the Baroque school, and Hieronymite nun of New Spain. Need to find out what is a Hieronymite nun.
Too busy - need to get to this later...
-
I've not read enough Dante to compare translations, Pat.
-
Frybabe, I've only read part of Inferno, but one can often like or dislike a translation pretty quickly. I took an instant dislike to Ciardi's translation. Fortunately It was a library book not a purchase. The one I like is Dorothy L. Sayers, which most scholars sneer at.
-
Barb, here's one of Sor Juana's sonnets. Although she was devout, the cloistered life grated, as you can see here.
Spiritedly, She Considers the Choice of a State Enduring Unto Death
Were the perils of the ocean fully weighed,
no man would voyage, or, could he but read
the hidden dangers, knowingly proceed
or dare to bait the bull to frenzied rage.
Were prudent rider overly dismayed,
should he contemplate the fury of his steed
or ponder where its headlong course might lead,
there'd be no reigning hand to be obeyed.
But were there one so daring, one so bold
that, heedless of the danger, he might place,
upon Apollo's reins, emboldened hand
to guide the fleeting chariot bathed in gold,
the diversity of life he would embrace
and never choose a state to last his span.
-
Oh I do like it - thanks Pat - reminds me of the reverence placed on the bull explained by Carlos Fuentes is his book that became a wonderful PBS series "The Buried Mirror: Reflections on Spain and the New World"
-
Here's the Spanish, so you can see the snappier rhythm.
Encarece de animosidad la eleccion de estado durable hasta la muerte
Si los riesgos del mar considerara,
ninguno se embarcara; si antes viera
bien su peligro, nadie se atreviera
ni al bravo toro osado provocara.
Si del fogoso bruto ponderara
la furia desbocada en la carrera
el jinete prudente, nunca hubiera
quien con discreta mano lo enfrenara.
Pero si hubiera alguno tan osado
que, no obstante el peligro, al mismo Apolo
quisiese gobernar con atrevida
mano el rapido carro en luz banado,
todo lo hiciera, y no tomara solo
Estado que ha de ser toda la vida.
-
Wow said in Spanish there is more power in these two lines isn't there...
Si del fogoso bruto ponderara
la furia desbocada en la carrera
you have to say it in a deeper register - without even a translation you just know what is being said.
-
August rushes by like desert rainfall,
A flood of frenzied upheaval,
Expected,
But still catching me unprepared.
Like a matchflame
Bursting on the scene,
Heat and haze of crimson sunsets.
Like a dream
Of moon and dark barely recalled,
A moment,
Shadows caught in a blink.
Like a quick kiss;
One wishes for more
But it suddenly turns to leave,
Dragging summer away.
Elizabeth Maua Taylor
-
Welcome to our Poetry Page.
Our haven for those who listen to words that open our heart, imagination, and our feelings about the poems we share - This is our continuing tradition. Please join us!
Birds and Wind
(http://seniorlearn.org/bookclubs/poetry/poetrysparrow.jpg)
Bird on the Wind / Wind on the Bird | The aim of Symbolism in art is to capture more absolute truths which could only be accessed by indirect methods. It is what a thing means or symbolizes for us that is often what we are judging.
Rising and soaring through the skies, birds in myth and legend are the symbols of power and freedom. Throughout the ages, birds link the human world to the divine, to forces beyond the normal world; magical or miraculous realms that lie beyond ordinary experience.
The wind is stronger then all, but is blind and lost. It's sad and in pain, but it doesn't know why. It carries thousands of years with it, countless knowledge and wisdom fly with it, but it has nowhere and nobody to bring it to.
The wind comes and goes, it is soft and strong, it represents freedom but also misdirection, it defines a sense of self and purpose but with no confirmation aside from what you leave in your wake. A key with no hole.
The wind as a god is a power that is capable of communicating a larger-than-life language to those who would hear it
|
A few Links about Birds and Wind...
- Windy Morning in the Garden (YouTube) (http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=SQFmJAEyUxQ)
- Birds as a Symbol (http://www.courses.unt.edu/efiga/STORYTELLING/Fall2002/5440pdf/Hope_Taylor.pdf)
- Poems with the Theme of Birds (http://www.poetry-chaikhana.com/Themes/Birds.htm)
- The Big Wind by Theodore Roethke (http://www.poetryarchive.org/poetryarchive/singlePoem.do?poemId=9502)
- A Poem for the Wind (http://www.poetry-chaikhana.com/T/Taliesin/APoemforWind.htm)
Discussion Leader: BarbStAubrey (augere@ix.netcom.com)
I'm going to look up Elizabeth Maua Taylor. I am hoping she did one for each month, this one is really lovely. It is short but says a lot.
-
Huh. The only thing I can find on Ms. Taylor, besides plenty of repeats of her poem, is a page on The Steampunk Writers & Artists Guild.
Oh, and there is a link on Google to the Poetry Page already.
-
I just found this interesting book called Pre-Raphaelite and Other Poets which are lectures given by Lafcadio (what a name) Hearn to his Japanese students of English Literature between 1896 and 1902. John Erskine edited and wrote the introduction. http://www.gutenberg.org/files/55377/55377-h/55377-h.htm The intro is sufficient for me to read further into the book.
Hearn himself was not a poet, but a writer, teacher, and translator whose life was rather eventful. He spent 10 years in New Orleans before moving on to Japan. Humanaties magazine published this interesting article about his life there. https://www.neh.gov/humanities/2012/mayjune/feature/lafcadio-hearn-in-new-orleans He was, however, best known for his books about Japan.
-
Interesting stuff Frybabe - in the book there is the fable, Shaving of Shagpat and the end of the essay he says,
"Men think that because the world has made one step forward in their time, all illusions are presently going to fade away. This is the greatest of social mistakes that a human being can possibly make. The great sea of error immediately closes again behind the forms that find strength to break out of it. It is just the same as before. One illusion may indeed be eventually destroyed, but another illusion quickly forms behind it. The real truth is that wisdom will be reached when human individuals as well as human society shall have become infinitely more perfect than they now are; and such perfection can scarcely be brought about before another million of years at least."
That is something to contemplate that one illusion destroyed will be replaced by another... hmmm
-
(http://68.media.tumblr.com/2eedf2159cfd8dc7f6cc53685d20d9bb/tumblr_ovlg1hNHQA1ro4v2no1_1280.jpg)
-
After Apple-Picking
By Robert Frost
My long two-pointed ladder's sticking through a tree
Toward heaven still,
And there's a barrel that I didn't fill
Beside it, and there may be two or three
Apples I didn't pick upon some bough.
But I am done with apple-picking now.
Essence of winter sleep is on the night,
The scent of apples: I am drowsing off.
I cannot rub the strangeness from my sight
I got from looking through a pane of glass
I skimmed this morning from the drinking trough
And held against the world of hoary grass.
It melted, and I let it fall and break.
But I was well
Upon my way to sleep before it fell,
And I could tell
What form my dreaming was about to take.
Magnified apples appear and disappear,
Stem end and blossom end,
And every fleck of russet showing clear.
My instep arch not only keeps the ache,
It keeps the pressure of a ladder-round.
I feel the ladder sway as the boughs bend.
And I keep hearing from the cellar bin
The rumbling sound
Of load on load of apples coming in.
For I have had too much
Of apple-picking: I am overtired
Of the great harvest I myself desired.
There were ten thousand thousand fruit to touch,
Cherish in hand, lift down, and not let fall.
For all
That struck the earth,
No matter if not bruised or spiked with stubble,
Went surely to the cider-apple heap
As of no worth.
One can see what will trouble
This sleep of mine, whatever sleep it is.
Were he not gone,
The woodchuck could say whether it's like his
Long sleep, as I describe its coming on,
Or just some human sleep. |
(http://68.media.tumblr.com/tumblr_m4xq6hzwxO1qjq5e7o1_1280.jpg)
(http://68.media.tumblr.com/682168a58dde74c137fe0863ba6111af/tumblr_navew1MJBj1ro4v2no1_500.jpg)
|
-
That is not a Frost poem I've read before, Barb. The photos that go with it are gorgeous.
-
here it is Frybabe in his book of Rural Life... https://tinyurl.com/y9awobcd (https://tinyurl.com/y9awobcd)
-
I found it, Barb. I have it in The Poetry of Robert Frost, edited by Edward Connery Lathem. It is in the Chapter titled "North of Boston".
Here is another apple related poem I found in his volume Mountain Interval (also published in the above with a chapter of the same name) which was published in 1931.
THE COW IN APPLE TIME
Something inspires the only cow of late
To make no more of a wall than an open gate,
And think no more of wall-builders than fools.
Her face is flecked with pomace and she drools
A cider syrup. Having tasted fruit,
She scorns a pasture withering to the root.
She runs from tree to tree where lie and sweeten
The windfalls spiked with stubble and worm-eaten.
She leaves them bitten when she has to fly.
She bellows on a knoll against the sky.
Her udder shrivels and the milk goes dry.
Well, picture that one in your mind's eye.
Project Gutenberg has several of his volumes listed, three of which are on audio.
-
ohhh audio - need to find it - this one has some humor - so looking forward this year to autumn - we really do not get a proper autumn as folks living north or even the upper south but there are more northers (weather that cools and comes down from the north) and for us football takes over an entire community with band practice and tailgate suppers before the game and moms baking treats for after the game and the girls wearing the most outrageous corsages that some moms go into high production to make and others are purchased at the local florist - and then later Halloween which always brings in the day before or after a big rain storm that is the start of cool weather.
In the fall the lantana is blooming that reminds you of chrysanthemums - the deer do not eat lantana where as, chrysanthemums are candy for them. There are lots of concerts in churches as well as the new symphony events - all that before Thanksgiving - tra la. Waiting with baited breath this year. Too much vitriol on TV on Facebook and among those in my own family all over politics - grrrr.
I want to feel joy and grateful for life and do the things that make me feel good and say the things that are uplifting and hope against hope others will respond in kind. Haha my rant for the day... ;)
-
I grew Lantana one year. It was a bit spindly. My Mom was fond of geraniums and thought she kept hers very well, that is until her first visit to Florida. She was astounded by the size and lushness of the ones growing in neighborhood gardens everywhere - made hers look a bit puny.
-
October - Robert Frost
O hushed October morning mild,
Thy leaves have ripened to the fall;
Tomorrow’s wind, if it be wild,
Should waste them all.
The crows above the forest call;
Tomorrow they may form and go.
O hushed October morning mild,
Begin the hours of this day slow.
Make the day seem to us less brief.
Hearts not averse to being beguiled,
Beguile us in the way you know.
Release one leaf at break of day;
At noon release another leaf;
One from our trees, one far away.
Retard the sun with gentle mist;
Enchant the land with amethyst.
Slow, slow!
For the grapes’ sake, if they were all,
Whose leaves already are burnt with frost,
Whose clustered fruit must else be lost—
For the grapes’ sake along the wall.
|
(https://farm6.staticflickr.com/5603/15453085766_9a59134437_b.jpg) |
-
Frost was incredibly good at capturing the feel of the New England scene. Nice picture pairing, Barb. You always manage to find good ones.
-
Here's a minimalist fall poem, with a nice sound effect.
Splinter - Carl Sandberg
The voice of the last cricket
across the first frost
is one kind of good-by.
It is so thin a splinter of singing.
-
This is really nice isn't it...
(https://78.media.tumblr.com/5f9ed7fc2b063ded87d9ba0a145ee5d4/tumblr_oj31f335Rd1tk1u37o1_1280.jpg) |
-
I've had some yesterdays that really could have used that poem. ;)
-
Ah yes, Pat it seems to be the stuff of life - I'm thinking the idea of a fairyland life just does not happen so that half of our reaction is based on the idea is should not be this way...
-
I found this rather intriguing poem in a book called Death the Knight and the Lady: A Ghost Story, by H. De Vere Stacpoole
BALLAD OF THE ARRAS
Lo! where are now these armoured hosts
Mailed for the tourney câp-a-pie,
These dames and damozelles whose ghosts
Make of the past this pagentry?
O sanguine book of History!
Romance with perfume cloaks thy must,
But he who shakes the page may see
—Dust.
Stiff hangs the arras in the gloom;
I turn my head awhile to gaze:
Here lordly stallions fret and fume,
Here streams o'er briar and brake the chase.
Here sounds a horn, here turns a face,
How filled with fires of life and lust!
Wind shakes the arras and betrays
—Dust.
Ephemeral hand inditing this
Great hound that lolls against my knee,
Lips pursed in thought as if to kiss
Regret—full soon the time must be.
When one shall search, but find not ye,
For that dim moth whose labours rust
All forms in time or tapestry
—Dust.
Forth offspring to the perch and then
Clap wings—or fall, if find you must
This saddest fate of books or men
—Dust.
Arras is a rich tapestry designed to hang on a wall. It is also a town in France which was known for its textile arts. The term eventually became rather widely applied to tapestries even though they may not have been loomed there.
The author's name deceives; he was Irish, not Dutch, Belgian or French as I supposed. He was also the author of the popular Blue Lagoon. I believe this is the movie that made Brooke Shields a star. "Knight/Lady" was one of his early books.
-
Don't want to feel like an intruder. I know you have topics started here already. What happened is I began reading "The Shadowy Horses" by Susanna Kearsley. There is a poem by Yeats written after the dedication. The title is "He Bids His Beloved Be At Peace." The words are beautiful. However, I lack an understanding of the poem. If there is any time would some one explain this poem which might not have any thing to do with the season, autumn? I have listened to the poem on a poetry site. Here is a link. I am only interested in he first eight lines. https://www.poemhunter.com/poems/peace/page-1/13831/
-
Hats is this the poem you are referring
I HEAR the Shadowy Horses, their long manes a-shake,
Their hoofs heavy with tumult, their eyes glimmering white;
The North unfolds above them clinging, creeping night,
The East her hidden joy before the morning break,
The West weeps in pale dew and sighs passing away,
The South is pouring down roses of crimson fire:
O vanity of Sleep, Hope, Dream, endless Desire,
The Horses of Disaster plunge in the heavy clay:
Beloved, let your eyes half close, and your heart beat
Over my heart, and your hair fall over my breast,
Drowning love's lonely hour in deep twilight of rest,
And hiding their tossing manes and their tumultuous feet.
Hats I have not read the book although I have read this author - often an author sees something in a poem that will enlarge the story being told - like all poems, there are layers and depths therefore, many can see other explanations within the poem.
To me there are two words in the poem that is the crux of the poem - tumult and vanity -
The second meaning for Vanity says it all
tu-mult
confusion or disorder.
"the whole neighborhood was in a state of fear and tumult"
synonyms: turmoil, confusion, disorder, disarray, unrest, chaos, turbulence, mayhem, maelstrom, havoc, upheaval, ferment, agitation, trouble
"years of political tumult"
Van-i-ty
2 The quality of being worthless or futile.
"the vanity of human wishes"
synonyms: futility, uselessness, pointlessness, worthlessness, fruitlessness
"the vanity of all desires of the will"
The poem suggests to me that the lovers are escaping their futile attempts to acquire Sleep, Hope, Dream, endless Desire, by making love.
-
Hats, it's always good to see you. There's no such thing as being an intruder here. The seasonal topics are helpful to spark discussions and set a mood or theme, but you will notice that we all share stuff that has nothing to do with the current topic.
Yeats is always a tough poet for me, and I'm sure this one has several layers. I agree with Barb, and also think the four horses are important, and maybe mean more than one thing. They could be the Four Horses of the Apocalypse from Revelation--Pestilence, Famine, War, and Death. That doesn't fit the four directions, though. I think there are other mythical horses, but don't know that much about them.
-
Thank you Barb and PatH. I love the seasons also. I'm glad all four are covered here during their special time. Thanks for helping with the poem by Yeats. Your thoughts are always very helpful. Neither do I know about Mythical horses.
-
Perhaps the World Ends Here
Joy Harjo, 1951
The world begins at a kitchen table. No matter what, we must eat to live.
The gifts of earth are brought and prepared, set on the table. So it has been since creation, and it will go on.
We chase chickens or dogs away from it. Babies teethe at the corners. They scrape their knees under it.
It is here that children are given instructions on what it means to be human. We make men at it, we make women.
At this table we gossip, recall enemies and the ghosts of lovers.
Our dreams drink coffee with us as they put their arms around our children. They laugh with us at our poor falling-down selves and as we put ourselves back together once again at the table.
This table has been a house in the rain, an umbrella in the sun.
Wars have begun and ended at this table. It is a place to hide in the shadow of terror. A place to celebrate the terrible victory.
We have given birth on this table, and have prepared our parents for burial here.
At this table we sing with joy, with sorrow. We pray of suffering and remorse. We give thanks.
Perhaps the world will end at the kitchen table, while we are laughing and crying, eating of the last sweet bite. |
(https://i.pinimg.com/736x/af/42/23/af42232fc9e5ac5e8a84ec918d2e51b8--fall-kitchen-decor-kitchen-ideas.jpg) |
-
Throughout the year, the table is very important. By giving the Joy Harjo poem, I am reminded to never forget the past spent with family and friends. My wish is that I could remember every word spoken there: the angry words, the apologies and the loving words. Hope you Barb and all of those who enjoy the Poetry Page will have a safe and memorable Thanksgiving this year.
-
living alone now Hats it is easy to forget the table was the center of our family - Jo Harjo writes a good thought, a reminder to help get back to the basics that so easily get lost in this technological world replacing family with faceless folks on the internet. Thank goodness for Senior Learn - it is about the only site where I can depend on civility and a willingness to explore new ideas.
Now I need to get back into the habit of eating my meals at the kitchen table and rather than banishing my memories think of the folks no longer with me, my memories and my dreams as drinking coffee with me.
-
Sailing On A Sea Of Stars
On this night, I am sailing on a sea of stars
to lands that are far
the moon smiles brightly
and every darkness is forgotten
yes, though the troubles brew strong
I see God’s hand and I know they are long
enough to destroy everything that is wrong
tonight, for one moment
I will forget every single torment
raise my voice in song and forget the noise
on this night, I am sailing on a sea of stars
to lands that are far
the moon smiles brightly
and every darkness is forgotten | (http://78.media.tumblr.com/51e6bc78235e57d8b35d3510f115c779/tumblr_ogoj8sQ3Yt1ro4v2no1_400.jpg) |
-
(http://78.media.tumblr.com/7049bc4a3a74d961a28ce0ae5e4c8345/tumblr_ozdq3gBZjt1vmobp0o1_1280.jpg)
| The Fox - by Faith Shearin
It was an ordinary morning: November, thin light,
and we paused over our pancakes to watch
something red move outside. Our house is on
an untamed patch of land and, across the lagoon,
another house surrounded by trees. On the banks
of their shore, facing us: a fox. We thought
he might be a dog at first for he trotted and sniffed
like a dog but when he turned to us
we knew he was nobody's pet. His face was arranged
like a child's face — playful, dainty — and his eyes
were liquid and wild. He stood for awhile, looking out,
as if he could see us in our pajamas, then found
a patch of sand beneath a tree and turned himself
into a circle of fur: his head tucked into his tail.
It was awful to watch him sleep: exposed,
tiny, his eyes closed. How can any animal
be safe enough to rest? But while I washed
our dishes he woke again, yawned, and ran
away to the places only foxes know. My God
I was tired of being a person. Even now his tail
gestures to me across the disapproving lagoon.
|
-
Barb, You can feel lonely with many people around a table. Cultivating the love of self is most important. I feel you would do it well. You might teach others this talent too.
-
Yes, Hats you can feel lonely surrounded by others can't you - I'm seeing the value though in remembering those who are no longer with us - there was such satisfaction in many of those connections - I'm thinking they can be as much a part of us as drinking a cup of coffee - in fact folks have made cartoons about little old ladies talking to themselves - well maybe they are talking to their best friends who are no longer with us - I've decided not to banish their memories because it makes me sad - so a tear or two but to have their memory in my life as I would drink a cup of coffee - why not...
-
| (http://78.media.tumblr.com/0c2fc5fb36b969c0385bdd89d7309f92/tumblr_ozm25fIOYQ1ro4v2no1_400.jpg) |
The First Snowfall
James Russell Lowell, 1819 - 1891
The snow had begun in the gloaming,
And busily all the night
Had been heaping field and highway
With a silence deep and white.
Every pine and fir and hemlock
Wore ermine too dear for an earl,
And the poorest twig on the elm-tree
Was ridged inch deep with pearl.
From sheds new-roofed with Carrara
Came Chanticleer’s muffled crow,
The stiff rails were softened to swan’s-down,
And still fluttered down the snow.
I stood and watched by the window
The noiseless work of the sky,
And the sudden flurries of snow-birds,
Like brown leaves whirling by.
I thought of a mound in sweet Auburn
Where a little headstone stood;
How the flakes were folding it gently,
As did robins the babes in the wood.
Up spoke our own little Mabel,
Saying, “Father, who makes it snow?”
And I told of the good All-father
Who cares for us here below.
Again I looked at the snow-fall,
And thought of the leaden sky
That arched o’er our first great sorrow,
When that mound was heaped so high.
I remembered the gradual patience
That fell from that cloud-like snow,
Flake by flake, healing and hiding
The scar of our deep-plunged woe.
And again to the child I whispered,
“The snow that husheth all,
Darling, the merciful Father
Alone can make it fall!”
Then, with eyes that saw not, I kissed her;
And she, kissing back, could not know
That my kiss was given to her sister,
Folded close under deepening snow.
|
|
-
A bit of personal sorrow gently told in that poem, Barb. Mabel, mentioned in the poem, was the only surviving child of four. The others died in infancy.
-
I did not know it was more than one - thanks - when death was the silent partner for so many...
-
| (http://78.media.tumblr.com/6078e38513a61e6d0c3328e13c8c45b7/tumblr_ozicbcgiP31ro4v2no1_1280.jpg) |
Sweet little bird in russet coat,
The livery of the closing year,
I love thy lonely plaintive note
And tiny whispering song to hear,
While on the stile or garden seat
I sit to watch the falling leaves,
The song thy little joys repeat
My loneliness relieves.
John Clare ~ Autumn Robin
|
-
Some times I surprise myself. I like the poem about the fox by Faith Shearin. The description of the fox as sly is often written about in books. This portrayal seems so negative. It's like its is waiting in the woods to catch any one and do them harm.
Because of the poet I looked at the fox differently this morning. Is it the pancakes cooking in the poem, or is it the photograph of the fox that have changed me? Not sure, I know my feelings about the fox for this moment, safely inside my little space, have become more gentle. I could like the fox. How did Aesop feel about the fox? I can't remember. Obviously, I don't know enough about the life of this creature. Maybe a tiny bit of information on the web would help me understand it.
-
Yes, it's so true, hats. Poetry has the power to make us see things in a new way.
-
The sentence that got to me hats and had me thinking was
It was awful to watch him sleep: exposed,
tiny, his eyes closed.
Never thought till I read the poem how all wild creatures so exposed and vulnerable will curl up and sleep - I am trying to think if I ever alone took an outdoor nap in an unprotected area - lots of naps at the beach or in the woods but always family or friends were nearby - even at home there is a cozy safe feeling napping in bed and if I do fall asleep in a chair I always wake with a start and think, if I was that tired I should have gone to my bed.
After reading this I realized I am not as brave or feel I can protect myself from the unknown compared to an outdoor animal.
I did like how the poem describes the fox as having - a child's face — playful, dainty — and his eyes
were liquid and wild.
Where as in the photo I thought his/her eyes looked quizzical as if looking into a far distant space but the dark is in the way so he/she can only see shadows and therefore, the quizzical look. I do not know if the Fox sleeps at night but at least the Fox is safe from the dogs that chased them during the recreational hunts that were banned a few years ago.
Yes, it is the wonder isn't it Pat of how we can all get something different from the same poem and how a poem can touch us as nothing else.
-
Milkweed
By Bradford Tice
I tell myself softly, this is how love begins—
the air alive with something inconceivable,
seeds of every imaginable possibility
floating across the wet grasses, under
the thin arms of ferns. It drifts like snow
or old ash, settling on the dust of the roadways
as you and I descend into thickets, flanked
by the fragrance of honeysuckle and white
primrose.
I recall how my grandmother imagined
these wanderers were living beings,
some tiny phylum yet to be classified as life.
She would say they reminded her of maidens
decked in white dresses, waltzing through air.
Even after I showed her the pods from which
they sprang, blossoming like tiny spiders,
she refused to believe.
Now, standing beside you in the crowded
autumn haze, I watch them flock, emerge from
brittle stalks, bursting upon the world as
young lovers do—trysting in the tall grasses,
resting fingers lightly in tousled hair.
Listen, and you can hear them whisper
in the rushes, gazing out at us, wondering—
what lives are these? | (http://78.media.tumblr.com/22b70c367aac0972a76f3ab907cb051c/tumblr_ozx97wXhX21rttk8po1_1280.jpg) |
-
Still thinking about the "power of poetry." <Pat H, after a few moment of thought, I remember reading two or three poems. Each poem made me look a second or third time at the objects. These objects are: books, fog and a deer. The fog poem really excited me one day. You know the one. It's by Carl Sandburg. I ended up sending a copy in the mail to my son. Then, there is the one by Emily Dickinson about books. She likens a book to a frigate. She had an amazing mind. Then, there is a deer poem. I think Edna St. Vincent Millay wrote it. I Need to look it up again. Yes, reading poetry changes our idea of a thing and widens our perspective.
-
Oh Barb, that brings back memories. I once let a milkweed plant grow in my garden. What lovely, fragrant flowers, and it didn't hurt that milkweed attracts Monarch butterflies. Being in the organic living frame of mind at the time, I planned on gathering the pods for the silk "parachutes" to try my hand at making an insulated vest. I also let a big bull thistle grow just because I like the thistle flowers and it attracted many butterflies and goldfinches. I took pictures, but they got lost.
-
Yes, I MUST plant milkweed this year - I have been promising myself but the Spring would get away from me and then there is also the issue of the deer eating everything - although milkweed is not as high up on their list of candy plants - but I remember so many craft projects we did with the dry pods - it was all so much fun and I miss all of that... Like the idea of growing thistle although I have never seen them grow in this part of Texas - saw them along the roadside all the time in Kentucky.
Been finding so many great photos that just scream for an appropriate poem pairing.
-
Welcome to our Poetry Page.
Our haven for those who listen to words that open our heart, imagination, and our feelings about the poems we share.
This is our continuing tradition. Please join us!
(http://78.media.tumblr.com/bd9476b326b9f45ece30cdffb7dfb96a/tumblr_ozxejwksub1ro4v2no1_500.jpg)
Winter Afternoon ~ John Nash | “What lips my lips have kissed, and where, and why”
By Edna St. Vincent Millay
What lips my lips have kissed, and where, and why,
I have forgotten, and what arms have lain
Under my head till morning; but the rain
Is full of ghosts tonight, that tap and sigh
Upon the glass and listen for reply,
And in my heart there stirs a quiet pain
For unremembered lads that not again
Will turn to me at midnight with a cry.
Thus in the winter stands the lonely tree,
Nor knows what birds have vanished one by one,
Yet knows its boughs more silent than before:
I cannot say what loves have come and gone,
I only know that summer sang in me
A little while, that in me sings no more.
|
A Few Winter Poems
- 10 Great Winter Poems Everyone Should Read (https://interestingliterature.com/2015/12/16/10-great-winter-poems-everyone-should-read/)
- Winter Poems from the Poetry Foundation (https://www.poetryfoundation.org/collections/144637/winter-poems)
- The Winter Wind by Keats (http://untendedgarden.com/2011/01/the-winters-wind-a-poem-by-keats/)
Discussion Leader: BarbStAubrey (augere@ix.netcom.com)
-
(https://78.media.tumblr.com/3bea45dd05767eb8b530fad977b5cda9/tumblr_oyt9glTqdj1soat9ko1_1280.jpg)
-
The Edna St. Vincent Millay poem is beautiful. Lately or for the last couple of years I have thought often of "ghosts." I don't think "ghosts" follow us in our early years. Well, maybe... It's just the fact that now so many family and friends are gone for one reason or another reason. Some people believe ghosts should go behind a locked door in the basement. I can't decide whether to befriend them or go away from them. :-\
-
(http://78.media.tumblr.com/e43b457409344cd7fa37e1b0905b181c/tumblr_nzosz9uYGX1rohinzo1_1280.jpg)
the wood between: Rostislav Popsky | The Roof
By Cathal McCabe
s n o w s n o w s n o w
n o w s n o w s n o w
o w s n o w s n o w
w s n o w s n o w
s n o w s n o w
n o w s n o w
o w s n o w
w s n o w
s n o w
n o w
o w
w |
-
(http://78.media.tumblr.com/73ad81641f6b0c2788d0981a2d748c00/tumblr_p087d4eeLl1ro4v2no1_1280.jpg)
Moon Winter Woolies ~ Lisa Graa Jensen | winter moon
Descending December
the sun fades to its last burning ember
distant days of August we vaguely remember
with food running low from the harvests in September
can we hunt enough to feed each and every member
how many will we lose within our little commune
and to think there's still two months until the Hunger Moon
Magnificent May
I ask for you and begin to pray
bring to us your warmth and lengthen the day
for I fear we can no longer survive in this way
we've already lost great numbers leaving my people in dismay
The howls roll in from the hills and I feel like a complete buffoon
did I truly believe this prayer could hold off the Wolf's Moon
|
-
| (http://78.media.tumblr.com/8742adc33c5f2c3ec7f7f544dde701d1/tumblr_p08icwAt5i1sp0uifo1_1280.jpg) |
. Learn from the Pine ! .
by Matsuo Basho
To do that you must leave behind you all subjective prejudice.
Otherwise you will force your own self onto the object
and can learn nothing from it.
Your poem will well-up of its own accord
when you and the object become one,
when you dive deep enough into the object,
to discover something of its hidden glimmer.
|
-
Barb, who is the artist of the picture accompanying Winter Moon? I really like it.
And Basho is a favorite of mine. I mostly know his haiku, and Learn from the Pine perfectly says the way he surely must construct them.
-
Whoops thanks for asking Pat, the last two I put a space where there should not have been one and neither artist showed - fixed now.
-
To become one with an object means you completely understand its properties and feel you are similar with it in many ways, right? I've never experienced such closeness with a piece of driftwood, a Japanese fan or a rolling pin in the kitchen. Of all the times my family and I have visited beaches, I didn't take time to just sway with the ocean, sit on the sand and admire it. Instead, I walked quickly down the beach. Looked at other people on their beach towels and admired sand castles. Time wasted. There is a definite desire within me to experience what Basho experienced time after time in his life and spoke about in this poem. How did he do it? If you have done it, how did you do it? How long does it take to get to that change, back and forth identity with a Christmas Cactus?
-
Hats it is interesting isn't it what grabs our attention - your post had me thinking - on my desk is an empty cup, or mug but, it is a pretty mug so, not sure that the word 'mug' fits - I looked at it and thought of how I am similar - some observations came up - I realized it is made of clay, a mud, that was formed by someone with intelligence, who purposefully molded with their hands a container to hold liquid that would benefit us. Regardless it was made into a mold so that many could be produced, the original was hand made.
More - the cup/mug was decorated to please the eye - it is a Christmas mug with gold on the rim and a stripe of gold on the handle - it was painted or had a decal applied that was originally hand painted of a Santa with his finger to his lips, a decorated pine tree behind him and a sack of toys slung over his shoulder - on the other side of the cup painted are two candy canes tied with a red ribbon to more decorated pine.
How do I forget this is a cup made for my benefit but rather, think how the cup and I are similar - My first reaction was that I am made of atoms just as the cup is made of atoms and the gold is a precious metal that came to earth by a meteor shower during or right after the formation of the earth - metals are electrons that i had to look up and did learn the electrons are like an outer casing of an atom and so the gold trim, the paint the mud the glaze are all atoms as I am atoms -
A quick thought had me aware that all this beauty was applied to please and even the cup itself has a use - I thought, am I like the cup that holds abilities and my reason for being is to please? It felt too singular for me - I thought I am more than the cup - the cup needed someone to decorate it while I decorate myself and make the choice how I will decorate myself.
Then I realized I am still seeing the cup as separate from myself - as a useful object and so next I imagined the cup could talk -
Talking it had more to share than how it came to be and how it was decorated - it shared who used the cup and who admired the cup and how the cup fit into my home and then, how the cup fit my hand and what I liked about the feel of the cup and how I took care of the cup, never putting it in the dishwasher. I hand washed the cup to preserve the gold - then thought, if I care for my own container, my body, with the same care as the cup - did the cup have a lesson for me?
Was I reaching too far thinking I should be more than a container to please - granted, an active container that could please with my actions - Does pleasing mean making other's happy or does pleasing mean doing what I do best, just as the cup was designed out of mud to do a job different than a bowl or a plate or a lamp base. In doing what I do best I am not only happy but I bring others happiness not just by my sharing my skills but they feel the warmth of my happiness.
On and on I go - the suggestion about meditation is to mediate for at least an hour and those who are experienced, meditate for a full day and night - who knows how long the mediation on anything will take to bring up the essence of the 'thing/event' that can be put into a few words - It also strikes me that Basho was practiced mediating and may have found more quickly the essence and similarities between himself and the world around him.
I also think we all apply different questions and different understanding of the world to our thinking/meditaing on an object and so I am now thinking we could look at the same cup and each find a different essence that would take in the similarity between the cup and ourselves since we are all different. We each have had different life experiences and so we will see something another may not see and thus, the difference in our poetry, our words, our viewpoint, our choice of decorating and caring for ourselves.
Thanks hats - your thoughts and questioning opened up my looking at what surrounds me - once looking that closely at an object it is easier to realize why Japanese homes are so simple to stark - there are too many things to look at in my home - this new phase of simplifying makes sense in a way I never thought about till now.
If things are useful, then the more convenience or the more beauty we can surround ourselves with, the better. Where as, if things are objects to learn from and find their hidden glimmer, we have to limit our surroundings because it takes time to become one with an object. The tea ceremony now makes sense - become one with tea being poured into cups - wow that could take days and days and still there would be nuances to learn. Wow... thanks again hats - your post opened my eyes to a deeper understanding of what Basho was saying.
-
Well Barb,you've done it again. You've written a fully beautiful and useful post. Plus, you answered my question with no sidestepping. Certainly today, I will look at objects or an object with the use of meditation. My husband has agreed to putting up our Christmas tree. If I do, I will handle the ornaments more slowly and think about my memories: memories about a sled, a pup or snow flakes. This is such a special place.
-
I know that on occasion I have looked at objects and tried to take everything in, to remember every bit I saw, but I don't think I ever strived to become one with the object. The closest I come to that is when I am out on a beautiful day and just absorb the sight and sound and sometimes touch, breathing the crisp air and just being without analyzing any of it. I then feel a part of a whole greater than me - a wondrous and joyful oneness. SWWWWWWEz Oops! Shan typing again.
-
| (http://78.media.tumblr.com/7675a90562df3ab28557df7de520e999/tumblr_p0qp84mOLv1w6ze9co1_500.jpg) | Song, On Parachutes Of Crystal Snowflakes
Transl.(Rus.) - Poem by Lyudmila Purgina
On parachutes of crystal snowflakes
The Winter flied from sky to earth.
And if the life has turned for other way,
If the life has gone the other way,
Don't ask and search your inner fault,
Don't ask and search your inner fault.
The trees were shaking branches slightly
In frosty and fantastic haze.
And if we all the way were silent
If we all the way were silent,
Then had we anything to say?
But had we anything to say?
Among the snowpiles sank the town,
The snowdrift was trimming lace,
And if I loved, alas, the other,
If I loved, alas, the other one,
Then Love choose everything itself.
The Love choose everything itself.
On parachutes of crystal snowflakes
The Winter flied from sky to earth.
And if the life had turned for other way,
If the life had gone the other way,
Was my decision, and not your's,
Was my decision, but not Your's.
|
-
The photograph of the icy, frosty branches is beautiful. I've never heard of the poet. Is he/she from a very icy climate? This morning the poem woke me up. I could hear an echo of lines in my head. There is a repetition of questions, sentences in the poem. There is a need to go to self and analyze inner feelings and deeds. Winter is a good time for analysis. We're closed up in homes or other buildings. We walk alone with our coats and scarves tightly hugged against the brutal air. Suddenly, spring enters my thoughts. It is a time of release, coming out, a time to open the doors.
I do admit for me, self analysis is painful. There is a desire to get away from the mirror's eyes. There is a desire to call back time. Then, there is a realization that as a human I am limited. You can't go back to last spring or that other winter. It's gone. Is correct? You can't go home again. It's not there! Change takes over and spreads over the branches breaking what was. :'(
-
Your post hats - so beautifully said - a poem in itself - this poem, like the photo, is beautiful in its painful sadness.
It was the second stanza - about having anything to say that touched me - the two branches with all of the loose connecting twigs, looking like wires, reminds me of the connection we have with another - I have a couple of close family members that the 'winter frost has trimmed' and yes, I did end up thinking 'what have I done' and did not know how to respond.
For my own preservation and keeping the peace, because I do not want to ever be the cause of someone unleashing their anger or angry words, like the poem, I am silent not having anything to say. Actually, I do not know what to say and so it is my decision how often I do and don't make contact.
My hope is represented by the sun, in time will not only illuminate the connection, the frozen state of the connection but, will warm the air so that the frozen state of the connections between the two branches will come back to life and grow again.
To me the poem is sad but beautiful because there is hope - or maybe it is hope in the photos - Hope to me is what Christmas is all about - Hope - Hope for the new - This child was born and lived as his parents, following one way of celebrating God and then created a new way that kept some of the traditions of the old way but had its 'reason-for-being' less focused on a judgemental God and centered more in the love from a powerful God. Dwelling on that major shift in something as intimate and powerful in our lives as religion, my hope has energy. It's then I wonder if my hope is for something I recognize which is in the old way or is it true hope - the hope in the unknown. Does the frost, as beautiful as it is, kill the connecting twigs or simply cover them in silence.
-
Barbara, this is not about Poetry.
Please send this to Jane or Marcie!
I am being allowed to post here but when I open SL, the Library doesn’t open. And there is no place to sign in on the left side. Please let me in. I need to post in the library.
-
Ann....Let's try this...DELETE whatever you're using as a bookmark to come to SeniorLearn.
Then, use this as your new bookmark:
http://seniorlearn.org/forum/index.php
That will take you to the full menu page of all the SL discussions.
Let's see if that helps.
jane
-
Annie, here's another possibility. When you come in to the menu of discussions, there are some horizontal blue bars going across the page, dividing up the list of discussions. These have titles on them. Look at the one labeled Welcome to SeniorLearn Books. If it doesn't have the Library and Bookstacks as subheadings, look at the right end of the blue bar. It will have either a plus or a minus sign. If it's plus, click on it. That should make those two discussions reappear.
That used to drive me nuts until I figured out what was happening.
-
I do like these poems I found on my morning jog through Project Gutenberg, New York Nocturnes and Other Poems by Sir Charles. G. D. Roberts. Roberts is considered the Father of Canadian Poetry and wrote many novels and some non-fiction as well.
http://www.gutenberg.org/ebooks/56418
-
The Father of Canadian Poetry, and I never heard of him. I like some of those poems a lot.
-
Nice thanks Frybabe - a whole book of his poetry - like Pat I had not heard of him or his poetry - and here he is the Father not less of Canadian poetry.
Well his last name is the same as the first name of the magnificent Robby Burns - and today or tonight is Burns Night
-
(https://78.media.tumblr.com/cedbedd03a355a462216fa1226d17c5d/tumblr_p34270NtIK1ro4v2no1_1280.jpg)
(http://www.telegraph.co.uk/content/dam/news/2018/01/19/TELEMMGLPICT000151653795_trans_NvBQzQNjv4BqgmFsEjQK2M33nnfQ31Q2_50abONU5URiy4SaMmWMkLw.jpeg?)
(https://i2-prod.mirror.co.uk/incoming/article9639479.ece/ALTERNATES/s810/TMP_NEC_250115BurnsNight01JPG.jpg)
Robert Burns 258th birthday | To a Mountain Daisy ~ Robert Burns
On Turning One Down with the Plow, in April, 1786.
Wee, modest, crimson-tippèd flow'r,
Thou’s met me in an evil hour;
For I maun crush amang the stoure
Thy slender stem:
To spare thee now is past my pow'r,
Thou bonie gem.
Alas! it’s no thy neighbour sweet,
The bonie lark, companion meet,
Bending thee ‘mang the dewy weet
Wi’ spreck’d breast,
When upward-springing, blythe, to greet
The purpling east.
Cauld blew the bitter-biting north
Upon thy early, humble birth;
Yet cheerfully thou glinted forth
Amid the storm,
Scarce rear’d above the parent-earth
Thy tender form.
The flaunting flowers our gardens yield
High shelt'ring woods an’ wa’s maun shield:
But thou, beneath the random bield
O’ clod or stane,
Adorns the histie stibble-field
Unseen, alane.
There, in thy scanty mantle clad,
Thy snawie-bosom sun-ward spread,
Thou lifts thy unassuming head
In humble guise;
But now the share uptears thy bed,
And low thou lies!
Such is the fate of artless maid,
Sweet flow'ret of the rural shade!
By love’s simplicity betray’d
And guileless trust;
Till she, like thee, all soil’d, is laid
Low i’ the dust.
Such is the fate of simple bard,
On life’s rough ocean luckless starr’d!
Unskilful he to note the card
Of prudent lore,
Till billows rage and gales blow hard,
And whelm him o'er!
Such fate to suffering Worth is giv'n,
Who long with wants and woes has striv'n,
By human pride or cunning driv'n
To mis'ry’s brink;
Till, wrench’d of ev'ry stay but Heav'n,
He ruin’d sink!
Ev'n thou who mourn'st the Daisy’s fate,
That fate is thine—no distant date;
Stern Ruin’s ploughshare drives elate,
Full on thy bloom,
Till crush’d beneath the furrow’s weight
Shall be thy doom. |
-
Barb, thanks for reminding us of Burns night. I was out eating Chinese food with friends, so didn't raise a wee dram in his honor, but I salute him now, though without haggis. The poem reminds me of another one, written a year earlier, about hurting creatures with plowing.
https://www.poetryfoundation.org/poems/43816/to-a-mouse-56d222ab36e33 (https://www.poetryfoundation.org/poems/43816/to-a-mouse-56d222ab36e33)
where we have the much quoted line
The best laid schemes o’ Mice an’ Men
Gang aft agley
Anyway, happy Burns night to all.
-
This poem, Published by Knopf, is by a young Somali poet named Warsan Shire:
later that night
I held an atlas in my lap
and ran my fingers across the whole world
and whispered
where does it hurt?
it answered
everywhere
everywhere
everywhere
Margaret Maron, the mystery writer, posted this poem on her Facebook page. A simple but very thoughtful poem.
-
Insightful and poignant isn't it FlaJean
-
I love that Somali poem. The repetition of "everywhere" makes my mind think about location and types of pain. I'm trying to think of other poems that use the recurrence of a word and the why of it.
-
Here is another of her poems, read by the author. I am finding her poetry strangely compelling. Her poems are arrows that strike straight to the heart. Don't think - feel!
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=YaB_1cZQhRE
-
Frybabe I do not think I have ever seen poetry expressed in movement - this is lovely
Saw this and where it is not a poem as such it was a poetic thought that seems appropriate. Of course I had to find a photo that would express a bit of the quote from Old Meg’s Cottage in A Country Diary.
| (http://78.media.tumblr.com/f752e8a47ea09e4ccc8a3bf0730d1b28/tumblr_oh9n3cVzG61ro4v2no1_500.jpg) |
Jack Frost frolics over cold and restful meadows.
And everywhere,
though the air nips at my nose,
there is a beating, a whirring,
like the pulse of a heart restarted.
The birds are singing prophecies of green and growing-things. |
-
Barb and Frybabe, thank you.
-
I have heard no "bird prophecies." How will I know its spring? Outside no cardinals or any winter birds are singing. Perhaps, I've gone blind. So, I really needed the verse from "A Country Diary." I now have the feeling a happy spring is possible. However, I would like a little winter beauty.
-
Your post hats reminds me of St. John of the Cross in his Dark Night of the Soul, where he speaks of hope regardless how dark the night. One aspect of his argument or thesis that I thought was an eye opener was that if we define hope as something to wish for, we are calling upon memory. Real hope is in the unknown and we need faith to accept hope within the darkness of life. And so a winter without beauty could easily be a dark night as would be a winter without birds chirping their prophecy of Spring.
On the other side of the coin Thomas Hardy at the end of the nineteenth century and the eve of the twentieth century wrote a poem expressing his typical lack of hope.
The Darkling Thrush
I leant upon a coppice gate,
When Frost was spectre-gray,
And Winter’s dregs made desolate
The weakening eye of day.
The tangled bine-stems scored the sky
Like strings of broken lyres,
And all mankind that haunted nigh
Had sought their household fires.
The land’s sharp features seemed to me
The Century’s corpse outleant,
Its crypt the cloudy canopy,
The wind its death-lament.
The ancient pulse of germ and birth
Was shrunken hard and dry,
And every spirit upon earth
Seemed fervourless as I.
At once a voice arose among
The bleak twigs overhead,
In a full-hearted evensong
Of joy illimited.
An aged thrush, frail, gaunt and small,
With blast-beruffled plume,
Had chosen thus to fling his soul
Upon the growing gloom.
So little cause for carolings
Of such ecstatic sound
Was written on terrestrial things
Afar or nigh around,
That I could think there trembled through
His happy good-night air
Some blessed Hope, whereof he knew,
And I was unaware. |
-
Barb and Frybabe, I hate to admit it. I had no idea what a "coppice gate" looked like. So, I had to look on the internet. There is so much information and photos too. I'm also looking for a definition of a coppice gate. What makes it different from other gates? Is a gate not just a gate?
-
coppice
Noun: an area of woodland in which the trees or shrubs are, or formerly were, periodically cut back to ground level to stimulate growth and provide firewood or timber.
Verb: cut back (a tree or shrub) to ground level periodically to stimulate growth.
-
I am still confused about this coppice gate. I looked at only a few photos. Some gates are surrounded with bushes and other gates aren't shared with bushes. Silly me, although you've helped Barb, I'm still hungry for a better idea about this gate. Don't worry ; I haven't forgotten the Darkling Thrush and his blessed hope. It's a beautiful poem.
-
hats a Coppice Gate is, as we see in many nineteenth century painting of folks near a wooden gate and the gate opens to or from a woodland - or one side of the Gate is the woodland with a path that leads to the gate that most often the gate swings from a garden.
(http://www.suffolkfreecompany.org.uk/images/suffolks8.jpg)
Today there are gates to woodlands on private farms that in Britain hikers have a right to walk on all land and if there is no gate to the next section they build stairs up and over the fence -
(https://images.fineartamerica.com/images-medium-large-5/country-farm-fence-stile-crossing-ella-kaye.jpg)
The coppice gate is a simple gate that swings into a woodland regardless how tall or close the nearest bushes and trees.
Here is an illustration of the poem.
| (http://rampages.us/maj3/wp-content/uploads/sites/7239/2015/06/il_fullxfull.403522787_jgpm.jpg) |
-
Barb, this is splendid information. I'm going back over it again. The steps or stairs is interesting. Is that a British custom?
-
Mostly British hats although I have seen steps over fences in New England some years ago - not sure if they are still using them.
-
Amazing, you learn something new every day.
-
Read this and I said...YES!
(https://78.media.tumblr.com/69c5a74c245ace8531c4dce06a642afb/tumblr_p3jmkoIPex1wolmxbo1_1280.jpg)
-
This morning, during my cruise through Project Gutenberg, I snapped up this volume of reverential poems called Poems from the Inner Life by Lizzie Doten, a poet unknown to me(as many are) http://www.gutenberg.org/ebooks/56575
-
Welcome to our Poetry Page.
Our haven for those who listen to words that open our heart, imagination, and our feelings about the poems we share.
This is our continuing tradition. Please join us!
(http://78.media.tumblr.com/39d9362e6ffe6fa05454ae5d5002b11b/tumblr_nfi1uq3qXE1ro4v2no1_1280.jpg)
Winter ~ by Rowland Frederick Hilder
| “The Snow Storm”
Ralph Waldo Emerson
“Announced by all the trumpets of the sky,
Arrives the snow, and, driving o’er the fields,
Seems nowhere to alight: the whited air
Hides hills and woods, the river and the heaven,
And veils the farm-house at the garden’s end.
The sled and traveller stopped, the courier’s feet
Delayed, all friends shut out, the housemates sit
Around the radiant fireplace, enclosed
In a tumultuous privacy of Storm.
Come see the north wind’s masonry.
Out of an unseen quarry evermore
Furnished with tile, the fierce artificer
Curves his white bastions with projected roof
Round every windward stake, or tree, or door.
Speeding, the myriad-handed, his wild work
So fanciful, so savage, nought cares he
For number or proportion...”
|
A Few Winter Poems
- 10 Great Winter Poems Everyone Should Read (https://interestingliterature.com/2015/12/16/10-great-winter-poems-everyone-should-read/)
- Winter Poems from the Poetry Foundation (https://www.poetryfoundation.org/collections/144637/winter-poems)
- The Winter Wind by Keats (http://untendedgarden.com/2011/01/the-winters-wind-a-poem-by-keats/)
Discussion Leader: BarbStAubrey (augere@ix.netcom.com)
Thanks for sharing your "cruise," Frybabe - it's so good to be reminded of the variety available to us.
-
A tethered horse,
snow
In both stirrups.
Buson
-
much said and unsaid in those few words - I'm thinking for snow to be on stirrups the horse must not have a rider and is standing still so the snow will collect - that says quiet to me - snow falling quietly and a horse standing still maybe waiting or possibly walking very very slowly - maybe even rider is holding its lead and they are both walking slowly as the snow falls heavy enough to stick and pile up on stirrups. Or maybe the rider is squatting down also waiting - certainly not near a fire that would have melted the snow so it would not cover stirrups - I can see a lonely landscape where snow falls without tree limbs to shelter horse or man. Goodness we could write a short story using just those 3 short lines... thanks Pat
-
I have run around the internet. Have wrapped myself back around this tree. Your words above are poetry, Barb. Wanted to spend the last weeks of winter here. Then, greet spring here too. My Dad use to call God the Great Architect. In this poem, I assume God is the fierce artificer. Had to look up the definition of artificer.
-
(https://t00.deviantart.net/90qQcmG-edltYT0biZoq4uRHgt4=/fit-in/700x350/filters:fixed_height(100,100):origin()/pre00/58d3/th/pre/i/2015/364/d/9/journal_of_stars_vii_by_erisiar-d9m13nk.jpg) |
Remember to look up at the stars and not down at your feet.
Try to make sense of what you see and wonder about what makes the universe exist.
Be curious. And however difficult life may seem,
there is always something you can do and succeed at.
It matters that you don’t just give up.
Stephen Hawking |
-
(http://78.media.tumblr.com/3e3156b0a6758bbc55bc04cd12bc48c1/tumblr_oo19khArmD1ro4v2no2_500.jpg)
| The Song of Wandering Aengus
By William Butler Yeats
I went out to the hazel wood,
Because a fire was in my head,
And cut and peeled a hazel wand,
And hooked a berry to a thread;
And when white moths were on the wing,
And moth-like stars were flickering out,
I dropped the berry in a stream
And caught a little silver trout.
When I had laid it on the floor
I went to blow the fire a-flame,
But something rustled on the floor,
And someone called me by my name:
It had become a glimmering girl
With apple blossom in her hair
Who called me by my name and ran
And faded through the brightening air.
Though I am old with wandering
Through hollow lands and hilly lands,
I will find out where she has gone,
And kiss her lips and take her hands;
And walk among long dappled grass,
And pluck till time and times are done,
The silver apples of the moon,
The golden apples of the sun.
|
-
Good morning..... had to share these pics with you, shot them this morning.
If you happen to catch a sunrise
At the beginning of your day.
Thank the Lord above
For yet another day.
-
I like the second picture - a neighborhood starting out the day with the sun.
-
(http://78.media.tumblr.com/23cec2309b52e45ebb39adcbd486e82a/tumblr_p6arx1GrcH1x4agglo1_1280.jpg) | Iris By Night by Robert Frost
One misty evening, one another's guide,
We two were groping down a Malvern side
The last wet fields and dripping hedges home.
There came a moment of confusing lights,
Such as according to belief in Rome
Were seen of old at Memphis on the heights
Before the fragments of a former sun
Could concentrate anew and rise as one.
Light was a paste of pigment in our eyes.
And then there was a moon and then a scene
So watery as to seem submarine;
In which we two stood saturated, drowned.
The clover-mingled rowan on the ground
Had taken all the water it could as dew,
And still the air was saturated too,
Its airy pressure turned to water weight.
Then a small rainbow like a trellis gate,
A very small moon-made prismatic bow,
Stood closely over us through which to go.
And then we were vouchsafed a miracle
That never yet to other two befell
And I alone of us have lived to tell.
A wonder! Bow and rainbow as it bent,
Instead of moving with us as we went
(To keep the pots of gold from being found),
It lifted from its dewy pediment
Its two mote-swimming many-colored ends
And gathered them together in a ring.
And we stood in it softly circled round
From all division time or foe can bring
In a relation of elected friends. |
-
Whenever I am tempted,
whenever clouds arise,
When songs give place to sighing,
when hope within me dies,
I draw the closer to Him,
from care He sets me free;
His eye is on the sparrow,
and I know He watches me;
His eye is on the sparrow,
and I know He watches me.
Sparrow
I sing because I'm happy,
I sing because I'm free,
For His eye is on the sparrow,
And I know He watches me. | (http://78.media.tumblr.com/e139bf0f78e3e0edd1a3af443076bd62/tumblr_p6az19z4wg1v3kcgvo1_1280.jpg) |
-
(http://78.media.tumblr.com/abb8dbbc8024e6695507f8b5ef3ecf4b/tumblr_p6e8h51hE61tic5i2o2_1280.jpg)
English-idylls:
From The Seasons by Bion of Smyrna (100 B.C.).
-
Project Gutenber again came up with something of interest to Women's Suffrage historians: Suffrage Songs and Verses by Charlotte Perkins Gilman, http://www.gutenberg.org/ebooks/56931
-
Thanks Frybabe - interesting poetry - so fueled by women whose only purpose was to be a housewife and mother. Although I thought the poem Boys will be Boys was as appropriate today and then.
-
Barb, found this on Gutenberg this morning. http://www.gutenberg.org/ebooks/57068
Jeláleddín Rúmí (A.D. 1207-1273) was considered by some to be the greatest of the Persian Mystical Poets.
From the Gazels of Jeláleddín:
Invocation
Soul of mine, thou dawning Light: Be not far, O be not far!
Love of mine, thou Vision bright: Be not far, O be not far!
Life is where thou smilest sweetly; Death is in thy parting look;
Here mid Death and Life's fierce fight: Be not far, O be not far!
I am East when thou art rising; I am West when thou dost set;
Bring Heaven's own radiant hues to sight: Be not far, O be not far!
See how well my Turban fitteth, yet the Parsee Girdle binds me;
Cord and Wallet I bear light: Be not far, O be not far!
True Parsee and true Brahman, a Christian, yet a Mussulman;
Thee I trust, Supreme by Right: Be not far, O be not far!
In all Mosques, Pagodas, Churches, I do find One Shrine alone;
Thy Face is there my sole delight: Be not far, O be not far!
Thine the World's all-loving Heart; and for it I yearn and pray;
O take not from my Heart thy flight: Be not far, O be not far!
Thee, the World's Eternal Centre, here I circle round in prayer;
Thy absence is last judgment quite: Be not far, O be not far!
Thine, Judgment Day and Blessedness: Mine is Bliss when Thou art nigh;
Keep me circling in thy Might: Be not far, O be not far!
Fair World Rose, O blossom forth; sweet Heart-buds unfold in Love;
Put on the longing Soul's pure White: Be not far, O be not far!
O Rose, hear through Night's silence, how he thrills—thy Nightingale;
As if I did his Notes indite: Be not far, O be not far!
Jeláleddín, all loving, let Love's Heart resist no more:
Hear him chaunting, Day and Night: Be not far, O be not far!
-
Oh my - you need to read that one over and over and each time there is something more isn't there - great - thanks for posting.
-
A Golden Chain
Friendship is a Golden Chain,
The links are friends so dear,
And like a rare and precious jewel
It's treasured more each year...
It's clasped together firmly
With a love that's deep and true,
And it's rich with happy memories
and fond recollections, too...
Time can't destroy its beauty
For, as long as memory lives,
Years can't erase the pleasure
That the joy of friendship gives...
For friendship is a priceless gift
That can't be bought or sold,
But to have an understanding friend
Is worth far more than gold...
And the Golden Chain of Friendship
Is a strong and blessed tie
Binding kindred hearts together
As the years go passing by.
Helen Steiner Rice
I used to love buying and sending cards with her poems on them.
-
Talking about time reminded me of this poem by Yeats.
When you are old and grey and full of sleep,
And nodding by the fire, take down this book,
And slowly read, and dream of the soft look
Your eyes had once, and of their shadows deep;
How many loved your moments of glad grace,
And loved your beauty with love false or true,
But one man loved the pilgrim soul in you,
And loved the sorrows of your changing face;
And bending down beside the glowing bars,
Murmur, a little sadly, how Love fled
And paced upon the mountains overhead
And hid his face amid a crowd of stars.
|
-
The Song of the Wandering Aengus
W.E. Yeats
I went out to the hazel wood,
Because a fire was in my head,
And cut and peeled a hazel wand,
And hooked a berry to a thread;
And when white moths were on the wing,
And moth-like stars were flickering out,
I dropped the berry in a stream
And caught a little silver trout.
When I had laid it on the floor
I went to blow the fire a-flame,
But something rustled on the floor,
And someone called me by my name:
It had become a glimmering girl
With apple blossom in her hair
Who called me by my name and ran
And faded through the brightening air.
Though I am old with wandering
Through hollow lands and hilly lands,
I will find out where she has gone,
And kiss her lips and take her hands;
And walk among long dappled grass,
And pluck till time and times are done,
The silver apples of the moon,
The golden apples of the sun. |
-
Old South Meeting House
January Gill O’Neil
We draw breath from brick
step on stones, weather-worn,
cobbled and carved
with the story of this church,
this meeting house,
where Ben Franklin was baptized
and Phillis Wheatley prayed—a mouth-house
where colonists gathered
to plot against the crown.
This structure, with elegant curves
and round-topped windows, was the heart
of Boston, the body of the people,
survived occupation for preservation,
foregoing decoration
for conversation.
Let us gather in the box pews
once numbered and rented
by generations of families
held together like ribs
in the body politic. Let us gaze upon
the upper galleries to the free seats
where the poor and the town slaves
listened and waited and pondered
and prayed
for revolution.
Let us testify to the plight
of the well-meaning at the pulpit
with its sounding board high above,
congregations raising heads and hands to the sky.
We, the people—the tourists
and townies—one nation under
this vaulted roof, exalted voices
speaking poetry out loud,
in praise and dissent.
We draw breath from brick. Ignite the fire in us.
Speak to us:
the language is hope. |
-
Hi Barb, I've missed the Poetry Corner. I'm excited about reading the ones I've missed. Have a Happy Fourth and keep safe. My heart is moved by the naming of Phillis Wheatley. It's not often you hear her name. Maybe my one celebration today will become reading one of her poems. Of course, I'm always glad to read Ben Franklin's name as well. It seems strange. I can see a portrait of both these people in my mind so clearly. Did they ever meet one another?
-
I'd have to compare dates of when Phillis Wheatley was in London compared to when Ben Franklin was in Europe - I thought he was only in France since we were trying to free ourselves from the English crown.
OK found it - 1757: Franklin arrives in London as agent for Pennsylvania Assembly
1759: Franklin receives honorary doctorate from the University of St. Andrews, Scotland
1762: Franklin leaves London for Philadelphia
1764: Franklin returns to London to represent colonial interests before the Crown
In 1765 he is in America opposing the Stamp Act and returns to Europe, this time France after 1776
Looks like when Franklin was in London Phyllis Wheatley was a little girl and she arrived in London in 1771 after Franklin was back in the states.
Phillis Wheatley was the first black poet in America to publish a book. She was born in 1753, in West Africa and brought to New England in 1761, where John Wheatley of Boston purchased her as a gift for his wife. Although they brought her into the household as a slave, the Wheatleys took a great interest in Phillis’s education. Many biographers have pointed to her precocity; Wheatley learned to read and write English by the age of nine, and she became familiar with Latin, Greek, the Bible, and selected classics at an early age. She began writing poetry at thirteen, modeling her work on the English poets of the time, particularly John Milton, Thomas Gray, and Alexander Pope. Her poem “On the Death of the Rev. Mr. George Whitefield” was published as a broadside in cities such as Boston, New York, and Philadelphia and garnered Wheatley national acclaim. This poem was also printed in London. Over the next few years, she would print a number of broadsides elegizing prominent English and colonial leaders.
Wheatley’s doctor suggested that a sea voyage might improve her delicate health, so in 1771 she accompanied Nathaniel Wheatley on a trip to London. She was well received in London and wrote to a friend of the “unexpected and unmerited civility and complaisance with which I was treated by all.” In 1773, thirty-nine of her poems were published in London as Poems on Various Subjects, Religious and Moral. The book includes many elegies as well as poems on Christian themes; it also includes poems dealing with race, such as the often-anthologized “On Being Brought from Africa to America.” She returned to America in 1773.
After Mr. and Mrs. Wheatley died, Phillis was left to support herself as a seamstress and poet. It is unclear precisely when Wheatley was freed from slavery, although scholars suggest it occurred between 1774 and 1778. In 1776, Wheatley wrote a letter and poem in support of George Washington; he replied with an invitation to visit him in Cambridge, stating that he would be “happy to see a person so favored by the muses.” In 1778, she married John Peters, who kept a grocery store. They had three children together, all of whom died young. Because of the war and the poor economy, Wheatley experienced difficulty publishing her poems. She solicited subscribers for a new volume that would include thirty-three new poems and thirteen letters, but was unable to raise the funds. Phillis Wheatley, who had once been internationally celebrated, died alone in a boarding house on December 5, 1784. She was thirty-one years old. Many of the poems for her proposed second volume disappeared and have never been recovered.
-
An Hymn To The Morning
by Phillis Wheatley
ATTEND my lays, ye ever honour’d nine,
Assist my labours, and my strains refine;
In smoothest numbers pour the notes along,
For bright Aurora now demands my song.
Aurora hail, and all the thousands dies,
Which deck thy progress through the vaulted skies:
The morn awakes, and wide extends her rays,
On ev’ry leaf the gentle zephyr plays;
Harmonious lays the feather’d race resume,
Dart the bright eye, and shake the painted plume.
Ye shady groves, your verdant gloom display
To shield your poet from the burning day:
Calliope awake the sacred lyre,
While thy fair sisters fan the pleasing fire:
The bow’rs, the gales, the variegated skies
In all their pleasures in my bosom rise.
See in the east th’ illustrious king of day!
His rising radiance drives the shades away—
But Oh! I feel his fervid beams too strong,
And scarce begun, concludes th’ abortive song. |
-
I've read the first poem about the South Meeting House more than once. I like it more each time. I have more questions than you probably care to read. My first question is about this particular meeting house. What did it look like? I have read the small description: "round - topped windows" and "elegant curves." Here is something else I'm wondering. May we visit it today as a Historical site? If so, is Phillis Wheatley's name presented on a pew or somewhere in the meeting house along with Ben Franklin's name?
-
Hats after reading the short Biography about Phillis Wheatley I doubt she ever visited the South Meeting house and it does not appear there is any possibility she and Ben Franklin could have met since he was an old man by the time she wrote her poetry - he was born in 1706 and she was born in 1757 which means he was 51 years older than she was. She started to write her poetry in her teens making Ben Franklin in his 70s.
Here is a photo of the South Meeting House today surrounded by tall buildings just as the Trinity Church in New York City is surrounded today by the tall buildings of wall street.
(https://render.fineartamerica.com/images/rendered/search/print/images-medium-5/2-old-south-meeting-house-boston-christiane-schulze.jpg)
-
Barb, thank you for the photo. I would love to walk inside that meeting - house. I would love to visit Boston.
-
The poem that sold me a book:
My theory is that I'll keep up my Spanish by reading bits of good writing, mostly poetry, and translating it first, without looking at the translation unless I'm really stuck. That would be more impressive if I actually did it more than once or twice a month, but I'm always looking for good material. When I saw recently that Ursula K. LeGuin had translated the poems of Chilean Nobel Prize winner Gabriela Mistral, I thought that would be a good bet. I'm willing to take a chance on anything she liked, but before paying for a hefty paperback, I wanted to see a sample. Here's what Amazon provided:
GIVE ME YOUR HAND
For Tasso de Silviera
Give me your hand and give me your love,
give me your hand and dance with me.
A single flower and nothing more,
a single flower is all we’ll be.
Keeping time in the dance together,
singing the tune together with me,
grass in the wind, and nothing more,
grass in the wind is all we’ll be.
I’m called Hope and you’re called Rose:
but losing our names we’ll both go free,
a dance on the hills, and nothing more,
a dance on the hills is all we’ll be.
Here it is in Spanish, so you can see the rhythm, even better in the original:
DAME LA MANO
A Tasso de Silviera
Dame la mano y danzaremos;
dame la mano y me amaras.
Como una sola flor seremos,
como una flor y nada mas.
El mismo verso cantaremos,
al mismo paso bailaras.
como un espiga undularemos,
como una espiga, y nada mas.
Te llamas Rosa y yo Esperanza;
pero tu nombre olvidaras,
porque seremos una danza
en la colina, y nada mas.
She had phases with different styles, and so far I've liked all of the few I've read.
-
The poem Give Me Your Hand is beautiful. I wish there were time to memorize it. Path, I envy your ability to read, write and translate in Spanish. I would love to learn this language. Unfortunately, I took courses in French. Now, I can hardly remember any of the words and/or phrases. I would love to hear the Spanish translation of the poem. For some reason, the poem brings a tear to my eyes. It speaks of love, sharing and freedom. And there is that name. It follows me about lately: Ursula K. LeGuin. I am not familiar with the Chilean Nobel Prize winner either. I have much to learn about Gabriel a Mistral and Chile. I did read a novel In The Midst of Winter by Isabel Allende last month. It is wonderful. This poem reminds me that she is a writer of poem also. Yes, I think so.
-
Hats, I'm glad you saw what I saw in that poem. I'm going to enjoy reading more of them. LeGuin's English translation is really good, captures the feel of the original perfectly.
You're overestimating my Spanish skills. Reading is the easiest; you don't have to come up with the Spanish word, just recognize it, or look it up if you don't know it, and my translations aren't smooth, just roughly what the sentence means. My speaking is pretty minimal, and my writing even worse.
-
poignant but true - a dance on the hills is all we’ll be.
-
Came across this today and it fits my mood for the month - written by an English Clergyman R. Combe Miller during the early nineteenth century.
Fairest of the months!
Ripe Summer’s Queen
The hey-day of the year
With robes that gleam with sunny sheen
Sweet August doth appear. |
-
Old New Griefs
by Shakti Chattopadhyay
Grief that is now old, I ask it to come and sit near me today.
I’m sitting, there’s my shadow, and if grief indeed comes and sits beside me
I will feel quite good; I’ll probably say to this new grief, go;
for a few days go and visit another garden of joy,
pluck some flowers, burn the green leaves, destroy destroy.
After a few days get tired from the trip. Then come,
sit beside me.
For now, offer some space to this old grief.
It wants to come and sit beside me
after having visited several gardens,
lighting up several homes of several people. Let it stay for a few days.
Let it have some peace, some company. You may come after that.
O newer grief you may come after that. |
-
Known best for her SciFi/Specultive fiction, Ursula Le Guin was also a poet. A book of her poetry, So Far So Good, is scheduled to release in September.
-
Did not know she also wrote poetry Frybabe - found two books of her poetry that have already been published
Late in the Day: Poems 2010-2014
Incredible Good Fortune: New Poems
From those titles I'm thinking there may be other books written earlier.
-
Canto que Amabas
Yo canto lo que tú amabas, vida mía,
por si te acercas y escuchas, vida mía,
por si te acuerdas del mundo que viviste,
al aterdecer yo canto, sombra mía.
Yo no quiero enmudecer, vida mía.
¿Cómo sin mi grito fiel me hallarías?
¿Cuál señal, cuál me declara, vida mía?
Soy la misma que fue tuya, vida mía.
Ni lenta ni trascordada ni perdida.
Acude al anochecer, vida mía,
ven recordando un canto, vida mía,
si la canción reconoces de aprendida
y si mi nombre recuerdas todavía.
Te espero sin plazo y sin tiempo.
No temas noche, nebline ni aguacero.
Acude con sendero o sin sendero.
Llámame adonde tú eres, alma mía,
y marcha recto hacia mí, compañero.
What You Loved
Life of my life, what you loved I sing.
If you're near, if you're listening,
think of me now in the evening:
shadow in shadows, hear me sing.
Life of my life, I can't be still.
What is a story we never tell?
How can you find me unless I call?
Life of my life, I haven't changed,
not turned aside and not estranged.
Come to me as the shadows grow long,
come, life of my life, if you know the song
you used to know, if you know my name.
I and the song are still the same.
Beyond time or place I keep the faith.
Follow a path or follow no path,
never fearing the night, the wind,
call to me, come to me, now at the end,
walk with me, life of my life, my friend.
I think this poem is beautiful. Thank you for introducing me to this poet. I'm glad she is still writing and publishing a new book. Any one can act as a true friend. A true friend is special. You want them to walk with you all the time.
-
Yes, agree a beautiful poem hats... and said aloud in the Spanish it rolls off your tongue
-
"We people who are attracted by the countryside cherish fond memories of certain springs, certain woods, certain ponds, certain hills, which have become familiar sights and can touch our hearts like happy events.
Sometimes indeed the memory goes back towards a forest glade, or a spot on a river bank or an orchard in blossom, glimpsed only once on a happy day, but preserved in our heart."
by Guy de Maupassant
-
Hymn to Time
Ursula K. Le Guin, 1929 - 2018
Time says “Let there be”
every moment and instantly
there is space and the radiance
of each bright galaxy.
And eyes beholding radiance.
And the gnats’ flickering dance.
And the seas’ expanse.
And death, and chance.
Time makes room
for going and coming home
and in time’s womb
begins all ending.
Time is being and being
time, it is all one thing,
the shining, the seeing,
the dark abounding. |
-
I'm trying to see that special place again in my mind. The French author wrote great short stories like the old favorite The Neckace. Don't remember reading his poems.
-
Hats the words are not a poem as such - they are a quote from one of his books that sound like poetry. i realize how many of my good memories are when I was out of doors - hiking in mountains or on a beach or picnicking with family both as a child and later with my children. He brought back those memories and it was nice.
-
Every Land
(From a saying of Black Elk)
Watch where the branches of the willows bend
See where the waters of the rivers tend
Graves in the rock, cradles in the sand
Every land is the holy land
Here was the battle to the bitter end
Here's where the enemy killed the friend
Blood on the rock, tears on the sand
Every land is the holy land
Willow by the water bending in the wind
Bent till it's broken and it will not stand
Listen to the word the messengers send
Life like the broken rock, death like the sand
Every land is the holy land
— Ursula K. Le Guin - November 2006 |
-
Welcome to our Poetry Page.
Our haven for those who listen to words that open our heart, imagination, and our feelings about the poems we share.
This is our continuing tradition. Please join us!
“Haymaking”
Thomas English (1819-1902)
“Their homage men pay to the mowing machine
Which does all the work of a dozen as one,
And, cutting a passageway smoothly and keen,
Keeps steadily on till its labor is done;
But I like to remember the primitive way
When I joined with my fellows to gather the hay,
And labor was pleasantly tempered by play.
A wonderful thing is your mowing machine,
That sweeps o'er the meadow in merciless way;
But I sigh for the scythe, curved and tempered and keen,
And the labor and joy of the earlier day;
I sigh for the toil that was mingled with fun,
The contentment we felt when the end had been won,
And the sound, peaceful slumber when daylight was done.”
| (https://78.media.tumblr.com/2a972002b6fa8df28f60d3309e8bc2d7/tumblr_oww0kscEkK1ro4v2no1_500.jpg)
The Hayfield ~ by Ford Madox Brown |
Poems and an articles on Haying
- Haymaking By Edward Thomas
(https://www.poetryfoundation.org/poems/53746/haymaking) - Hay in Art (http://www.hayinart.com/)
- Here We Come a-Haying (https://www.poetrynook.com/poem/here-we-come-haying)
Discussion Leader: BarbStAubrey (augere@ix.netcom.com)
-
In this poem, the poet, Thomas English, seems to long for the earlier or "primitive" days. He talks about using the scythe. I've seen this word or read it many times. I don't know if it's in Bibles or Prayer books. Farming comes to mind. Then, there is less hard work with the lawn mowers. It was the time when we were not ashamed of doing hard work. I've met a couple of gardeners in my life. I think of shoveling and weeding as hard work. I could tell that the work brought these men joy and friends. People like to walk pass and talk about the beauty of a rose or a coleus. At first, I didn't care for this poem. I've never thought much about hay. I've never been around hay. I've passed it in cars on our travels. Now, after about four readings, I really like the poem. I'm glad you picked it, Barb.
-
Yes, hats there are fewer and fewer of us that remember when hard physical work was normal - when we cooked our own meals and repaired our homes and maintained a garden some competing over the largest flower or vegetable. Then all this garden bounty was preserved in hot kitchens and stopping for more fresh produce at a roadside stand was usual.
The day and months had a rhythm - so many of the jobs involved more than one person so there was banter and laughing along with the serious solving of unexpected happenings - not quite problems because there was always a way.
Reading several of the poems about haying it appears to have been a large community effort that involved the children and older boys and girls working, each with their age appropriate tasks - a huge seasonal event of hard work and skill using the tools that for a thousand years or more were used to cut hay - For these older boys and girls it was a time of flirting with many a couple developing the beginnings of a long life together.
In our generation I can remember first dates were going to the movies or a football game where we watched rather than making a day of work into a social event - now so few do physical work and how the youth of today experience their dating I have no clue. They do not seem to flirt - they only talk on their Iphone.
-
We saw the last embers of daylight die
And in the trembling blue-green of the sky
A moon, worn as if it had been a shell
Washed by time’s waters as they rose and fell
About the stars and broke in days and years
W.B.Yeats | (https://78.media.tumblr.com/ddc893ecaa5a462024f02385c6140596/tumblr_pdfla40n161rttk8po1_1280.jpg) |
-
| To a Mouse By Robert Burns
On Turning up in Her Nest with the Plough, November, 1785
Wee, sleeket, cowran, tim’rous beastie,
O, what a panic’s in thy breastie!
Thou need na start awa sae hasty,
Wi’ bickerin brattle!
I wad be laith to rin an’ chase thee
Wi’ murd’ring pattle!
I’m truly sorry Man’s dominion
Has broken Nature’s social union,
An’ justifies that ill opinion,
Which makes thee startle,
At me, thy poor, earth-born companion,
An’ fellow-mortal!
I doubt na, whyles, but thou may thieve;
What then? poor beastie, thou maun live!
A daimen-icker in a thrave
’S a sma’ request:
I’ll get a blessin wi’ the lave,
An’ never miss ’t!
Thy wee-bit housie, too, in ruin!
It’s silly wa’s the win’s are strewin!
An’ naething, now, to big a new ane,
O’ foggage green!
An’ bleak December’s winds ensuin,
Baith snell an’ keen!
Thou saw the fields laid bare an’ waste,
An’ weary Winter comin fast,
An’ cozie here, beneath the blast,
Thou thought to dwell,
Till crash! the cruel coulter past
Out thro’ thy cell.
That wee-bit heap o’ leaves an’ stibble
Has cost thee monie a weary nibble!
Now thou’s turn’d out, for a’ thy trouble,
But house or hald,
To thole the Winter’s sleety dribble,
An’ cranreuch cauld!
But Mousie, thou art no thy-lane,
In proving foresight may be vain:
The best laid schemes o’ Mice an’ Men
Gang aft agley,
An’ lea’e us nought but grief an’ pain,
For promis’d joy!
Still, thou art blest, compar’d wi’ me!
The present only toucheth thee:
But Och! I backward cast my e’e,
On prospects drear!
An’ forward tho’ I canna see,
I guess an’ fear! |
(https://78.media.tumblr.com/798d840b4a72d04a9d3574e3d6bca716/tumblr_pdirs67avB1ro4v2no1_1280.jpg)
(https://www.colourbox.com/preview/1792070-farmers-field-full-of-hay-bales-end-of-day.jpg) |
-
The Wild Swans at Colle
Yeats
'The trees are in their autumn beauty,
The woodland paths are dry,
Under the October twilight the water
Mirrors a still sky;
Upon the brimming water among the stones
Are nine-and-fifty swans.
The nineteenth autumn has come upon me
Since I first made my count;
I saw, before I had well finished,
All suddenly mount
And scatter wheeling in great broken rings
Upon their clamorous wings.
I have looked upon those brilliant creatures,
And now my heart is sore.
All's changed since I, hearing at twilight,
The first time on this shore,
The bell-beat of their wings above my head,
Trod with a lighter tread.
Unwearied still, lover by lover,
They paddle in the cold
Companionable streams or climb the air;
Their hearts have not grown old;
Passion or conquest, wander where they will,
Attend upon them still.
But now they drift on the still water,
Mysterious, beautiful;
Among what rushes will they build,
By what lake's edge or pool
Delight men's eyes when I awake some day
To find they have flown away? |
(https://img.etsystatic.com/il/a8906a/626997521/il_570xN.626997521_ljn4.jpg?version=0) |
-
Autumn is my most favorite season. With your poem I feel more anxious for its arrival. I am beginning to like swans more than ever. I've taken their beauty for granted in the past. Fifty-nine is mentioned in the poem. I will need to reread Yeats poem again. Then, I will know whether he is writing about other birds or a man or what. I haven't been up long. My thoughts are all out of order. Yes, I've read this poem at other times. The word "clamorous" is used. I think of many birds flying across the sky in the autumn. I have seen a hoard of birds fly together more than once. They would fly over the house we lived in years ago. Beautiful.
-
hats the poem takes on more meaning for me after I looked up the word heaning versus hearing - hearing at twilight I have seen written as heaning in twilight which some folks think is a typo and rewrite it as hearing, since the word heaning is seldom used anymore - but looking it up I like the meaning which goes to the heart of the time of day and the affect to our spirit at the time of day. Evidently both sunrise and sunsets can be described as heaning.
Hean is from Middle English henen, from Old English hīenan (“to fell, prostrate, overcome, weaken, crush, afflict, injure, oppress, abase, humble, insult, accuse, condemn”)
Last week I noted a change - although our temperatures are as high as they have been all summer - yesterday it was 104 there is a change I notice in the color of the sunlight and the sounds in the air - I notice the deer are eating leaves now rather than grass and some of the small birds are flocking - the humming birds are gone - there was information yesterday that we are in for a colder winter and so these changes I am seeing and hearing may be the signal.
-
Barb, I would come to hear you describe only the seasons. You're very observant. In discussions, I've noticed this trait for a long time. I think seasons are so important and not to go unnoticed. The painting with the poem is beautiful. The golden leaves and the six swans are restful to the eyes. Are there six swans in the painting? I counted six. I don't think swans fly very high up. I've never heard the sound of their clamorous wings. Thinking about it, I know very little about swans. I do know there are black swans. One day I read about them. Shocked! To me, the white swans are the pretty ones. Growing up we went to the zoo often, I can't remember seeing swans there. Fifty-nine seems like a bunch. Where would a person see so many together? In this place named Colle?
Thank goodness you mentioned heaning, hearing. If I put the word heaning in the poem instead of hearing, will the meaning change?
Your definitions lean toward the heavy side: afflict, oppress, cursh, etc.
-
By changing the wording to heaning I feel the sense of oppression that fall represents - in all its display of color it is the end even as he has to suggest their hearts have not grown old - an old heart would be appropriate to a near ending but he says their hearts are not old and therefore he himself is taking flight as the birds take flight from the oppressing crushing realization that fall is only a prelude to winter that is death to so much.
to me heaning is showing the opposite so deeply of the melancholy of autumn that keeps us humble as we see year after year the beauty of nature that is the lead up to the coming death symbolized by winter.
-
Harvest Of Friendship
by David Harris
For Carol Gall & Patti Masterman
Friendships can come
from many places near and far,
sometimes even half a world away
with faces we cannot see,
but their touch we can always feel.
Invisible hands reach out
across the miles to gently touch another’s.
Unbreakable links are forged,
bonds never to be unbroken.
Silent voices of strangers are suddenly heard,
welcomed in from the silence
to a voice never heard.
Strength is gathered in
to defeat the demons
of a sometimes lonely life
as we harvest friendships into our lives.
Friendships and distance no longer matters.
Hands now link to chain a message
that no matter who we are
a candle of hope is on the horizon
to light up many lives. |
(https://c.pxhere.com/photos/4e/fd/candle_flame_wax_light_fire_dark_burn_darkness-613238.jpg!d) |
-
| (https://78.media.tumblr.com/f552dca127f94129925fa63a815a7c00/tumblr_n9y8a0zmiK1ro4v2no1_1280.jpg) |
This strangely still pause between
summer and autumn,
greenery and gold, and
the heat and rising wind
that is once again
readying itself to rush it
all away in a climactic
symphony of colour and scent is
~ in my opinion,
one of the best parts of living on Earth.
by Victoria Erickson |
-
Our Daily Bread
by Robert William Service
Give me my daily bread.
It seems so odd,
When all is done and said,
This plea to God.
To pray for cake might be
The thing to do;
But bread, it seems to me,
Is just our due.
"Give me my daily toil,"
I ought to say -
(If from life's cursed coil
I'd time to pray.)
Give me my daily sweat,
My body sore,
So that bread I may get
To toil for more.
"Give me my daily breath,"
Through half a sob,
Until untimely death
Shall end my job.
A crust for my award,
I cry in dread:
"Grant unto me. Oh Lord,
My daily bread!" |
(https://78.media.tumblr.com/4277781a4033df7743f59f391687ea14/tumblr_otweqjasZb1s6y38ko1_1280.jpg) |
-
| (https://biblioklept.files.wordpress.com/2018/01/img_8998.jpg?w=739) |
(https://www.permaculturevictoria.org.au/wp-content/uploads/2018/07/retrosuburbia-THIS-ONE-1028-740-943x1024.jpg) |
-
Grasses
Do you love the humble grasses?
Such grasses as we see
By the wayside in the meadow,
growing profuse and free.
Nourished by dew and sunshine,
and genial summer rain;
And waving in the Autumn,
Among the fields of grain.
And in the bright clear Autumn,
When their various colored seeds,
Give the warmth of sunset shadows,
To the stubble fields and meads.
Go out beneath the sunshine,
Examine blade and stem;
Observe them how they thrive and grow,
"Where no man planted them."
|
(https://st2.depositphotos.com/1737959/6234/v/600/depositphotos_62346955-stock-video-the-birds-devastate-millet-and.jpg)
Wild Grass and Birds raiding the Millet and Sorghum fields |
-
Barb, what a strange poem "Living in a Simulation" is. Hard to make sense of it, but the title, now the title reminds me of my journeys into the post-human world of the future where you upload your memories and all to a computer and continue living in the digital world after your living body fails.
There is some speculation that we are all living in a simulation now. So, does that make God a game enthusiast playing a universe building game? Now that thought seems a bit degrading somehow.
-
Frybabe, I see many folks living now in simulation - everything they know and experience comes from their cell phone - their entire day seems to be glued to the screen so that, walking in a park or across the front lawn and actually seeing the birds and leaves is not their reality down to many intimate moments in life also seemed to be shared on the screen.
And then there are more folks who only know of harvests and fields of grain by what they can buy at the farmers markets - they have never seen fields of grain or flocks of birds descending into a field of sorghum - they have never seen grain made into flour or even seen bread made. And so with all the folks living in the suburbs trying to be aware and live in nature, their life is still a simulation of the life they admire on the farm or as it was before technology.
Then, as you say it can be taken a step further with scientists having proven there are at least 9 and probably 10 dimensions - so what, as you question, does that do about the common views on God - I gave that issue a lot of thought and if God is the 'All' then the only problem I can see is differentiating what is a personal God and what is the power that we call God.
Have you ever really looked into how consciousness and memory came to be - neither are a 'thing' like the body that we can track through evolution from the hot lava of the earths' beginning but consciousness and memory seem to be part of the function of the brain and the brain has evolved but then not every brain has consciousness based on decision making and creative thinking - most do have memory - again we seem to have relegated memory and decision making and even creativity to the computer so that these functions are a simulation of organic physical life assuming consciousness is part of physical life.
It is this time of year that the loss of actually connecting with the basics of nature overwhelm me - I look at all the children in the grocery and remember my own grandson who was shocked at about age 4 to pick a peach off my tree never realizing peaches grew on trees instead of in a pile at the grocery store. How many other children have never picked a peach off a tree and eaten that fresh juicy goodness or rubbed a handful of millet against itself and mixed it with fresh corn cut from a cob, letting them dry together on the backporch and later after toasted in the oven, cooked in a pot of sweet milk.
As life became easier and technology and machines took over we have lost the direct contact with nature and even hiking or gardening is a pseudo relationship - but now, we have a generation coming along that do not even hike or garden - even their dream-world seems to be an app - I sure hope it all comes clean in the wash but my thinking is just as we teach kids not to play or walk in the street we would be doing them a favor if we also had a time limit on their use of electronics - we are allowing a simulated life of a perfect world - even game warfare the looser is not inflicted with real losses in body or spirit.
-
You are right, Barb, there is a dangerous disconnect from losing direct contact with nature and oter human beings. It didn't start with all these electronic gadgets, however. From time to time I have run across fighter pilots who have been a bit disturbed that dropping bombs from a plane has disconnected them from the horrific aftermath to human life on the ground. Now, think of the drone pilots sitting at a console hundreds or thousands of miles away. That seems even worse.
Oh, and now there is Virtual Reality. Even my sister wants to get one of those VR glasses so she can armchair travel without leaving home. Not the same as being there, but a lot less expensive and a lot easier on arthritic joints and other problems that limit travel.
Ah, just ran across an Ogden Nash:
The Middle
When I remember bygone days
I think how evening follows morn;
So many I loved were not yet dead,
So many I love were not yet born.
-
This painting needs a poem - if this is an example of the Middle between morning and dark than here I would love to rest and contemplate
| (https://78.media.tumblr.com/25c7383dcb6acdc2737d1cdaa531c33b/tumblr_pe32d5TlRC1t3ek5n_500.jpg) | The Lily Pond By Verna Sheard
ON this little pool where the sunbeams lie,
This tawny gold ring where the shadows die,
God doth enamel the blue of His sky.
Through the scented dark when the night wind sighs,
He mirrors His stars where the ripples rise,
Till they glitter like prisoned fireflies.
'Tis here that the beryl-green leaves uncurl,
And here the lilies uplift and unfurl
Their golden-lined goblets of carven pearl.
When the grey of the eastern sky turns pink,
Through the silver edge at the pond's low brink
The little lone field-mouse creeps down to drink.
And creatures to whom only God is kind,
The loveless small things, the slow, and the blind,
Soft steal through the rushes, and comfort find.
Oh, restless the river, restless the sea,
Where the great ships go, and the dead men be!
The lily-pond giveth but peace to me. |
-
Good morning, Barb and Frybabe.
There is so much life around one pond. I liked reading about the tiny creatures in this poem. I will think about the helpless ones today. All of these "creatures great and small" are made for our pleasure. I've never seen this poet's name. Would like to read more of her poems. Your poem is good for thought too, Frybabe.
-
Nationalism by Brian Swann
At first, I wanted to be English. I didn’t have much choice.
The war just over, we sang: “The English, the English, the English
are best. / I wouldn’t give tuppence for all of the rest.”
But everybody was English, so, since we lived near the border
and because my favorite Uncle Len had a Scottish name
that qualified me to wear the hunting Stuart tartan and a kilt,
I wanted to be Scottish. Then, on a family holiday in a caravan
on the Norfolk coast I fell for two Welsh girls both named Jones
though unrelated. I was fourteen, they seventeen. I bought myself
Teach Yourself Welsh and decided to be Welsh until I made
the decision to return to my roots when I discovered that my
father’s father’s mother was one Alice O’Neill who left Cork
for England and was widowed at 23 with three young children.
The romance of this made me want to be Irish, so I read every
Irish myth and legend I could get my hands on, running home
each Wednesday at recess to listen to the BBC Northern
Ireland Light Orchestra play jigs and reels. So how did I decide
to be Jewish? With nothing better to do one summer, I booked
a seat on a flight organized by the university’s Adventurers’ Club.
When it was canceled all that was left was a flight to Israel,
which I thought was in the Bible until I got there, where I worked
on kibbutz Yad Mordechai, and was fed yogurt and Zionism.
I rode shotgun on a tractor and fell for a sabra. I was Jewish
until back in England my Palestinian friend Yael killed
by Mossad in a case of mistaken identity which made me think
I should be Arab or, later, Italian or Mexican, or just plain nothing.
Which was how on January 9, 1980, I swore allegiance to
the United States, becoming No. 108466898 and A13 834 018. |
-
Are American's nothing? - my take is American's are everything all combined - maybe not the proverbial soup but for sure a stew.
-
I think it means America is a blend of many nationalities. We take in from most (no longer all) countries and add them to the blender. In addition, it could further mean because the character (him? or someone he knows?) couldn't make up his mind, American became the best choice. I looked him up. He is contemporary. https://www.poetryfoundation.org/poets/brian-swann Notice that he has edited several volumes of Native American literature.
-
Thanks Frybabe - I did not know he translated native songs, poems and literature - found one of his books that is a collection of stories from many native nations and I'm ordering a copy - just the intro that goes on for pages has so much information - I did not know there was at least a 1000 languages spoken before the arrival of the white man. Some of the native author names I recognize and many are new to me -
-
| (https://78.media.tumblr.com/3e3156b0a6758bbc55bc04cd12bc48c1/tumblr_oo19khArmD1ro4v2no2_500.jpg) |
Give me songs
to sing
and emerald dreams
to dream
and I’ll give you love
unfolding
by Jim Morrison
|
-
(https://78.media.tumblr.com/1d3f22664696cbe677eb667b15f600d6/tumblr_octdw0slaZ1tic5i2o1_500.png)
Wm Wordsworth | (https://78.media.tumblr.com/819c889f6edcd2eff660c91d1fc908b1/tumblr_pc5xirzs271xnx6o6o1_500.jpg) |
-
The Last Rose of Summer
Thomas Moore (1779–1852)
’TIS the last rose of summer
Left blooming alone;
All her lovely companions
Are faded and gone;
No flower of her kindred,
No rosebud is nigh,
To reflect back her blushes,
To give sigh for sigh.
I’ll not leave thee, thou lone one!
To pine on the stem;
Since the lovely are sleeping,
Go, sleep thou with them.
Thus kindly I scatter
Thy leaves o’er the bed,
Where thy mates of the garden
Lie scentless and dead.
So soon may I follow,
When friendships decay,
And from Love’s shining circle
The gems drop away.
When true hearts lie withered
And fond ones are flown,
Oh! who would inhabit
This bleak world alone? | (https://78.media.tumblr.com/af938e284ca7d1b1b4618951c3c1cb6b/tumblr_oxegsseADX1tf6696o1_500.jpg) |
-
And that poem is also a gorgeous song. A tenor, soprano, or boy soprano can do it so well!
-
here you go Tomereader - a Celtic Woman soprano - quote beautiful
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Qj3c52hg2sE
-
Thank you, Barb! Loved that.
-
(https://78.media.tumblr.com/c63ce56ba36264dd3d47d61ac05e32c5/tumblr_pf4wx4psJw1ueh8npo1_1280.jpg)
September by English poet and novelist Jean Ingelow (1820-1897). Illustrated by Edith Holden-from ‘The Country Diary of an Edwardian Lady’.
-
Barb and Tomereader, thank you for the beautiful poem and the song. I really love the poem about the last rose.
-
| (https://78.media.tumblr.com/tumblr_m4xq6hzwxO1qjq5e7o1_500.jpg) | Out in the orchard,
before the first apple
placed gently in the bag,
snap of the McIntosh
to my bite, sweet fragrance,
taste of Fall, cascade of memory
in the first bite. Red ripe fruit
yielding to my grasp
Thick heavy branches,
like bunches of grapes
A full bag, alright two,
in a matter of moments
Apples for a month,
on their way home |
-
Yes. Apples are fall.
-
(https://66.media.tumblr.com/bb2f3dffa69e3068395dbc1587b7be2d/tumblr_pfgdgjJkcM1uoku8ao1_500.jpg)
Walk on water. Walk on a leaf. Hardest of all is walking grief
-
| (https://66.media.tumblr.com/ef0658ff6f63ff6104847f1888ad99cf/tumblr_nlzqz4sUKS1ro4v2no1_500.jpg) | The Stolen Child
W.B. Yeats
Where the wave of moonlight glosses
The dim gray sands with light,
Far off by furthest Rosses
We foot it all the night,
Weaving olden dances
Mingling hands and mingling glances
Till the moon has taken flight;
To and fro we leap
And chase the frothy bubbles,
While the world is full of troubles
And anxious in its sleep.
Come away, O human child!
To the waters and the wild
With a faery, hand in hand,
For the world's more full of weeping than you can understand. |
-
When I bite down on an apple in October and November, I am reminded autumn is still with us. It's that special time before winter. Colors become brighter. Smells call for a sniff. Haven't been out much this fall. Not too late. Fall is not gone yet. In my head, I'm thinking of a new pair of boots for December. I tell my mind to stay here and stay still. Don't rush the cold days of winter with ice and snow and maybe cabin fever.
-
I've noticed that hats - this year folks seem to be rushing through autumn and focusing on the start of winter and the Christmas holidays - I'm missing the interest in slowing down and breathing in while admiring the colors of autumn - I think I need to find some more photos and poems about autumn so we can fill ourselves with the season.
-
Autumn
By John Keats
Season of mists and mellow fruitfulness,
Close bosom-friend of the maturing sun;
Conspiring with him how to load and bless
With fruit the vines that round the thatch-eves run;
To bend with apples the moss'd cottage-trees,
And fill all fruit with ripeness to the core;
To swell the gourd, and plump the hazel shells
With a sweet kernel; to set budding more,
And still more, later flowers for the bees,
Until they think warm days will never cease,
For summer has o'er-brimm'd their clammy cells.
Who hath not seen thee oft amid thy store?
Sometimes whoever seeks abroad may find
Thee sitting careless on a granary floor,
Thy hair soft-lifted by the winnowing wind;
Or on a half-reap'd furrow sound asleep,
Drows'd with the fume of poppies, while thy hook
Spares the next swath and all its twined flowers:
And sometimes like a gleaner thou dost keep
Steady thy laden head across a brook;
Or by a cyder-press, with patient look,
Thou watchest the last oozings hours by hours.
Where are the songs of spring? Ay, Where are they?
Think not of them, thou hast thy music too,—
While barred clouds bloom the soft-dying day,
And touch the stubble-plains with rosy hue;
Then in a wailful choir the small gnats mourn
Among the river sallows, borne aloft
Or sinking as the light wind lives or dies;
And full-grown lambs loud bleat from hilly bourn;
Hedge-crickets sing; and now with treble soft
The red-breast whistles from a garden-croft;
And gathering swallows twitter in the skies. | (https://66.media.tumblr.com/tumblr_lpzjydFLUF1qk7uiso1_500.jpg) |
-
(https://www.sheva.com/wp-content/uploads/2015/09/SHEVA-Autum1.jpg)
The Autumn
Elizabeth Barrett Browning
Go, sit upon the lofty hill,
And turn your eyes around,
Where waving woods and waters wild
Do hymn an autumn sound.
The summer sun is faint on them —
The summer flowers depart —
Sit still — as all transform’d to stone,
Except your musing heart.
How there you sat in summer-time,
May yet be in your mind;
And how you heard the green woods sing
Beneath the freshening wind.
Though the same wind now blows around,
You would its blast recall;
For every breath that stirs the trees,
Doth cause a leaf to fall.
Oh! like that wind, is all the mirth
That flesh and dust impart:
We cannot bear its visitings,
When change is on the heart.
Gay words and jests may make us smile,
When Sorrow is asleep;
But other things must make us smile,
When Sorrow bids us weep!
The dearest hands that clasp our hands, —
Their presence may be o’er;
The dearest voice that meets our ear,
That tone may come no more!
Youth fades; and then, the joys of youth,
Which once refresh’d our mind,
Shall come — as, on those sighing woods,
The chilling autumn wind.
Hear not the wind — view not the woods;
Look out o’er vale and hill-
In spring, the sky encircled them —
The sky is round them still.
Come autumn’s scathe — come winter’s cold —
Come change — and human fate!
Whatever prospect Heaven doth bound,
Can ne’er be desolate.
-
Welcome to our Poetry Page.
Our haven for those who listen to words that open our heart, imagination, and our feelings about the poems we share.
This is our continuing tradition. Please join us!
“Shakespeare Sonnet 73”
“That time of year thou mayst in me behold,
When yellow leaves, or none, or few do hang
Upon those boughs which shake against the cold,
Bare ruined choirs where late the sweet birds sang.
In me thou seest the twilight of such day
As after sunset fadeth in the west,
Which by and by black night doth take away,
Death’s second self that seals up all in rest.
In me thou seest the glowing of such fire
That on the ashes of his youth doth lie
As the death-bed whereon it must expire,
Consumed with that which it was nourished by.
This thou perceiv’st, which makes thy love more strong,
To love that well which thou must leave ere long. ”
| (https://www.sheva.com/wp-content/uploads/2015/09/SHEVA-Autum6.jpg)
|
Autumn Poems
- 10 Poems for Autumn
(https://www.panmacmillan.com/blogs/literary/poems-poetry-about-for-autumn-keats-frost-classic) - Changeful Autumn / Fall in Classical Poetry (http://leopoldclassiclibrary.com/blog/autumn-in-classical-poetry)
Discussion Leader: BarbStAubrey (augere@ix.netcom.com)
-
| (https://www.sheva.com/wp-content/uploads/2015/09/SHEVA-Autum5.jpg) | An Emily Dickinson poem
The name—of it—is ‘Autumn’—
The hue—of it—is Blood—
An Artery—upon the Hill—
A Vein—along the Road—
Great Globules—in the Alleys—
And Oh, the Shower of Stain—
When Winds—upset the Basin—
And spill the Scarlet Rain—
It sprinkles Bonnets—far below—
It gathers ruddy Pools—
Then—eddies like a Rose—away—
Upon Vermilion Wheels— |
-
Lovely, Barb. I especially like the Elizabeth Barrett Browning poem and the photo with it. Also, the Charalana, art or photograph(?) with the Keats poem. I tried looking up Charalana, but got nowhere.
-
Here are two of her site's
https://500px.com/chiaralana
https://yourshot.nationalgeographic.com/profile/1478737/
-
Well, that explains it. I spelled the name wrong. I missed the "I". Not to mention it was two names, not one. And to think I just got new glasses.
-
:D :-*
-
(https://66.media.tumblr.com/2ca0b40564dedbcdb95c395e6c3240e7/tumblr_pi05go2Dwi1ueh8npo1_540.jpg) |
“They shall grow not old, as we that are left grow old:
Age shall not weary them, nor the years condemn.
At the going down of the sun and in the morning
We will remember them.” |
‘For the Fallen’, Poem by Robert Laurence Binyon (1869-1943), first published in The Times Newspaper on 21st September 1914. |
-
Poppies are always beautiful. The photo fits the thought.
-
Paradise California - 42 Dead
(https://img.rt.com/files/2018.11/article/5bea507efc7e93434d8b457b.JPG) |
Empty Dwelling Places
Kenneth Patchen
Forever the little thud of names, falling,
Disappearing, baying at the moon for the last time --
Quiet obscure little names, leaving no trace
But the ash-flecked aroma of stale fragmentary careers.
Names that once clothed the pound of blood in a body,
That stood for lungs, and love-possible limbs,
And voices, voices rich in faith and friendly
To the sweep and surge of curious spying years.
In the brisk procession of sub-tunneled fame
The little names settle in the ooze of silent unhurried
nothingness.
In the night the head on the pillow turns,
And a little changed hurt settles on the course
Of the dearest striving, a wrong music flooding
Forbidden chambers, with no semblance of comfort even
in the words.
My name is . . .
(over and over)--
my name is . . .
I swear to you I knew it once.
|
-
That's sad Barb, but then so is the loss of so many lives in the latest CA fires.
-
Yes frybabe - even if they published their names they would be obscure to all but those who know and are hurting from the loss of their loved one.
-
Barb, loved seeing the Emily Dickinson poem about the wonder of books in the Library. Also, fell in love with the poster. With snow in the forecasts I suppose it is time to settle in like a not hibernating bear. I love snow. I have begun saying 'I don't care about snow. I hope it never comes.' This is the way I keep myself from becoming disappointed. We seldom get snow. Only warnings that it is coming, on the way. Then, it passes by us. Disappointment hurts like a good old fashioned bellyache.
There are six hundred and something missing persons in the fire in California. Oh, it is heartbreaking.
-
(https://4.bp.blogspot.com/-VHuTIyKZ1ac/W-_QJs_pbUI/AAAAAAAADC4/0UhmUB_zkkA7J4Q_lnxgE5IxnGWNLWgygCLcBGAs/s1600/Autumn.jpg) | An Apple-Gathering
Christina Georgina Rossetti
I plucked pink blossoms from mine apple tree
And wore them all that evening in my hair:
Then in due season when I went to see
I found no apples there.
With dangling basket all along the grass
As I had come I went the selfsame track:
My neighbours mocked me while they saw me pass
So empty-handed back.
Lilian and Lilias smiled in trudging by,
Their heaped-up basket teazed me like a jeer;
Sweet-voiced they sang beneath the sunset sky,
Their mother's home was near.
Plump Gertrude passed me with her basket full,
A stronger hand than hers helped it along;
A voice talked with her thro' the shadows cool
More sweet to me than song.
|
Ah Willie, Willie, was my love less worth
Than apples with their green leaves piled above?
I counted rosiest apples on the earth
Of far less worth than love.
So once it was with me you stooped to talk
Laughing and listening in this very lane:
To think that by this way we used to walk
We shall not walk again!
I let my neighbours pass me, ones and twos
And groups; the latest said the night grew chill,
And hastened: but I loitered, while the dews
Fell fast I loitered still. |
-
This poem about apple picking is beautiful. Poor girl, all the other neighbors have filled their baskets with apples. She has no apples but she does have Willie. Would have liked to know more about him. Hearing the names of the apple pickers makes the poem seem friendly. But we don't know her name, and why doesn't she have any apples in her basket?
I have been thinking of apple poems. Last week I read in a book, it or someone mentioned Robert Frost's poem about apple picking. I've put off looking up. Apples really do make autumn special. "An apple a day keeps the doctor away."
-
Hats, this is why she had no apples.
I plucked pink blossoms from mine apple tree
And wore them all that evening in my hair:
Then in due season when I went to see
I found no apples there.
-
| Thanksgiving
By Tim Nolan Thanks for the Italian chestnuts—with their
tough shells—the smooth chocolaty
skin of them—thanks for the boiling water—
itself a miracle and a mystery—
thanks for the seasoned sauce pan
and the old wooden spoon—and all
the neglected instruments in the drawer—
the garlic crusher—the bent paring knife—
the apple slicer that creates six
perfect wedges out of the crisp Haralson—
thanks for the humming radio—thanks
for the program on the radio
about the guy who was a cross-dresser—
but his wife forgave him—and he
ended up almost dying from leukemia—
(and you could tell his wife loved him
entirely—it was in her deliberate voice)—
thanks for the brined turkey—
the size of a big baby—thanks—
for the departed head of the turkey—
the present neck—the giblets
(whatever they are)—wrapped up as
small gifts inside the cavern of the ribs—
thanks—thanks—thanks—for the candles
lit on the table—the dried twigs—
the autumn leaves in the blue Chinese vase—
thanks—for the faces—our faces—in this low light. |
(https://66.media.tumblr.com/cbd4026cdf14100a4aedfb4d79c6653d/tumblr_pc50g5Xarj1tomm69o1_1280.jpg) |
-
Perhaps the World Ends Here
Joy Harjo
The world begins at a kitchen table. No matter what, we must eat to live.
The gifts of earth are brought and prepared, set on the table.
So it has been since creation, and it will go on.
We chase chickens or dogs away from it. Babies teethe at the corners.
They scrape their knees under it.
It is here that children are given instructions on what it means to be human.
We make men at it, we make women.
At this table we gossip, recall enemies and the ghosts of lovers.
Our dreams drink coffee with us as they put their arms around our children.
They laugh with us at our poor falling-down selves and as we put ourselves
back together once again at the table.
This table has been a house in the rain, an umbrella in the sun.
Wars have begun and ended at this table. It is a place to hide
in the shadow of terror. A place to celebrate the terrible victory.
We have given birth on this table, and have prepared
our parents for burial here.
At this table we sing with joy, with sorrow. We pray of suffering and remorse.
We give thanks.
Perhaps the world will end at the kitchen table,
while we are laughing and crying, eating of the last sweet bite. |
(http://johnmariani.com/archive/2015/151122/thanksgiving.jpg) |
-
Tomereader her use of all the apple blossoms tells about her character, doesn't it? I missed all of that until reading your answer last week. I like this girl. I know she isn't very practical. She's playful. She still has a childish spirit. I wonder if she felt guilty about not having picked the apples instead of loving the pink blossoms. I also wonder was she a teen or in her twenties. I hope not to wander too far away from the poem's meaning. Barb in a poem, how far can you wander in a poem without taking too much poetic license?
-
I almost missed the autumn links in the header. Boy, I would feel terrible if I had found them on the first day of winter. I'm so excited to read this first poem and the other ones. The autumn photo is beautiful.
-
In Advent when we think about Mary and her Magnificat and the scandal of teenage motherhood and we light a candle and think about this gem of a poem by James Wright called “Trouble”:
Leering across Pearl Street,
Crum Anderson yipped:
“Hey Pugh!
I see your sister
Been rid bareback.
She swallow a watermelon?
Fred Gordon! Fred Gordon! Fred Gordon!”
Wayya mean? She can get fat, can’t she?”
Fat? Willow and lonesome Roberta, running
Alone down Pearl Street in the rain the last time
I ever saw her, smiling a smile
Crum Anderson will never know,
Wondering at her body.
Sixteen years, and
All that time she thought she was nothing
But skin and bones.
-
I was surprised my quilt and pillow were cold,
I see that now the window's bright again.
Deep in the night, I know the snow is thick,
I sometimes hear the sound as bamboo snaps.
- BaiJuyi, Night Snow | (https://ae01.alicdn.com/kf/HTB1.218JFXXXXcqXXXXq6xXFXXXU/Bamb-en-la-nieve-pintura-de-seda-vintage-home-decor-cuadros-decoracion-lona-pintura-pared-pictures.jpg) |
-
| (https://www.raandrade.com/wp-content/uploads/2018/07/chickadee_9_bird_in_snow_fine_art_bird_photography_print_large.jpg) |
I Heard a Bird Sing
- Oliver Herford
I heard a bird sing
In the dark of December
A magical thing
And sweet to remember.
'We are nearer to Spring
Than we were in September,'
I heard a bird sing
In the dark of December. |
-
(https://www.poemhunter.com/i/poem_images/056/laughter-is-infectious.jpg)
-
I have never heard a bird's song in December. I must draw an audience of birds and apologize to each one. Seriously, I must listen more closely. When I don't hear birds sing, I feel a little bit distressed. Their lack of songs must mean the earth is sick and weary. I am very aware of their voices in the spring and summer and fall. A bird's song can change my mood.
-
Winter Crept Up On Us
(https://66.media.tumblr.com/c827bb3f6580687451bbe54415b4abc6/tumblr_ojqbbob3Uj1ueh8npo1_1280.jpg)
Winter solitude -
in a world of one color
the sound of wind
By Basho, a 17th century Japanese haiku master.
-
Barb, one of my favorite haiku masters. Thanks.
-
Barb and Path, I am not as familiar with the Haiku. The ones I've read have been very memorable. I like the one above about the quietness of winter. Due to the lack of color and maybe animal life a person must really become more observant. Then, there is a realization this is not a dull season. It is only different in its beauty. I'm sitting here trying to remember windy, winter day. Thankfully, I can say the wind is in my memory box. It's a different sound from the wind of spring, summer and autumn. I wonder if it's a lonely sound. Think, brain, think.
At one time, I tried writing a Haiku or two. I had so much fun. Often, I miscounted the syllables. Isn't that silly? I might go back to Haiku writing. I haven't seen many cardinals this winter. My husband saw four perched together one morning. Cardinals are always pretty against snow. I have a throw pillow of that description. Usually, it's taken out during Christmas. I didn't this time. It's in a box somewhere. Maybe the pillow is with Christmas decorations. I didn't use those this year. Only a green bell wreath was put on the door. Whoops, I don't want to wander too far away from winter solitude.
-
THE WHITE FLOWER
By Heinrich Heine
In father’s garden there silently grows
A flow’ret mournful and pale;
The spring-time returns, the winter’s frost goes,
Pale flow’ret remaineth as pale.
The poor pale flower looks still
Like a young bride that’s ill.
Pale flow’ret gently saith to me—
“Dear brother, pluck me, I pray!”
I answer pale flow’ret—“That must not be,
I never will take thee away.
I seek with anxious care
A purple flow’ret fair.”
Pale flow’ret saith—“Seek here, seek there,
Seek e’en till the day of thy death,
But still that purple flow’ret fair
Thou’lt seek in vain,” she saith.
“But, prythee, pluck me now,
I am as ill as thou.”
Thus whispers pale flow’ret, beseeching me sore;
I tremblingly pluck her, and lo!
I find my heart suddenly bleeding no more,
Mine inward eye brightly doth glow.
Mute angel-rapture blest
Now fills my wounded breast. |
(https://i.pinimg.com/originals/bd/ba/26/bdba26528e07e5608a7ebdda1f3a7d56.jpg) |
-
(https://charmedchaoscom.files.wordpress.com/2018/03/blossom-snow-winter-plant-white-flower-224437-pxhere-com.jpg?w=458)
Pounding frantic storm
trudging through crushed white diamonds
icy blow to Spring
-
(https://i.pinimg.com/originals/10/0f/ab/100fab9eadd6073ad2dcf5ac879760e3.jpg)
-
(https://www.japanpowered.com/media/images/KambaraYoru-no-yuki.jpg)
Wintry wind—
Passing a man
With a swollen face.
-
"My darling girl,
when are you going
to realize that
being normal is
not necessarily a virtue?
It rather denotes a lack of courage.“
- Aunt Frances | (https://66.media.tumblr.com/ce71a69cd9a8d17d0b6ee51672cd69b8/tumblr_o8ajq5Mw9T1uem50to1_1280.jpg) |
-
I like that.
-
A tethered horse,
snow
In both stirrups.
Yosa Buson, 18th century poet and painter
-
Yes, Pat I remember reading that piece - I need to pull out my books filled with these Haiku masters - to pack so much in just a few syllables is awe inspiring - I like this short bio on Buson...
https://www.poetryfoundation.org/poets/yosa-buson
-
Instead of poetry that seems like a wise saying. Courageous people don't worry about acting normal. That seems like a mouthful. Might write this poem in my little journal. I don't have any daughters only sons. If I were the mother of a daughter, I wouldn't have the nerve to tell her to avoid conformity is fine. What might she do?
-
Glass, glass,
What is glass?
A thing that is nothing
where light may pass.
It is air and not air,
it is there and nowhere.
And yet it is hard
and the dazed bird
as it flies through the land
strikes the glass and cannot
understand.
—Gerhart Hauptmann
| (https://images-na.ssl-images-amazon.com/images/I/71LjVLuBQeL._SX385_.jpg) |
-
I am glad the bird stops and notices the "hard" glass. Even what seems hard might have something to give back to its visitor.
-
hats have you had birds hit your windows? Sometimes they hit the window in the breakfast room so hard they knock themselves out and land stunned on the patio for a bit - I'm told it is because they see the grass and trees reflected in the glass - I hate hearing that thud knowing how hard it is when I hit my head not seeing a closed glass door much less a tiny bird.
-
Barb, if you have one of those "Wild Bird Stores" in your area, you can get a little holographic bird, or other thing, to put on the glass and the birds will not hit the window. The one I had finally washed off, and I haven't been to get another just yet. The bird strike is frightening when it happens, and you are sitting quietly reading or napping inyour chair!
-
Welcome to our Poetry Page.
Our haven for those who listen to words that open our heart, imagination, and our feelings about the poems we share.
This is our continuing tradition. Please join us!
Ode To Martin Luther King Jr. - I Have A Dream
by Supratik
Fifty years ago on this very special day,
You shared your dream; you had your say;
The two colorful worlds stood and listened to you,
Your speech of love and peace had blended them anew;
The bond was always there you tapped them on the spot,
With ‘humanhood’ that flew from the heart of your thought;
We are done with it, that meaningless dissent,
Black and white came close to every word you meant.
Down the time pipeline the issues though have changed,
People tired fight they are not engaged,
I’m hopeful men women, if the colour magic worked,
Fifty years hence we’d have a peaceful world.
For this to be true, we need the August man,
To unite the world into a happy caravan.
| (https://66.media.tumblr.com/e18f04ffbb72fd47c8382ce35960c5cb/tumblr_pl7r6dJA0g1x4agglo1_500.jpg)
|
Winter Poems
- Winter Poems
(https://www.poetryfoundation.org/collections/144637/winter-poems) - Paris Review / 7 Poems for a Snowy Evening (https://www.theparisreview.org/blog/2014/02/13/snow-is-a-hat-worn-by-mountains/)
Discussion Leader: BarbStAubrey (augere@ix.netcom.com)
-
It's a kind poem. Memorable of the fact that the man loved peace. Happy Martin Luther King Day.
-
thinking back he was a man of infinite courage. His message of love, respect and peace would never be heard if he was not so courageous.
-
This Poem commemorates the Jews who were forced to leave Tunisia after Independence 1956. | (https://www.mystreetinspiration.com/wp-content/uploads/2018/06/true-blue-door-473x800.jpg) | Au Café des Délices
Your memories are veiled
It's like an eclipse
A night full of stars
On the port of Tunis
The wind of the fan
From your grandfather sitting
At the Café des Délices
Your memories are veiled
You see the train
And the whiteness of the sails
Women holding a son
And the smell of jasmine
That he held in his hands
At the Café des Délices
Yalil yalil abibi yalil yalil yalil abibi yalil
Your memories are veiled
You see her again
The kiss that hurts
At El Kantaoui harbor
The first words of love
On velvet songs
Abibi Abibi
Your memories are veiled
You loved them these fruits
The apricot kernels
For you, they were balls
And party nights
What were we doing in our heads
At the beaches of Hammamet
Yalil yalil abibi yalil yalil yalil abibi yalil
Your memories are veiled
At the front of the boat
And this wharf is moving away
Towards a new world
A life that stops
For a day that begins
Maybe it's a chance
Yalil yalil you will not forget
Yalil yalil these scents of yesteryear
Yalil yalil you will not forget
Yalil yalil even if you go
Yalil yalil abibi yalil yalil yalil abibi yalil
A night full of stars
On the port of Tunis
And the whiteness of the sails
Women holding a son
The wind of the fan
From your grandfather sitting
And the smell of jasmine
That he held in his hands
At the Café des Délices |
-
The conquest of France by the Germans in 1940 led to the establishment of the pro-German puppet regime of Vichy whose
anti-Semitic race laws were incorporated into the Statute Books of France and its protectorates, including Tunisia.
In October 1942, German forces were ordered to occupy Tunisia and in doing so brought under their control a population of 90,000 Jews. The Germans immediately abolished all the communal organizations and mandated all Jews to wear the yellow Star of David. 5,000 young Jews were taken into forced labour camps; bank accounts were expropriated and valuables confiscated. Fortunately, the Germans were forced to evacuate the country in March 1943 before they could annihilate the Jewish population.
With the ending of the German occupation, the rights of the Jews were restored. After 1945, the Jewish population of Tunisia reached a peak of 105,000 (65,000 in Tunis alone), along with hundreds of rabbis and synagogues. Jewish newspapers appeared in abundance, Jewish students were graduating from the universities in significant numbers and successfully entering all professions.
It was a false dawn. The revival of the Jewish community coincided with an intensification of the struggle of the Muslim population for independence. The struggle escalated until, in 1954, the French Prime Minister, Pierre Mendès-France, himself a Jew, granted Tunisia home rule as a first step to full sovereignty, which was achieved in March 1956.
Despite the apparent warm and tolerant attitude towards Tunisia's Jews, Jewish organizations were ordered into one body known as the Jewish Religious Council, the members of which were appointed by the President. The existence of a multitude of Jewish organizations was held to be in conflict with the Government's aiming of equality for all citizens as guaranteed by the new constitution.
Under an order for slum clearance, the ancient Jewish quarter was razed to the ground, thereby demolishing the oldest and most historic synagogue in Tunis. Jews became prime targets for attack, particularly in the wake of occurrences such as the Suez crisis of 1956. Mob violence broke out in Tunis on 5 June 1967, the day Israel attacked its neighbors. One hundred shops were systematically looted and burnt; cars belonging to Jews were overturned and set ablaze; forty scrolls of the Law were taken out of the main synagogue and were desecrated before they were burnt; the main synagogue was set on fire until it lay a smouldering ruin, the police stood by and watched.
The President made an impassioned plea on radio and television to stop the rioting, apologizing to the Jewish community and promising to punish the perpetrators. The Jews of Tunisia found little comfort from the Government's expressions of regret and abandoned any idea that there could be a future in remaining in the country.
From the peak Jewish population of 105,000, the community declined to 23,000 by the end of 1967 and to 9,000 by 1990. About 60,000 chose to go to France, which allowed unrestricted immigration, while the remaining 45,000 emigrated predominantly to Israel. The Jewish population today numbers about 3,000, most of whom live mainly in Tunis and on the island of Djerba in the south of the country. The security of this very small community has been guaranteed by the Government, which has restored to the community a number of communal buildings (synagogues) that had been confiscated at the time of the riots.
-
Hi Barb, Tunisia is not familiar to me. However, the plight of the Jews is a situation I try to stay in touch with often. I'm thinking if the Germans held 90,000 Jews under their power there must have been many, many of them. It's an explosion of the conquerors over the conquered. Most days I feel more conquered than conqueror. This is why I feel a connection to those that were labeled, taken from their homes and murdered in many, different diabolical ways. Also, my racial background as an African American person whose ancestors have been lynched and falsely blamed during slavery and the present day enables a feeling of empathy. All of this leads to two questions: Why is it easy for humans to hate and carry out their hatred in such diabolical ways? Secondly, why is it not possible to stop this brutality against the persons who live on the same planet with you?
It's all gloomy. Still it must remain in our memories, in our books, in our mouths until change comes or History repeats its self. Sadly, as you write, "False Dawns" continue to overtake us leaving our nerves painfully atop our skins and our teeth jittery. Never really able to relax in the amount of peace we have gained.
-
Oh, hats, you're so right. Why is it so hard for the good in people to win out over the evil?
-
My thinking is the scenario of the 12 apostles tells us the story of how the behavior of a few destroy what is good - we had one apostle sell out the good - three who could not guard or even stay with the good and after the good was crucified we have one who could not believe good rose again. That is 5 out of 12 - multiply each of the 5 roles as well as multiply the good in human nature and we can see that even the Christian Bible told us how evil is part of a community.
-
(https://66.media.tumblr.com/e31f5b92bff320f553a119456ae1f4cd/tumblr_panolquJLn1x3v8wwo1_1280.jpg)
The trees are in their autumn beauty,
The woodland paths are dry,
Under the October twilight the water
Mirrors a still sky;
Upon the brimming water among the stones
Are nine-and-fifty swans.
The nineteenth autumn has come upon me
Since I first made my count;
I saw, before I had well finished,
All suddenly mount
And scatter wheeling in great broken rings
Upon their clamorous wings.
I have looked upon those brilliant creatures,
And now my heart is sore.
All's changed since I, hearing at twilight,
The first time on this shore,
The bell-beat of their wings above my head,
Trod with a lighter tread.
Unwearied still, lover by lover,
They paddle in the cold
Companionable streams or climb the air;
Their hearts have not grown old;
Passion or conquest, wander where they will,
Attend upon them still.
But now they drift on the still water,
Mysterious, beautiful;
Among what rushes will they build,
By what lake's edge or pool
Delight men's eyes when I awake some day
To find they have flown away? |
-
Saw the photo and immediately the Yeat's poem popped into my head - The Wild Swans of Coole - he wrote while staying at the home of his friend Lady Gregory. This was a time of melancholy if not depression for him. He was reflecting on his advancing age, romantic rejections by both Maud Gonne and her daughter Iseult Gonne, and the ongoing Irish rebellion against the British. The poem is searching for a lasting beauty in a changing world where beauty is mortal and temporary.
-
| (https://66.media.tumblr.com/2593fa15eaaf560127de0f60b5410020/tumblr_pn8tq074ug1qde5xzo2_1280.jpg) | Mist Henry David Thoreau, 1817 - 1862
Low-anchored cloud,
Newfoundland air,
Fountain-head and source of rivers,
Dew-cloth, dream-drapery,
And napkin spread by fays;
Drifting meadow of the air,
Where bloom the daisied banks and violets,
And in whose fenny labyrinth
The bittern booms and heron wades;
Spirit of lakes and seas and rivers,—
Bear only perfumes and the scent
Of healing herbs to just men’s fields. |
-
This is at the beginning of a Gothic supernatural mystery that I pulled off Project Gutenberg. The book is titled Death, the Knight and the Lady by H. De Vere Stacpoole. Arras is city in France once known for its' rich wall tapestries in the 14th and 15th centuries. These tapestries were referred to as Arras tapestries, or simply Arras.
Ballad of the Arras
Lo! where are now these armoured hosts
Mailed for the tourney cap-a-pie,
These dames and damozelles where ghosts
Make of the past this pagentry?
O sanguine book of History!
Romance with perfume cloaks they must,
But he who shakes the page may see
--Dust.
Stiff hangs the arras in the gloom;
I turn my head awhile to gaze:
Here lordly stallions fret and fume,
Here streams o'er briar and brake the chase.
Here sounds a horn, here turns a face,
How filled with fires of life and lust!
Wind shakes the arras and betrays
--Dust
Ephemeral hand inditing this
Great hound that lolls against my knee,
Lips pursed in thought as if to kiss
Regret--full soon the time must be.
When one shall search, but find not ye,
For that dim moth whose labours rust
All forms in them or tapestry
--Dust
Forth offspring to the perch and then
Clap wings--or fall, if find you must
This saddest fate of books or men
--Dust
Interesting, easy read, story set in the 19th century, I think. There are two other poems in the book, but not as compelling as this. (The spelling is as in the poem.)
-
Two Tapestries from Arras(https://rlv.zcache.com/arras_tapestry_offering_of_the_heart_postcard-r07cdbb1152e34783b629212fb588975f_vgbaq_8byvr_540.jpg) |
| (https://a.1stdibscdn.com/exceptional-18th-century-french-verdure-tapestry-made-in-arras-for-sale-picture-2/f_26093/f_111331511529502209398/Verdure_Arras_Plantez_235x385cm_2_master.jpg?width=1500) |
-
Barb and Frybabe, so much good stuff!! I especially love the tapestries. Beautiful. The Yeats poem is one I've read, not often just a few times. Fifty-nine swans is hard to imagine. That's quite a few for one lake. On my Kindle I have a Yeats poetry e-book. I don't know how many pages are there. I haven't counted them. Surely, this poem is among them. Frybabe, is that the wrong name for you? Every time I write it a red line appears. Your poem is much harder for me to grasp. Help! Still, it's beautiful too. This weekend it will bring much enjoyment.
-
Have come back again. This time I'm attracted again to the beautiful blue door. I never can read a poem once. So, I read the Au Cafe des delices again. For some reason, I wondered whether the cafe really existed. Yes! What a great surprise. I like this poem because it seems like a memory.
Hi Path, I'm glad we are in agreement. I needed those positive vibes this morning. I also wanted to write how horrible it is to read about any synagogue burning.
-
Hats here is a treat for you Au café des délices set to song and sung by Patrick Bruel, a Frensh singer whose family went to France during the purge of 1956. This video was made when he was much younger - he is now in his late 50s.
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Nlw4jOOEgIo&list=RDroy5PIonrPc&index=17
-
The Pounding of Hoes
The pounding of hoes — don’t you hear them?
Behind high stone walls,
unceasing, yet slow,
beyond the folds of time.
They tore out the vines. They burned the fresh shoots.
Desert spread across the good earth.
Our old and anxious feet dragged
along the snaking dust-choked riverbed.
Wisdom cried out to fallow fields
and dry, wind-blown reeds:
Look at yourself in me as you approach
the death that waits for you.
Squatting in shadows, hired men
uproot the naked winter vines.
There is not enough light to fill the sky’s vast emptiness.
Just the pounding of hoes in the deepening cold. | (https://img.freepik.com/free-photo/old-stone-wall-with-leaves_1232-4730.jpg?size=626&ext=jpg) |
-
this is long but so beautiful and profound
POEM IN OCTOBER
Dylan Thomas
It was my thirtieth year to heaven
Woke to my hearing from harbour and neighbour wood
And the mussel pooled and the heron
Priested shore
The morning beckon
With water praying and call of seagull and rook
And the knock of sailing boats on the webbed wall
Myself to set foot
That second
In the still sleeping town and set forth.
My birthday began with the water-
Birds and the birds of the winged trees flying my name
Above the farms and the white horses
And I rose
In a rainy autumn
And walked abroad in shower of all my days
High tide and the heron dived when I took the road
Over the border
And the gates
Of the town closed as the town awoke.
A springful of larks in a rolling
Cloud and the roadside bushes brimming with whistling
Blackbirds and the sun of October
Summery
On the hill's shoulder,
Here were fond climates and sweet singers suddenly
Come in the morning where I wandered and listened
To the rain wringing
Wind blow cold
In the wood faraway under me.
Pale rain over the dwindling harbour
And over the sea wet church the size of a snail
With its horns through mist and the castle
Brown as owls
But all the gardens
Of spring and summer were blooming in the tall tales
Beyond the border and under the lark full cloud.
There could I marvel
My birthday
Away but the weather turned around.
It turned away from the blithe country
And down the other air and the blue altered sky
Streamed again a wonder of summer
With apples
Pears and red currants
And I saw in the turning so clearly a child's
Forgotten mornings when he walked with his mother
Through the parables
Of sunlight
And the legends of the green chapels
And the twice told fields of infancy
That his tears burned my cheeks and his heart moved in mine.
These were the woods the river and the sea
Where a boy
In the listening
Summertime of the dead whispered the truth of his joy
To the trees and the stones and the fish in the tide.
And the mystery
Sang alive
Still in the water and singing birds.
And there could I marvel my birthday
Away but the weather turned around. And the true
Joy of the long dead child sang burning
In the sun.
It was my thirtieth
Year to heaven stood there then in the summer noon
Though the town below lay leaved with October blood.
O may my heart's truth
Still be sung
On this high hill in a year's turning.
|
-
Thomas was born October 27, 1914.
Here he is reading "Poem in October" https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=EnoHCSU5yn8
An analysis and background of the poem which I found interesting: https://www.enotes.com/topics/poem-october
-
Well, before I get the poem analysed, Barb, thanks for posting it. I've always liked it, haven't reread it for years.
-
Barb, thank you for the link. The music is lovely. Tried hard to go from short film to the music while also thinking of the poem. The singer has a beautiful voice. Each foreign language, I think, must have its own beauty. The bother is that some languages seem more difficult than other ones.
Frybabe, glad to see the link for Dylan Thomas. Have not read the poem yet.
-
hats I do like to listen to Patrick Bruel while I am checking my email and while working on the computer - he has many links on Youtube - listening so much and it is fun to recapture some of my High School French - a phrase here and there and then I can put together what the song is all about.
Great links frybabe - thanks - he is my favorite poet - even if Kate says he was like soft bread in your hand rather than having any crust - evidently both of them were heavy drinkers from the time they were in their teens. However, he had such fondness for his mother and his boyhood that was the topic of so many of his poems. When he wrote this one he was not even living any longer in the boat house where he could see and walk what he is describing. I love how the second link you gave us breaks down his use of the compound adjective. Usually I prefer reading a poem for the pictures that come to mind or how it stirs something inside and very seldom look at the structure but this was terrific to have words to associate with his practice of making a short phrase so moving... thanks for the link.
It is a wonderful evocative poem that gives nature a whole different glory doesn't it Pat - I had to stop and think of the trees and such in my own yard, one in particular that I planted the first year we moved in the house and the symbolism I saw in the growth and damage of that tree.
Well it appears Dylan Thomas lived a messy life however, he left us with some glorious poetry.
I thought this interview with Kate/Caitlin more telling about her and the man - evidently his poems were not created in a slip of a day but took work. She is very forthcoming even if she was rutching in her chair during the entire interview - she was being brutally honest about some very difficult life experiences.
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=dQzcQ1KVFaM
-
Wonderful interview, Barb.
-
Oh oh - I did not see this and did not know that Mary Oliver died this January at the age of 83 from Cancer.
https://www.npr.org/2019/01/17/577380646/beloved-poet-mary-oliver-who-believed-poetry-mustn-t-be-fancy-dies-at-83?fbclid=IwAR06aqb_zm4W7xRdz4fpDaogx5FK5hlshGu_YLBOwkN6vND_mFMQ3qzH0os
-
In honor of Mary Oliver
WHEN I AM AMONG TREES
by Mary Oliver
When I am among the trees,
especially the willows and the honey locust,
equally the beech, the oaks, and the pines,
they give off such hints of gladness.
I would almost say that they save me, and daily.
I am so distant from the hope of myself,
in which I have goodness, and discernment,
and never hurry through the world
but walk slowly, and bow often.
Around me the trees stir in their leaves
and call out, “Stay awhile.”
The light flows from their branches.
And they call again, “It’s simple,”
they say, “and you, too, have come
into the world to do this, to go easy,
to be filled with light, and to shine.” | (https://66.media.tumblr.com/c0ee2cc6ca0054dd6db4972a107071d1/tumblr_pmo5mePELS1rjog5oo1_400.jpg) |
-
Barb, the poem is very inspiring, hopeful and optimistic. I am looking forward to spring. A time when the dogwoods will bloom and the other trees. I might sneeze once or twice, but so what? The beauty and shade are so worth it.
For so long the trees have been bare. Now they are beginning to look lonely. I am not familiar with the honey locust. I might look for photos of each tree. Not familiar with the beech tree either. That's sad. We collected leaves in school often. Then, we traced and colored them. Teachers gave us such treasures to use later in life. Mary Oliver might have been a school teacher. She left so much for us to use for the rest of our days.
Yes, I had heard about Mary Oliver's death. I felt sad to hear about her leaving us forever. All of her poems speak directly to something inside of us that needs feeding. It's like she wants us to gain a bit of her wisdom. Thank you for the link.
-
Not from Mary Oliver but about the Beech Tree -
"Beech trees may have been sacred to Zeus, king of the Greek gods. They have also been a symbol of prosperity. The trees may also have represented the goddess Diana, who presided over forests and woodlands. In ancient Gaul and the Pyrennees, Fagus may have been a tree god. In England, the iconic bluebell woods, filled in spring with bluebells (Hyacinthoides non scripta) are beech woods."
| (https://img.buzzfeed.com/buzzfeed-static/static/2015-03/31/16/campaign_images/webdr04/beech-i-might-2-26221-1427832580-16_dblbig.jpg) | The Beech-Wood
Andrew Young
When the long, varnished buds of beech
Point out beyond their reach,
And tanned by summer suns
Leaves of black bryony turn bronze,
And gossamer floats bright and wet
From trees that are their own sunset,
Spring, summer, autumn I come here,
And what is there to fear?
And yet I never lose the feeling
That someone close behind is stealing
Or else in front has disappeared;
Though nothing I have seen or heard ,
The fear of what I might have met
Makes me still walk beneath these boughs
With cautious steps as in a haunted house.
|
-
(http://fivepoints.gsu.edu/wp/wp-content/uploads/2015/02/Ready-to-Blossom.jpg)
Last Night the Rain Spoke To Me
By Mary Oliver
Last night
the rain
spoke to me
slowly, saying,
what joy
to come falling
out of the brisk cloud,
to be happy again
in a new way
on the earth!
That’s what it said
as it dropped,
smelling of iron,
and vanished
like a dream of the ocean
into the branches
and the grass below.
Then it was over.
The sky cleared.
I was standing
under a tree.
The tree was a tree
with happy leaves,
and I was myself,
and there were stars in the sky
that were also themselves
at the moment,
at which moment
my right hand
was holding my left hand
which was holding the tree
which was filled with stars
and the soft rain—
imagine! imagine!
the wild and wondrous journeys
still to be ours. |
-
(https://blog.pachamama.org/hs-fs/hubfs/blog/boris-smokrovic-166984-757811-edited.jpg?width=980&name=boris-smokrovic-166984-757811-edited.jpg)
Such Singing in the Wild Branches
-Mary Oliver
It was spring
and I finally heard him
among the first leaves––
then I saw him clutching the limb
in an island of shade
with his red-brown feathers
all trim and neat for the new year.
First, I stood still
and thought of nothing.
Then I began to listen.
Then I was filled with gladness––
and that's when it happened,
when I seemed to float,
to be, myself, a wing or a tree––
and I began to understand
what the bird was saying,
and the sands in the glass
stopped
for a pure white moment
while gravity sprinkled upward
like rain, rising,
and in fact
it became difficult to tell just what it was that was singing––
it was the thrush for sure, but it seemed
not a single thrush, but himself, and all his brothers,
and also the trees around them,
as well as the gliding, long-tailed clouds
in the perfect blue sky–––all of them
were singing.
And, of course, so it seemed,
so was I.
Such soft and solemn and perfect music doesn't last
For more than a few moments.
It's one of those magical places wise people
like to talk about.
One of the things they say about it, that is true,
is that, once you've been there,
you're there forever.
Listen, everyone has a chance.
Is it spring, is it morning?
Are there trees near you,
and does your own soul need comforting?
Quick, then––open the door and fly on your heavy feet; the song
may already be drifting away.
|
-
A Dream of Trees
Mary Oliver
There is a thing in me that dreamed of trees,
A quiet house, some green and modest acres
A little way from every troubling town,
A little way from factories, schools, laments.
I would have time, I thought, and time to spare,
With only streams and birds for company,
To build out of my life a few wild stanzas.
And then it came to me, that so was death,
A little way away from everywhere.
There is a thing in me still dreams of trees.
But let it go. Homesick for moderation,
Half the world’s artists shrink or fall away.
If any find solution, let him tell it.
Meanwhile I bend my heart toward lamentation
Where, as the times implore our true involvement,
The blades of every crisis point the way.
I would it were not so, but so it is.
Who ever made music of a mild day? |
-
Daily Poem... Mary Oliver, Tree
https://vimeo.com/188417527
-
Barb,I have only just begun to read these beautiful Nature poems by Mary Oliver. What a feast!
-
April is not only National Poetry Month but has been designated as First Step Act Month, which includes cutting prison sentences for thousands of federal inmates. Since Etheridge Knight had been in prison for a time it seems fitting to honor both designations for the month of April with one of his poems.
He Sees Through Stone
By Etheridge Knight
He sees through stone
he has the secret eyes
this old black one
who under prison skies
sits pressed by the sun
against the western wall
his pipe between purple gums
the years fall
like overripe plums
bursting red flesh
on the dark earth
his time is not my time
but I have known him
in a time gone
he led me trembling cold
into the dark forest
taught me the secret rites
to make it with a woman
to be true to my brothers
to make my spear drink
the blood of my enemies
now black cats circle him
flash white teeth
snarl at the air
mashing green grass beneath
shining muscles
ears peeling his words
he smiles
he knows
the hunt the enemy
he has the secret eyes
he sees through stone
|
-
I just finished a novella by H. Beam Piper and John J. McGuire called Null ABC. It is a SciFi, or future history if you will, about literacy. Literates against Illiterates. Anyway in this book was a stanza from Swinburne's called "The Garden of Proserpine". Not having read Swinburne before I checked out that poem and several others listed in the article from the Poetry Foundation. No matter what of the six poems I read (except for "To A Cat", which I like), Swinburne managed to get death, and often the juxtaposition of life and death, or an allusion to death in there somewhere. https://www.poetryfoundation.org/poets/algernon-charles-swinburne
-
Now I do not think I can ever hear thunder and see lightening without thinking of these lines and seeing the storm as if hunting. Lines from his poem, from Anactoria
Lightning, with thunder for a hound behind
Hunting through fields unfurrowed and unsown,
-
I know Shelley wrote a short poem that I was memorizing some 30 years ago and now have forgotten that had to do with waves kissing each other- It was not Shelley's Love's Philosophy where he has mountains kiss high heaven, and moonbeams kiss the sea-- It was a short, if I remember correctly 4 line poem. All to say I'm thinking the idea of kissing in nature must have been a popular image in the nineteenth century because we have Swinburne in his Ave Atque Vale saying, The barren kiss of piteous wave to wave
-
I am appreciating all the poems and reading them more than once and slowly.
-
hats sorry I missed your earlier post about Mary Oliver's book of nature poems - yes, I too love her poems - in her poems she does not include waves, or trees kissing but she does write lovingly and intimately about nature doesn't she .
I Happened to Be Standing
Mary Oliver
I don't know where prayers go,
or what they do.
Do cats pray, while they sleep
half-asleep in the sun?
Does the opossum pray as it
crosses the street?
The sunflowers? The old black oak
growing older every year?
I know I can walk through the world,
along the shore or under the trees,
with my mind filled with things
of little importance, in full
self-attendance. A condition I can't really
call being alive
Is a prayer a gift, or a petition,
or does it matter?
The sunflowers blaze, maybe that's their way.
Maybe the cats are sound asleep. Maybe not.
While I was thinking this I happened to be standing
just outside my door, with my notebook open,
which is the way I begin every morning.
Then a wren in the privet began to sing.
He was positively drenched in enthusiasm,
I don't know why. And yet, why not.
I wouldn't persuade you from whatever you believe
or whatever you don't. That's your business.
But I thought, of the wren's singing, what could this be
if it isn't a prayer?
So I just listened, my pen in the air.
|
-
I did not know about First Step Up Month. Thank you Barb for sharing The Secret Stone by Etheridge Knight. Each time I read the poem I fall deeper into its meaning. Secret is the word that speaks loudly. Also, I believe the narrator changes in two major ways. The second one is more difficult and perhaps more treacherous. No matter, living behind stone with special eyes to see and understand have brought him wisdom.
Good morning~
-
Barb, it is good to think about even the animals praying with their voices. I am not a Prayer Warrior. Because of you I want to go pray immediately. Change my sinful ways. I should write because of you and Mary Oliver. In this poem, nature is friendly. So often if it is not a tree or flower I feel fear. For example, the opossom is not on my menu nor is he a fellow I would bend down to pet.
By the way, I am sure my present cat prays. She is often quiet. She walks with reverence in her step. She does not gobble her food. It is a special ritual. Today I see a wren and a sunflower in her paws and a petition of prayer.
-
Welcome to our Poetry Page.
Our page for those who listen to words that open our heart, imagination, and our feelings.
This is our continuing tradition of sharing poems. Please join us!
(http://www.jamesappleton.co.uk/images/Galleries/Favourites/ashridge%20bluebells%20uk.jpg)
Once upon a time within a wood
Unfolding her wings a Fairy Girl stood
She flew and she sang with the hum of the Bee
Sprinkling her dust to create a blue sea
Each flower she tended with love and with care
Sharing their nectar she lived happily there
The blackbird he sang his delight in his Song
The wood their home it was where both belonged
She’d fly high and low touching each bell
And each one would open under her spell
Soon there were thousands, they stretched out for miles
Each one touched by the Fairy with smiles.
Now one day a woman alone and forlorn
Walked in the wood all weary and worn
She’d strayed from the path so deep was her thought
Blinded by tears of life’s worries she was caught
His branches would creak, his bark would feel warm
The ‘Old One’ poured love, and the woman felt calm
The Fairy would sit up high in his branch
Watching the exchange and the woman’s downward glance.
She’d fly by her shoulder and tickle her hair
With each breath the woman discarded her cares
She stood up, breathed deep, hugging her tree
Her thoughts now clear, her mind filled with glee
She turned giving thanks and blinked in surprise
Gasping out loud as the sight met her eyes
Her smile now broad, her heart full of love
The Woman discovers the Bluebell Wood..
Spring Poetry
Famous Poets and Poems about Spring (http://famouspoetsandpoems.com/thematic_poems/spring_poems.html)
Spring Poems (http://poetry.about.com/od/ourpoemcollections/a/springpoems.htm)
Summer Poetry
Summer Poems (https://www.poetryfoundation.org/collections/101639/summer-poems)
Discussion Leaders: Barbara (augere@ix.netcom.com)
-
Interesting the whole issue of prayer - when I was in elementary school we were taught that praying for something - in petition - was us going to God with our begging bowl rather than asking God to be our friend. That just as we make friends and if we are in trouble our friend will help us out or be our cheering team so we can take care of our troubles - and so make a friend of God if it is so important to have God help you where as prayer can be simple adoration, thanking God daily for your life, and all that makes your life including the desire for something to be better. Your desire for something to be better is God putting in front of you your challenges in life. We were taught if we expect God to take care of our challenges then we do not grow and our life has no meaning. Then the class was shown how big challenges that affect whole nations or even several nations, like war, often create small challenges for individuals and so, if we thank God and go to work handling our challenges with God as a friend we are growing which adds to the nation having more capable people to affect the large national challenge.
We started to hear this message in 4th grade and each year there was more understanding till 7th and 8th grade the class was involved in the discussion - all this gave a new meaning to prayer - however, I became very angry that the Church made Monica, mother of St. Augustine a saint. Not only did she pray but she let Augustine know of her prayers for him and her disapproval that he had not given up everything to be a Christian and lo and behold he ends up following her wishes, only we were taught it was St. Monica's prayers but, even as a kid in my heart of hearts I thought she was wrong since he abandons the women he never married and his son when he converted and started his writings. I preferred our years of learning what prayer was and did not think St. Monica carried out what we were taught was the true intent of prayer and I thought it was more of a sin to abandon his woman and child regardless how poor or sinful she was in the eyes of the church.
Interesting the decisions we make about our life from the most casual bits of history we learn as children. Today people, women are taught to take care of themselves first and step away from people who are not good for you, who are taking from you. There are also many authors who talk about gratitude which really is similar to praising and adoring God.
Seeing in nature the winds of prayer is easy in a garden where as, in the wild with each animal protecting its space and young and fire or storms that wipe out all habitat then, to see with the same eyes prayer in a domestic cat or field of flowers or streets where opossum cross is either a gift or a fantasy. Maybe that is it - how we handle life in a garden or town is different than when we are in a wilderness surrounded by danger - How do we relate to God and prayer when we are surrounded by danger. Maybe the best we can do is befriend God and ask for his help because danger from those who do not have our best interest at heart is often acted on in secret.
Well hats you sure opened a floodgate of thinking when you wrote about your reacted to Mary Oliver's poem.
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Prthhmly0Gg
-
The hymn is very beautiful. I often try to hum it. I love the picture of the little church, etc. Thanks.
-
I was reminded today that , since Barb has been out of commission for a while, the Poetry page has been neglected. Shame on us.
In my morning ramblings, I ran across William Wordsworth who wrote a lyric poem to one of my favorite flower, the Daffodil. This, I believe, is the 1815 revised version of "I Wandered Lonely as a Cloud", aka: "Daffodils", and is his most famous.
I wandered lonely as a cloud
That floats on high o'er vales and hills,
When all at once I saw a crowd,
A host of golden daffodils;
Beside the lake, beneath the trees,
Fluttering and dancing in the breeze.
Continuous as the stars that shine
and twinkle on the Milky Way,
They stretched in never-ending line
along the margin of a bay:
Ten thousand saw I at a glance,
tossing their heads in sprightly dance.
The waves beside them danced; but they
Out-did the sparkling waves in glee:
A poet could not but be gay,
in such a jocund company:
I gazed—and gazed—but little thought
what wealth the show to me had brought:
For oft, when on my couch I lie
In vacant or in pensive mood,
They flash upon that inward eye
Which is the bliss of solitude;
And then my heart with pleasure fills,
And dances with the daffodils.
-
thank you Frybabe!
-
Tonight I finished Guy Gavriel Kay's book, River of Stars. One of the major characters is "inspired" by Li Qingzhau who is considered one of China's greatest poets. She lived 1084-c.1155 https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Li_Qingzhao
This one is sung to the tune of "Song of the South". It is from Poem Hunter complete with apparent typos.
In the sky, the River of Stars is moving.
In the world of mortals,my curtains are hanging down.
It is getting chilly on my tear-soaked pillow and mat.
I get up to losen my silk robe, wondering how advanced is the night.
Tinyy the lotus seeds hugged by petals emerald-colored.
Few the arrowroot leaves in faded shades of gold.
The same old weather and the same old robe,
But my feeling s and thoughts differ from those of byone times.
I don't see but two English transltions of her works, I put one on my wishlist.
-
Thanks for the Wordsworth, Frybabe. I've always liked it, hadn't thought about it for a long time.
-
| Four Quartets - T.S. Elliot
#3 The Dry Salvages
I do not know much about gods; but I think that the river
Is a strong brown god—sullen, untamed and intractable,
Patient to some degree, at first recognized as a frontier;
Useful, untrustworthy, as a conveyor of commerce;
Then only a problem confronting the builder of bridges.
The problem once solved, the brown god is almost forgotten
By the dwellers in cities—ever, however, implacable.
Keeping his seasons and rages, destroyer, reminder
Of what men choose to forget. Unhonoured, unpropitiated
By worshippers of the machine, but waiting, watching and waiting.
His rhythm was present in the nursery bedroom,
In the rank ailanthus of the April dooryard,
In the smell of grapes on the autumn table,
And the evening circle in the winter gaslight.
The river is within us, the sea is all about us;
The sea is the land's edge also, the granite
Into which it reaches, the beaches where it tosses
Its hints of earlier and other creation:
The starfish, the horseshoe crab, the whale's backbone;
The pools where it offers to our curiosity
The more delicate algae and the sea anemone.
It tosses up our losses, the torn seine,
The shattered lobsterpot, the broken oar
And the gear of foreign dead men. The sea has many voices,
Many gods and many voices.
The salt is on the briar rose,
The fog is in the fir trees.
The sea howl
And the sea yelp, are different voices
Often together heard: the whine in the rigging,
The menace and caress of wave that breaks on water,
The distant rote in the granite teeth,
And the wailing warning from the approaching headland
Are all sea voices, and the heaving groaner
Rounded homewards, and the seagull:
And under the oppression of the silent fog
The tolling bell
Measures time not our time, rung by the unhurried
Ground swell, a time
Older than the time of chronometers, older
Than time counted by anxious worried women
Lying awake, calculating the future,
Trying to unweave, unwind, unravel
And piece together the past and the future,
Between midnight and dawn, when the past is all deception,
The future futureless, before the morning watch
When time stops and time is never ending;
And the ground swell, that is and was from the beginning,
Clangs
The bell. |
-
The Negro Speaks of Rivers
Langston Hughes - 1902-1967
I've known rivers:
I've known rivers ancient as the world and older than the
flow of human blood in human veins.
My soul has grown deep like the rivers.
I bathed in the Euphrates when dawns were young.
I built my hut near the Congo and it lulled me to sleep.
I looked upon the Nile and raised the pyramids above it.
I heard the singing of the Mississippi when Abe Lincoln
went down to New Orleans, and I've seen its muddy
bosom turn all golden in the sunset.
I've known rivers:
Ancient, dusky rivers.
My soul has grown deep like the rivers.
|
-
Sonnet LXXV
Charlotte Smith
WHERE the wild woods and pathless forests frown,
The darkling Pilgrim seeks his unknown way,
Till on the grass he throws him weary down,
To wait in broken sleep the dawn of day:
Through boughs just waving in the silent air,
With pale capricious light the summer moon
Chequers his humid couch; while Fancy there,
That loves to wanton in the night's deep noon,
Calls from the mossy roots and fountain edge
Fair visionary Nymphs that haunt the shade,
Or Naiads rising from the whispering sedge:
And, 'mid the beauteous group, his dear loved maid
Seems beckoning him with smiles to join the train:
Then, starting from his dream, he feels his woes again! |
-
Someone Leans Near
by Toni Morrison - Died August 5, 2019
Someone leans near
And sees the salt your eyes have shed.
You wait, longing to hear
Words of reason, love or play
To lash or lull you toward the hollow day.
Silence kneads your fear
Of crumbled star-ash sifting down
Clouding the rooms here, here.
You shore up your heart to run. To stay.
But no sign or design marks the narrow way.
Then on your skin a breath caresses
The salt your eyes have shed.
And you remember a call clear, so clear
“You will never die again.”
Once more you know
You will never die again. |
-
Thank you for those, Barb. These continue the theme of timelessness or time flowing that the last two books I read conveyed. And, just now, I thought of another vision of time flowing, Cloud Atlas. I both read the book and saw the movie.
-
(https://i.pinimg.com/564x/bc/78/05/bc7805c7bdae305ebb1fef7fc9a432ac.jpg)
-
Hi Barbara I love that Langston Hughes poem. When I read it, it feels as though his voice is speaking it in my head. You have some delicious poems, lots! I haven't read all. Will take my time. Have missed coming here to Poetry.
-
Hi, hats, it's good to see you here. Yes, the Hughes is powerful, isn't it.
Barb, this latest bunch of poems is particularly good, overwhelming.
-
The end of summer in some places is feeling the nip of a cool breeze and the first tinge of yellow on the trees - where as here in the deep south Summer just leaned back and asked for another glass of cold beer.
Here is to the southern summer's blazing sun and flowers.
BOURGAINVILLEA
Tough and hardy, this bushy shrub;
Roadside decor in blazing sun,
Flowers pretty enough no doubt
In sure rigour bear heatwave run.
Blazing colours in crystal tints:
Orange and red, purple and pink;
Range of flavours, violet-white hints;
Touch unafraid such tensile links.
Flowery bursts in hot weather,
Sparkle and shine, blooming clusters;
Tough with dry thirst in warm splendour,
Outlook feels fine in sheer wonder.
Hot evergreen with thorny hedge,
Sparkling colours that look so good;
Nature now seen on dusty edge,
Arid odours as harsh drought broods.
Unnoticed show that bears hot heat,
Blooming in hues that gathers lots;
Bear fast or slow as time retreats,
Flowers that cue in sun drenched plots.
Bourgainvillea vines in the sun
Tell a story of survival;
See joy appear in sparkling run,
Flowers breezy in recital. |
(https://images.unsplash.com/photo-1534302660003-e80134aaff86?ixlib=rb-1.2.1&ixid=eyJhcHBfaWQiOjEyMDd9&auto=format&fit=crop&w=400&q=60)
|
-
This time of year we are aware of the grasses - most have dried into their sublet shades of beige and tan, white and cream with fields of deep redish brown -
Here is an excerpt from Whitman's
Leaves of GrassA child said What is the grass? fetching it to me with full hands;
How could I answer the child? I do not know what it is any
more than he.
I guess it must be the flag of my disposition, out of hopeful green
stuff woven.
Or I guess it is the handkerchief of the Lord,
A scented gift and remembrancer designedly dropt,
Bearing the owner's name someway in the corners, that we may
see and remark, and say Whose?
Or I guess the grass is itself a child, the produced babe of the
vegetation.
Or I guess it is a uniform hieroglyphic,
And it means, Sprouting alike in broad zones and narrow zones,
Growing among black folks as among white,
Kanuck, Tuckahoe, Congressman, Cuff, I give them the same, I
receive them the same.
And now it seems to me the beautiful uncut hair of graves.
Tenderly will I use you curling grass,
It may be you transpire from the breasts of young men,
It may be if I had known them I would have loved them,
It may be you are from old people, or from offspring taken soon
out of their mothers' laps,
And here you are the mothers' laps.
This grass is very dark to be from the white heads of old mothers,
Darker than the colorless beards of old men,
Dark to come from under the faint red roofs of mouths.
O I perceive after all so many uttering tongues,
And I perceive they do not come from the roofs of mouths for
nothing.
I wish I could translate the hints about the dead young men and
women,
And the hints about old men and mothers, and the offspring taken
soon out of their laps.
What do you think has become of the young and old men?
And what do you think has become of the women and chil-
dren?
They are alive and well somewhere,
The smallest sprout shows there is really no death,
And if ever there was it led forward life, and does not wait at the
end to arrest it,
And ceas'd the moment life appear'd.
All goes onward and outward, nothing collapses,
And to die is different from what any one supposed, and luckier.
|
(https://66.media.tumblr.com/3a74353b32c1ef2b213f7857bafce560/tumblr_px848it2xt1qjjrsro1_1280.jpg)
(https://encrypted-tbn0.gstatic.com/images?q=tbn:ANd9GcSDvvlKYnkqQE31stlrYDfl37pA1Cw_QwFFKZ8wxGv7LyhBXdd6ZA)
|
-
Here we go for all those experiencing the end of summer...
| (https://thumbs.dreamstime.com/b/end-summer-leaves-sycamore-starting-to-turn-red-english-instagram-type-styling-applied-53820866.jpg) |
End of Summer
By Stanley Kunitz
An agitation of the air,
A perturbation of the light
Admonished me the unloved year
Would turn on its hinge that night.
I stood in the disenchanted field
Amid the stubble and the stones,
Amazed, while a small worm lisped to me
The song of my marrow-bones.
Blue poured into summer blue,
A hawk broke from his cloudless tower,
The roof of the silo blazed, and I knew
That part of my life was over.
Already the iron door of the north
Clangs open: birds, leaves, snows
Order their populations forth,
And a cruel wind blows.
|
-
Oh, I just love this thought! A Haiku?
Sailing by Kostas Lagos
Sailing
through verses,
sea of ideas
-
While nosing around poems about sailing, I came across Yeats' poem, Sailing to Bzyantium, written when he was around 60 years old. The first line popped out and reminded me of Cormac McCarthy's No Country for Old Men. Looked up info on the book, and sure enough McCarthy took his title from the poem.
I
That is no country for old men. The young
In one another's arms, birds in the trees
---Those dying generations---at their song,
The salmon-falls, the mackerel-crowded seas,
Fish, flesh, or fowl commend all summer long
Whatever is begotten, born, and dies.
Caught in that sensual music all neglect
Monuments of unaging intellect.
II
An aged man is but a paltry thing,
A tattered coat upon a stick, unless
Soul clap its hands and sing, and louder sing
For every tatter in its mortal dress,
Nor is there singing school but studying
Monuments of its own magnificence;
And therefore I have sailed the seas and come
To the holy city of Byzantium.
III
O sages standing in God's holy fire
As in the gold mosaic of a wall,
Come from the holy fire, perne in a gyre,
And be the singing-masters of my soul.
Consume my heart away; sick with desire
And fastened to a dying animal
It knows not what it is; and gather me
Into the artifice of eternity.
IV
Once out of nature I shall never take
My bodily form from any natural thing,
But such a form as Grecian goldsmiths make
Of hammered gold and gold enamelling
To keep a drowsy Emperor awake;
Or set upon a golden bough to sing
To lords and ladies of Byzantium
Of what is past, or passing, or to come.
William Butler Yeats
-
I've always liked the phrase mackerel-crowded seas and the other from this bit of Yeats, perne in a gyre - for him it is God's Holy Fire where as along the east coast it appears to be Dorian. A good Christian response would probably be God moves in mysterious ways.
-
(http://www.ofthewing.com/uploaded_images/bald_eagle_dsl-797395.jpg)
Eagle Poem
Joy Harjo - 1951
To pray you open your whole self
To sky, to earth, to sun, to moon
To one whole voice that is you.
And know there is more
That you can't see, can't hear,
Can't know except in moments
Steadily growing, and in languages
That aren't always sound but other
Circles of motion.
Like eagle that Sunday morning
Over Salt River. Circled in blue sky
In wind, swept our hearts clean
With sacred wings.
We see you, see ourselves and know
That we must take the utmost care
And kindness in all things.
Breathe in, knowing we are made of
All this, and breathe, knowing
We are truly blessed because we
Were born, and die soon within a
True circle of motion,
Like eagle rounding out the morning
Inside us.
We pray that it will be done
In beauty.
In beauty.
|
-
Hi Barb and Frybabe Thank you for Sailing To Byzantium. I have no idea how to interpret it. Oddly, it speaks to me. Silly, I think of jewels.
-
Hats I believe he is talking about death being final where his voice is no longer - he uses singing as the description for his voice and Byzantium as the final place rather than calling it heaven or even hell - he calls it Byzantium.
The first words That is no country for old men. is the title of the Coen brother's movie No Country for Old Men which talks about life, if while young we die or not or harm befalls us or not as a flip of a coin which is like the unknown or God rules what happens where as Yeats is saying there is predictability in what happens if we get to age. Regardless young or old the end for all of us is Byzantium.
Perfect poem for this time of year when we start to see the leaves on trees, after they lived out their summer become tattered circle to the ground as they fall.
Many small truths in the Yeats poem that each could be furthered with another poem or story. Another is Soul clap its hands which reminds me of the a phrase derived from a Buddhist kōan known as "The sound of one hand" which Anthony Burgess picks up and writes a novel, One Hand Clapping as an indictment of what Burgess saw as the degradation of contemporary Western education and culture.
-
From the Saulteaux, a branch of the Ojibwe nations. Saulteaux is a French term meaning "people of the rapids," referring to their former location in the area of Sault Ste. Marie.
Earth, Teach Me
Earth teach me quiet ~ as the grasses are still with new light.
Earth teach me suffering ~ as old stones suffer with memory.
Earth teach me humility ~ as blossoms are humble with beginning.
Earth teach me caring ~ as mothers nurture their young.
Earth teach me courage ~ as the tree that stands alone.
Earth teach me limitation ~ as the ant that crawls on the ground.
Earth teach me freedom ~ as the eagle that soars in the sky.
Earth teach me acceptance ~ as the leaves that die each fall.
Earth teach me renewal ~ as the seed that rises in the spring.
Earth teach me to forget myself ~ as melted snow forgets its life.
Earth teach me to remember kindness ~ as dry fields weep with rain. |
-
hats, I was interested in your comment that Sailing to Byzantium speaks to you even though you don't know how to interpret it. I sometimes have that reaction to a poem too. I think I must be realizing something on an unconscious level. Sometimes I figure it out, and sometimes I don't, but the reaction is real.
-
(https://encrypted-tbn0.gstatic.com/images?q=tbn:ANd9GcQLs3wm6muhqhQ3QBQ6b67qU-0Z8F3RtF25o1klROAEiLxYhBMcrg)
The Coliseum
Lord Byron (1788–1824)
From “Childe Harold,” Canto IV.
ARCHES on arches! as it were that Rome,
Collecting the chief trophies of her line,
Would build up all her triumphs in one dome,
Her Coliseum stands; the moonbeams shine
As ’t were its natural torches, for divine
Should be the light which streams here, to illume
This long-explored, but still exhaustless, mine
Of contemplation; and the azure gloom
Of an Italian night, where the deep skies assume
Hues which have words, and speak to ye of heaven,
Floats o’er this vast and wondrous monument,
And shadows forth its glory. There is given
Unto the things of earth, which Time hath bent,
A spirit’s feeling, and where he hath leant
His hand, but broke his scythe, there is a power
And magic in the ruined battlement,
For which the palace of the present hour
Must yield its pomp, and wait till ages are its dower.
And here the buzz of eager nations ran,
In murmured pity, or loud-roared applause,
As man was slaughtered by his fellow-man.
And wherefore slaughtered? wherefore, but because
Such were the bloody Circus’ genial laws,
And the imperial pleasure.—Wherefore not?
What matters where we fall to fill the maws
Of worms,—on battle-plains or listed spot?
Both are but theatres where the chief actors rot.
I see before me the Gladiator lie;
He leans upon his hand,—his manly brow
Consents to death, but conquers agony,
And his drooped head sinks gradually low,—
And through his side the last drops, ebbing slow
From the red gash, fall heavy, one by one,
Like the first of a thunder-shower; and now
The arena swims around him,—he is gone,
Ere ceased the inhuman shout which hailed the wretch who won.
He heard it, but he heeded not,—his eyes
Were with his heart, and that was far away.
He recked not of the life he lost, nor prize;
But where his rude hut by the Danube lay,
There were his young barbarians all at play,
There was their Dacian mother,—he, their sire,
Butchered to make a Roman holiday!—
All this rushed with his blood.—Shall he expire,
And unavenged? Arise, ye Goths, and glut your ire!
But here, where Murder breathed her bloody steam,
And here, where buzzing nations choked the ways,
And roared or murmured like a mountain stream
Dashing or winding as its torrent strays;
Here, where the Roman millions’ blame or praise
Was death or life, the playthings of a crowd,
My voice sounds much,—and fall the stars’ faint rays
On the arena void, seats crushed, walls bowed,
And galleries, where my steps seem echoes strangely loud.
A ruin,—yet what ruin! from its mass
Walls, palaces, half-cities, have been reared;
Yet oft the enormous skeleton ye pass,
And marvel where the spoil could have appeared.
Hath it indeed been plundered, or but cleared?
Alas! developed, opens the decay,
When the colossal fabric’s form is neared;
It will not bear the brightness of the day,
Which streams too much on all years, man, have reft away.
But when the rising moon begins to climb
Its topmost arch, and gently pauses there;
When the stars twinkle through the loops of time,
And the low night-breeze waves along the air
The garland-forest, which the gray walls wear,
Like laurels on the bald first Cæsar’s head;
When the light shines serene, but doth not glare,—
Then in this magic circle raise the dead;
Heroes have trod this spot,—’t is on their dust ye tread.
“While stands the Coliseum, Rome shall stand;
When falls the Coliseum, Rome shall fall;
And when Rome falls—the World.” From our own land
Thus spake the pilgrims o’er this mighty wall
In Saxon times, which we are wont to call
Ancient; and these three mortal things are still
On their foundations, and unaltered all;
Rome and her Ruin past Redemption’s skill,
The World, the same wide den—of thieves, or what ye will. |
-
Beautiful tribute.
-
| (https://www.pranagogreen.com/wp-content/uploads/2018/09/pranagogreen-Anjeer-Common-fig-2.jpg) |
To the Fig Tree on 9th and Christian
Ross Gay
Tumbling through the
city in my
mind without once
looking up
the racket in
the lugwork probably
rehearsing some
stupid thing I
said or did
some crime or
other the city they
say is a lonely
place until yes
the sound of sweeping
and a woman
yes with a
broom beneath
which you are now
too the canopy
of a fig its
arms pulling the
September sun to it
and she
has a hose too
and so works hard
rinsing and scrubbing
the walk
lest some poor sod
slip on the
silk of a fig
and break his hip
and not probably
reach over to gobble up
the perpetrator
the light catches
the veins in her hands
when I ask about
the tree they
flutter in the air and
she says take
as much as
you can
help me
so I load my
pockets and mouth
and she points
to the step-ladder against
the wall to
mean more but
I was without a
sack so my meager
plunder would have to
suffice and an old woman
whom gravity
was pulling into
the earth loosed one
from a low slung
branch and its eye
wept like hers
which she dabbed
with a kerchief as she
cleaved the fig with
what remained of her
teeth and soon there were
eight or nine
people gathered beneath
the tree looking into
it like a
constellation pointing
do you see it
and I am tall and so
good for these things
and a bald man even
told me so
when I grabbed three
or four for
him reaching into the
giddy throngs of
yellow-jackets sugar
stoned which he only
pointed to smiling and
rubbing his stomach
I mean he was really rubbing his stomach
like there was a baby
in there
it was hot his
head shone while he
offered recipes to the
group using words which
I couldn’t understand and besides
I was a little
tipsy on the dance
of the velvety heart rolling
in my mouth
pulling me down and
down into the
oldest countries of my
body where I ate my first fig
from the hand of a man who escaped his country
by swimming through the night
and maybe
never said more than
five words to me
at once but gave me
figs and a man on his way
to work hops twice
to reach at last his
fig which he smiles at and calls
baby, c’mere baby,
he says and blows a kiss
to the tree which everyone knows
cannot grow this far north
being Mediterranean
and favoring the rocky, sun-baked soils
of Jordan and Sicily
but no one told the fig tree
or the immigrants
there is a way
the fig tree grows
in groves it wants,
it seems, to hold us,
yes I am anthropomorphizing
goddammit I have twice
in the last thirty seconds
rubbed my sweaty
forearm into someone else’s
sweaty shoulder
gleeful eating out of each other’s hands
on Christian St.
in Philadelphia a city like most
which has murdered its own
people
this is true
we are feeding each other
from a tree
at the corner of Christian and 9th
strangers maybe
never again.
|
-
I love that poem, Barb. You have a wonderful skill for finding good ones.
-
Sorry this is a bit long, but I found it interesting.
THE RIVER OF STARS
(A tale of Niagara)
by Alfred Noyes
THE lights of a hundred cities are fed by its midnight power.
Their wheels are moved by its thunder. But they, too, have their hour.
The tale of the Indian lovers, a cry from the years that are flown,
While the river of stars is rolling,
Rolling away to the darkness,
Abides with the power in the midnight, where love may find its own.
She watched from the Huron tents, till the first star shook in the air.
The sweet pine scented her fawn-skins, and breathed from her braided hair.
Her crown was of milk-white blood-root, because of the tryst she would keep,
Beyond the river of beauty
That drifted away in the darkness
Drawing the sunset thro’ lilies, with eyes like stars, to the deep.
He watched, like a tall young wood-god, from the red pine that she named;
But not for the peril behind him, where the eyes of the Mohawks flamed.
Eagle-plumed he stood. But his heart was hunting afar,
Where the river of longing whispered ...
And one swift shaft from the darkness
Felled him, her name in his death-cry, his eyes on the sunset star.
.......
She stole from the river and listened. The moon on her wet skin shone.
As a silver birch in a pine-wood, her beauty flashed and was gone.
There was no wave in the forest. The dark arms closed her round.
But the river of life went flowing,
Flowing away to the darkness,
For her breast grew red with his heart’s blood, in a night where the stars are drowned.
Teach me, O my lover, as you taught me of love in a day,
Teach me of death, and for ever, and set my feet on the way,
To the land of the happy shadows, the land where you are flown.
—And the river of death went weeping,
Weeping away to the darkness.—
Is the hunting good, my lover, so good that you hunt alone?
She rose to her feet like a shadow. She sent a cry thro’ the night,
Sa-sa-kuon, the death-whoop, that tells of triumph in fight.
It broke from the bell of her mouth like the cry of a wounded bird,
But the river of agony swelled it
And swept it along to the darkness,
And the Mohawks, couched in the darkness, leapt to their feet as they heard.
Close as the ring of the clouds that menace the moon with death,
At once they circled her round. Her bright breast panted for breath.
With only her own wild glory keeping the wolves at bay,
While the river of parting whispered,
Whispered away to the darkness,
She looked in their eyes for a moment, and strove for a word to say.
Teach me, O my lover!—She set her foot on the dead.
She laughed on the painted faces with their rings of yellow and red,—
I thank you, wolves of the Mohawk, for a woman’s hands might fail.—
—And the river of vengeance chuckled,
Chuckled away to the darkness,—
But ye have killed where I hunted. I have come to the end of my trail.
I thank you, braves of the Mohawk, who laid this thief at my feet.
He tore my heart out living, and tossed it his dogs to eat.
Ye have taught him of death in a moment, as he taught me of love in a day.
—And the river of passion deepened,
Deepened and rushed to the darkness.—
And yet may a woman requite you, and set your feet on the way.
For the woman that spits in my face, and the shaven heads that gibe,
This night shall a woman show you the tents of the Huron tribe.
They are lodged in a deep valley. With all things good it abounds.
Where the red-eyed, green-mooned river
Glides like a snake to the darkness,
I will show you a valley, Mohawks, like the Happy Hunting Grounds.
Follow! They chuckled, and followed like wolves to the glittering stream.
Shadows obeying a shadow, they launched their canoes in a dream.
Alone, in the first, with the blood on her breast, and her milk-white crown,
She stood. She smiled at them, Follow,
Then urged her canoe to the darkness,
And, silently flashing their paddles, the Mohawks followed her down.
.......
And now—-as they slid thro’ the pine-woods with their peaks of midnight blue,
She heard, in the broadening distance, the deep sound that she knew,
A mutter of steady thunder that grew as they glanced along;
But ever she glanced before them
And glanced away to the darkness,
And or ever they heard it rightly, she raised her voice in a song:—
The wind from the Isles of the Blesséd, it blows across the foam.
It sings in the flowing maples of the land that was my home.
Where the moose is a morning’s hunt, and the buffalo feeds from the hand.—
And the river of mockery broadened,
Broadened and rolled to the darkness—
And the green maize lifts its feathers, and laughs the snow from the land.
The river broadened and quickened. There was nought but river and sky.
The shores were lost in the darkness. She laughed and lifted a cry:
Follow me! Sa-sa-kuon! Swifter and swifter they swirled—
And the flood of their doom went flying,
Flying away to the darkness,
Follow me, follow me, Mohawks, ye are shooting the edge of the world.
They struggled like snakes to return. Like straws they were whirled on her track.
For the whole flood swooped to that edge where the unplumbed night dropt black,
The whole flood dropt to a thunder in an unplumbed hell beneath,
And over the gulf of the thunder
A mountain of spray from the darkness
Rose and stood in the heavens, like a shrouded image of death.
She rushed like a star before them. The moon on her glorying shone.
Teach me, O my lover,—her cry flashed out and was gone
A moment they battled behind her. They lashed with their paddles and lunged;
Then the Mohawks, turning their faces
Like a blood-stained cloud to the darkness,
Over the edge of Niagara swept together and plunged.
And the lights of a hundred cities are fed by the ancient power;
But a cry returns with the midnight; for they, too, have their hour.
Teach me, O my lover, as you taught me of love in a day,
—While the river of stars is rolling,
Rolling away to the darkness,—
Teach me of death, and for ever, and set my feet on the way!
-
Long or not frybabe - fabulous...
-
Yes, good stuff, and not as long as The Highwayman, which it resembles in some ways.
-
THE WARRIOR BARD.
The Minstrel Boy to the war is gone,
In the ranks of death you'll find him,
His father's sword he has girded on,
And his wild harp slung behind him.—
"Land of song!" said the warrior-bard,
"Tho' all the world betrays thee;
"One sword, at least thy rights shall guard,
"One faithful harp shall praise thee!"
The minstrel fell!—but the foeman's chain
Could not bring his proud soul under,
The harp he lov'd ne'er spoke again,
For he tore its cords asunder;
And said, "No chains shall sully thee,
"Thou soul of love and bravery!
"Thy songs we're made for the pure and free
"They shall never sound in slavery."
Anonymous
-
Goodness, Frybabe, I hadn't thought about that song for a long time. I always loved it. Good thing you can't hear me singing it now, since I can't really carry a tune very well.
-
Here's someone who can carry a tune:
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=0ssHxZABrpE (https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=0ssHxZABrpE)
-
Oh wow frybabe forgot about the Minstrel Boy - brought back so many childhood memories - my mother's father was Irish and the High School attended had many Irish attending - oh a Pat McDermott - you do know how to choose well - I've set my computer to listen to his play list while I get caught up with my usual links and email - what a treat.
Need to pull out a CD of a Welsh men's choir singing carols. Usually do not get into Christmas music till after Thanksgiving but like many are saying this year, it brings a comfort in these aggressive and changing times.
-
I couldn't resist the sentiment in this poem by Louis J. McQuilland
OLD FRIENDS, OLD BOOKS, OLD WINES
IN the Halls of Silence
Faintly falls the tread
Of the ghostly footsteps
Of the dear remembered dead,
Comrades of a golden prime,
Years and years ago,
Friends, of Yule and summer-time
Ere the world swung slow,
And ever in my ear
A dying voice repines
For the broken trinity,
Old friends, old books, old wines.
There were aye romances
In the Kingdom of the Dead,
Knights who rode from out the sunset,
Lance in hand and helm on head,
Dames as beauteous as the morn-stars,
To the world they gazed upon
Scattering night’s silvern lilies,
Flaming roses of the dawn.—
Scott and Stevenson and Dumas
Filled the world with livelier spooks,
In the brave days, the gay days,
Old friends, old wines, old books.
When did e’er Hellenic nectar
Such Olympian thirst assuage
As the draughts in which our Helens
Of a modern Pagan age
Toasted we both late and early,
Beauties exquisite and rare,
Was it bubbling Hock or Hiedsieck,
Or discreet vin ordinaire?
Ah, I know not, and I care not
For one sadly drinks and dines,
Musing on the vanished memories,
Old friends, old books, old wines.
-
I can't resist it either, Frybabe.
-
Thanks for sharing Frybabe, I especially love this:
For the broken trinity,
Old friends, old books, old wines.
-
Welcome to our Poetry Page.
Our page for those who listen to words that open our heart, imagination, and our feelings.
This is our continuing tradition of sharing poems. Please join us!
(https://www.frenchlavie.com/.a/6a00d83451cb9a69e20240a4f4d106200d-500wi)
by Corey Amaro
The yoke hung on the wooden peg in the barn
boots kicked off not far behind
I walked out with the sweet smell of hay behind me
and an endless blue sky
Mustard greens with bright yellow hats waving matching the sun
Discussion Leaders: Barbara (augere@ix.netcom.com)
-
I am reading an old book called The Red Planet by William John Locke. It is not, as the title implies, a SciFi, but a story set during WWI and the goings on in a British town. The narrator is a paraplegic veteran of the Boer Wars. It is an enjoyable read. In the book is mentioned a poem by Matthew Arnold called "The Forsaken Merman". I looked it up. https://www.poetryfoundation.org/poems/43589/the-forsaken-merman I had a little trouble following the "action" at first.
After reading it I came upon this video which explains the action before doing a reading of the poem. Very nice.
https://www.bing.com/videos/search?q=matthew+arnold+the+forsaken+merman&docid=608048939329981389&mid=E04BC98D5ED8D8566A1CE04BC98D5ED8D8566A1C&view=detail&FORM=VIRE
-
Nice voice to hear the poem read and his review - thanks
-
I found the poem in An Irish Crazy-Quilt: Smiles and tears, woven into song and story by Arthur M. Forrester and published in 1891. Listed as a "culturally important book", I could not find any information about the author except that he lived 1850-1895. The author's dedication to the book pretty much gives you a clue, though. "TO THE “FELONS” OF IRELAND, THE BRAVE AND FAITHFUL FEW, Who have been Exiled or Imprisoned or Executed Because they Loved their Native Land more than Home or Liberty or Life."
THE OLD BOREEN.
EMBROIDERED with shamrocks and spangled with daisies,
Tall foxgloves like sentinels guarding the way,
The squirrel and hare played bo-peep in its mazes,
The green hedgerows wooed it with odorous spray;
The thrush and the linnet piped overtures in it,
The sun’s golden rays bathed its bosom of green.
Bright scenes, fairest skies, pall to-day on my eyes,
For I opened them first on an Irish boreen!
It flung o’er my boyhood its beauty and gladness,
Rich homage of perfume and color it paid;
It laughed with my joy—in my moments of sadness
What solace I found in its pitying shade.
When Love, to my rapture, rejoiced in my capture,
My fetters the curls of a brown-haired colleen,
What draught from his chalice, in mansion or palace,
So sweet as I quaffed in the dear old boreen?
But green fields were blighted and fair skies beclouded,
Stern frost and harsh rain mocked the poor peasant’s toil,
Ere they burst into blossom the buds were enshrouded,
The seed ere its birth crushed in merciless soil;
Wild tempests struck blindly, the landlord, less kindly,
Aimed straight at our hearts with a “death sentence” keen;
The blast spared our sheeling, which he, more unfeeling,
Left roofless and bare to affright the boreen.
A dirge of farewell through the hawthorn was pealing,
The wind seemed to stir branch and leaf with a sigh,
As, down on a tear-bedewed shamrock sod kneeling,
I kissed the old boreen a weeping good-by;
And vowed that should ever my patient endeavor
The grains of success from life’s harvest-field glean,
Where’er fortune found me, whatever ties bound me,
My eyes should be closed in the dear old boreen.
Ah! Fate has been cruel, in toil’s endless duel
With sickness and want I have earned only scars;
Life’s twilight is nearing—its day disappearing—
My weary soul sighs to escape through its bars;
But ere fields elysian shall dazzle its vision,
Grant, Heaven, that its flight may be winged through the scene
Of streamlet and wild-wood, the home of my childhood,
The grave of my kin, and the dear old boreen!
-
I submitted this poem to The International Library of Poetry, for the anthology book they were compiling, back in 2005. I was so excited when they notified me my poem had been chosen. They sent me a copy of the book when it was completed. When I opened it, and saw my poem was the first one in the book, I couldn't help but be overwhelmed. All writers look for validation in their work, especially from fellow authors, and publishers, I felt accomplished when not just this poem, but another one of mine were selected for another anthology about 911.
Copy right The International Library of Poetry, 2006
Timeless Voices
Wandering Mind by A. Marie Reinhart
(https://ciaobellamarie.files.wordpress.com/2020/06/104155529_344098923267919_6458199887097165978_n.jpg)
-
Thanks for posting your poem Bellamarie. How peaceful it sounds. I have always been a daydreamer, an arm chair traveler and a rocking chair enthusiast..
-
Thank you Frybabe, I had my own in home day care business for sixteen years, and I spent a lot of time in a rocking chair, not only holding all six of my grandchildren, but so many other babies. As they slept in my arms, I found myself thinking of all the places I would love to travel to. My thoughts wandered off to places I imagined I would travel to, many of these imagined places, came from reading books, especially Jane Austen.
-
‘Whatsoever things are true,
Whatsoever things are honest,
Whatsoever things are pure,
Whatsoever things are lovely,
Whatsoever things are of good report,
If there be any virtue and if there be any praise think on these things.’
|
-
Bellamarie, thank you for posting your poem here. I really enjoyed it.
-
A guy named Sam Knapp posted this below a clip of Ravel's Pavene for a Dead Princess. It is unattributed, and I can't find who wrote it.
She is gone now
The people dance
not for the life lost
but the life found
Smooth steps on blank stone
All but the prince
who mourns alone
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=GKkeDqJBlK8
-
Sure hope frybabe we will find life after being sequestrated alone. Found this that seems to speak to a more dire and questioning thought that fits this time in history.
INGULARITY
by Marie Howe
Do you sometimes want to wake up to the singularity
we once were?
so compact nobody
needed a bed, or food or money —
nobody hiding in the school bathroom
or home alone
pulling open the drawer
where the pills are kept.
For every atom belonging to me as good
Belongs to you. Remember?
There was no Nature. No
them. No tests
to determine if the elephant
grieves her calf or if
the coral reef feels pain. Trashed
oceans don’t speak English or Farsi or French;
would that we could wake up to what we were
— when we were ocean and before that
to when sky was earth, and animal was energy, and rock was
liquid and stars were space and space was not
at all — nothing
before we came to believe humans were so important
before this awful loneliness.
Can molecules recall it?
what once was? before anything happened?
No I, no We, no one. No was
No verb no noun
only a tiny tiny dot brimming with
is is is is is
All everything home |
-
Interesting, Barb.
I occasionally ponder over the phrase "we are all made of star dust" or something like that. And then there is the well known
"ashes to ashes and dust to dust" which doesn't quite get down to the atomic and subatomic level. I look toward the stars and to becoming once again a part of that star stuff from whence we came and then popping out again in some distant future much different from here.
Meanwhile, a friend just sent me a card with this lovely poem.
Leisure
by
William Henry Davies
What is this life if, full of care,
We have no time to stand and stare.
No time to stand beneath the boughs
And stare as long as sheep or cows.
No time to see, when woods we pass,
Where squirrels hide their nuts in grass.
No time to see, in broad daylight,
Streams full of stars, like skies at night.
No time to turn at Beauty's glance,
And watch her feet, how they can dance.
No time to wait till her mouth can
Enrich that smile her eyes began.
A poor life this if, full of care,
We have no time to stand and stare.
-
Oh yes I like that - no time or rather folks not only do not take the time but they do not have the wonders in their focus - Like overlooking the flower for the Forest.
Need to find the article but yes, science has proven we are all part of stardust - the logic was explained - but it sure follows the concept of universal man and that we are all connected. Remember when it was the rage to suggest we are all Six Degrees of Kevin Bacon or "Bacon's Law"
Universal Man
by Roilynn Brown
A spark of light, igniting and,
illuminating the emptiness of darkness.
Positive energy pulling, negative energy pushing
to a cause of up, colliding with the effect of down.
The opposites seek to redeem themselves in the attraction.
With the hottest fire and the coldest ice,
the Universal Man is Born.
Bending and folding, he connects like a jizsaw puzzle.
He becomes a molecule of reasonable consciousness and innovated motivation.
Fashioned and formed, with energy that pulsates by refraction.
The gravity, of elements, produce magnetic waves of thought.
Character with distinct individualized qualities
radiate the theory of mind.
Incorporated senses of sight, hearing, smell and taste,
emulate the feeling of emotion.
Gained is the ability to relate within,
and rationalize concepts beyond instinct,
as memory is defined.
Evolving from instinct to analytical comprehension,
to the knowledge of love and hate, strength and weakness,
beauty and simplicity, courage and emotional FEAR,
where False Evidence Appears Real, to establish a reality.
Listening to his Free Will, he loves only himself.
Forsaking the Divine Purpose to love the Higher Will of creation,
that is a Omnipresent, Omnipotent, Omnipresence Deity.
Universal Man, created from the positive energy of light,
and a cause to effect redemption with Grace, Mercy and Love.
Unbreakable promises of salvation and eternal life, offered from the creator.
The virtue of Humility activates his relationship to the Divine purpose,
to love others and the higher power of; I AM: that is greater. |
-
See It Through
By Edgar Guest
When you’re up against a trouble,
Meet it squarely, face to face;
Lift your chin and set your shoulders,
Plant your feet and take a brace.
When it’s vain to try to dodge it,
Do the best that you can do;
You may fail, but you may conquer,
See it through!
Black may be the clouds about you
And your future may seem grim,
But don’t let your nerve desert you;
Keep yourself in fighting trim.
If the worst is bound to happen,
Spite of all that you can do,
Running from it will not save you,
See it through!
Even hope may seem but futile,
When with troubles you’re beset,
But remember you are facing
Just what other men have met.
You may fail, but fall still fighting;
Don’t give up, whate’er you do;
Eyes front, head high to the finish.
See it through!
|
-
I am enjoying the poetry readings in John Lithgow's The Poets' Corner: The One-and-Only Poetry Book for the Whole Family which I have on Audible. it is fun to listen to them, his thought on each and a bit of biographical background on the poets. He has a bunch of celebrates reading them besides himself. He even remembered Purple Cow from his childhood. I was delighted to hear him read it. Oh, but here it is on YouTube. Amazing! https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=o1W7VK6Yo4s Click show more for the list of poems and who is reading them.
Okay, I thought this video was missing something. It does not include Lithgow's thought and the poet bio, just seems to have the poems. Seems a little less interesting without Lithgow talking about the poems and poets.
-
Like you said frybabe - the reading would be so much more with Lithgow's background on the poems chosen. I still have a difficult time listening to poetry or even many books read without having in front of me the written version - seems to anchor me although I have always enjoyed hearing anything written by Dylan Thomas preferably read by Dylan Thomas - Christmas is just not Christmas for me without hearing read A Child's Christmas in Wales. Looking at Lithgow it took me awhile to realize how versatile he is as an actor - I still associate him with the comedy Third Rock from the Sun more than his many movies.
-
I am exploring Project Gutenberg's new site for self-published/self-publishing books and ran across this translation of a selection from Carmina Burana. http://uploads.worldlibrary.org/uploads/pdf/20121106013523carminaburanapdf_pdf.pdf
So far, all the books I opened on this site are in pdf only form.
-
Don't you just hate it when things you depend upon for years ups and changes with what appears to be no benefit - I think every new group has to leave their mark and they way they do it is to change what those before them created. Well at least the poetry remains the same - although the usual poetry sites I like to visit are now all full of political and covid and race poems - there is no escape from all this unrest which I find much of it not based in reality or documented history -
Its like so much now - decisions are made on how it feels and if it feels uncomfortable then someone must be blamed and this wrong that I feel gives me permission to spread my version of situations and events - I feel like wanting to lock myself up in a Tower like these Medieval women and like the Lady of Shallot view the world through a mirror.
"old anxieties back into the night,
insomnia and nightmares into play;
when things in need of doing go undone
and things that can't be undone come to call,
muttering recriminations at the door,"
from February by Bill Christophersen
-
Amen, Barb. And your poem hits the nail on the head. How do you manage to find so many apt poems? I never even heard of Bill Christophersen.
-
Frybabe, you really got me humming this morning with Carmina Burana. Does the translation have the original somewhere? That's useful with a poem, even if you don't know the original language, and if you do, you can get some of the original feel, which is often hard to translate completely.
Kline also translated Ovid's Metamorphoses. It's online; I read some of it when deciding whether to lead that discussion.
-
Pat, the original is at the Bavarian State Library. I see bits and pieces of it translated, but I have not run across any that have any copies of it in Latin except for photos of various single pages.
-
If you had a CD of Orff's music, you'd have the words for those pieces, since it's sung in the original, and you get a booklet with sung words and translation. It's a terrific thing. I still remember my reaction the first time I heard it, and that was at least 50 years ago.
-
No booklet but here it is performed by the chorus at the University of California
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=QEllLECo4OM
'O Fortuna' was written in the 13th century as a medieval Latin poem, which was part of a collection known as the Carmina Burana. It literally means 'Oh Fate', and it is a complaint about the inescapable power of fate - Carmina Burana translates as Songs Of Beuren, and refers to a collection of early 13th-century songs and poems that was discovered in Beuren in 1803 – although it has since been established that the collection originated from Seckau Abbey, Austria – and is now housed in the Bavarian State Library.
They were written by students and clergy when Latin was the lingua franca throughout Italy and western Europe for travelling scholars, universities, and theologians. Most of the poems and songs appear to be the work of Goliards, clergy (mostly students) who satirized the Catholic Church.
The songs, rhymed lyrics mainly in Latin with a few in German, vary in subject and style: there are drinking songs, serious and licentious love songs, religious poems, pastoral lyrics, and satires of church and government. Some of the poems were set to music by Carl Orff in his cantata Carmina Burana (1937).
Here are the lyrics in Latin to O Fortuna:
O Fortuna
Velut luna
Statu variabilis
Semper crescis
Aut decrescis;
Vita detestabilis
Nunc obdurat
Et tunc curat
Ludo mentis aciem,
Egestatem,
Potestatem
Dissolvit ut glaciem.
Sors immanis
Et inanis,
Rota tu volubilis
Status malus,
Vana salus
Semper dissolubilis,
Obumbrata
Et velata
Michi quoque niteris;
Nunc per ludum
Dorsum nudum
Fero tui sceleris.
Sors salutis
Et virtutis
Michi nunc contraria,
est affectus
et defectus
semper in angaria.
Hac in hora
Sine mora
Corde pulsum tangite;
Quod per sortem
Sternit fortem,
Mecum omnes plangite!
Here they are again, translated into English:
O Fortune,
like the moon
you are changeable,
ever waxing,
ever waning,
hateful life
first oppresses
and then soothes
as fancy takes it;
poverty
and power
it melts them like ice
fate – monstrous
and empty,
you whirling wheel,
you are malevolent,
well-being is vain
and always fades to nothing,
shadowed
and veiled
you plague me too;
now through the game
I bring my bare back
to your villainy
fate is against me
in health
and virtue,
driven on
and weighted down,
always enslaved.
so at this hour
without delay
pluck the vibrating strings;
since Fate
strikes down the strong man,
everyone weep with me!
-
Some of Carmina Burana's poems are in Middle High German; It's kind of fun to see what it was like.
Chramer, gip die varwe mir,
die min wengel roete,
da mit ich die jungen man
an ir dank der minnenliebe noete.
Seht mich an,
jungen man!
lat mich iu gevallen!
Shopkeeper, give me color
to make my cheeks red,
so that I can make the young men
love me, against their will.
Look at me,
young men!
Let me please you!
Interesting; at first autocorrect went crazy trying to change things. Then on line three it realized I was writing German, and tried to put everything into modern German (gefallen instead of gevallen). Now it's back in English, trying to change them both into befallen. I didn't know it spoke German.
-
Goodness your autocorrect gave you quite an adventure... ;) ::)
-
This appeals to my SciFi interests. It speaks of an eternal search through time for a lost love.
LEGEND
WHERE are you hid from me, belovèd one
That I am seeking through the lonely world—
A wanderer, on my way home to you?
Dark is the night and perilous the road:
At many a breast in longing have I leaned,
At many a wayside worshipped; and my heart
Is tired from long travelling.
Perhaps
In centuries to come you wait for me,
And are as yet an iris by the stream
Lifting her single blossom, or the faint
Tremulous haze upon the hills—and we
Have missed each other.
O if it be so,
Then may this song reach to the verge of doom—
Ages unborn—to find you where you are,
My lonely one; and like a murmuring string,
Faint with one music, endlessly repeat
To you, not even knowing I was yours,
Her plaintive burden from the dolorous past:
Telling of one upon a hopeless quest—
How in the dark of Time he lost his way!
John Hall Wheelock
-
That's good, Frybabe. Thanks.
-
OH my - it pulls you in - the yearning, the melancholy is beautiful...
like a murmuring string,
Faint with one music, endlessly repeat
Her plaintive burden from the dolorous past:
Telling of one upon a hopeless quest—
How in the dark of Time he lost his way!
-
Most of the poems in Wheelock's book, The Black Panther, that I looked at have a yearning, melancholy sound to them. I've downloaded it to read at my leisure. I have always been attracted to things slightly melancholy, be it poems or music or movie scenes. It has a "draw" to it. That may sum up my attraction to such composers as Debussy and Ravel as well; they draw you in and pull you along.
-
This is from a local - Gillis Bartles, a rancher on a small spread near San Saba
Here I lay in lonely desolation
For here I pause to wait
For death comes slowly
Yet I fear not my fate
Of summers golden and pure
I recall my past glories
And of victories all so sure
Veterans march proudly
Past the stand,
People cheer and shout,
On plays the band.
And as our country calls,
For men to bear arms,
We call upon many men and boys,
From cities, towns and farms.
Towards the gory battlefields they march
wielding the frightful weapons of war
longing all the while for home and hearth
and when the fighting is done
they bury their dead
and when gazing to the horizon afar
and wonder if next they be put to rest
in that cold and unfamiliar ground
let us not forget,
This day we pray,
For without the veteran,
Liberty, life and happiness is in harm's way.
-
Very nice, Barb.
I got curious about Mr. Bartles and was looking to see if he has a book out. First I discovered that Mr. Bartles is an amateur radio operator. There is a picture of him in Confederate attire six pages down in the DCV Traveller newsletter. http://www.dcvtx.org/files/Newsletters/DCV_TRAVELLER_SPRING__2018_Final.pdf Finally, I couldn't find any published books. However, I did find an alternative history written by Scott Wendt that credited Gillis Bartles with doing the sepia toning for the cover photograph which was taken by Stan Wojcik. Here is the original photo: http://www.earlytexashistory.com/Twin%20Sisters/Index.html Given the nature of the book, I expect it is the same Gillis Bartles. Both Bartles and Wendt are involved in Civil War reenactments. Wojcik is/was a Knox County judge. Well, back to Mr. Bartles, I wonder if he has written other poetry, but unpublished nationally. The book is available on Amazon. https://www.amazon.com/Road-Bahia-Scott-Wendt-ebook/dp/B004G095OM/ref=sr_1_1?dchild=1&keywords=The+road+to+La+Bahia&qid=1605182895&s=books&sr=1-1 Or, you can read/listen to it through https://books.mediafile.live/9918015/books-s1s12106457s-1ss2s3b267359s-2s-%7BIP%7DXIPXHDKGEKIJKCA.html but you have to join. I am not familiar with this site, nor, when doing a quick search, can I find any info on it.
Never know what is going to get me started on a curiosity search.
-
Yep, that is Gillis - his family dates back to early Texas History and since his wife died a few years ago he has been building his cabin and other ranch out-buildings as if an early settler using post oak and mesquite from the property while raising some longhorn. His added income comes from leasing his ranch to deer hunters in the fall - He enjoys first thing, before he is even out of bed talking to his regulars on CB radio and then after chores he is sharing his many, many photos that go back to the turn of the last century. Many of the photos are are houses and businesses since paved over with highways and tall buildings, and a few days a week he does his sepia work - Gillis keeps his house in Austin that he visits from time to time - His son and neighbors check on it for him. Out in San Saba his life is a re-creation of Texas 1850 to 1880s except his ham radio is 20th century and his photography is using the technology of the 20th and 21st century - He does write short stories, as well as tells old Texas stories and describes things that happen on his ranch or his trips to town like a true raconteur that would rival John Henry Faulk.
-
From one of my favorite poets, Jo Harjo
Perhaps the World Ends Here
The world begins at a kitchen table. No matter what, we must eat to live.
The gifts of earth are brought and prepared, set on the table.
So it has been since creation, and it will go on.
We chase chickens or dogs away from it. Babies teethe at the corners.
They scrape their knees under it.
It is here that children are given instructions on what it means to be human.
We make men at it, we make women.
At this table we gossip, recall enemies and the ghosts of lovers.
Our dreams drink coffee with us as they put their arms around our children.
They laugh with us at our poor falling-down selves and as we put ourselves
back together once again at the table.
This table has been a house in the rain, an umbrella in the sun.
Wars have begun and ended at this table. It is a place to hide in the shadow of terror.
A place to celebrate the terrible victory.
We have given birth on this table, and have prepared our parents for burial here.
At this table we sing with joy, with sorrow. We pray of suffering and remorse. We give thanks.
Perhaps the world will end at the kitchen table, while we are laughing and crying,
eating of the last sweet bite.
|
-
From Paulo CoelhoWe have all spent many days,
or whole weeks,
without receiving any gesture of affection from others.
These are difficult times,
when the human heat disappears,
and life is reduced
to an arduous effort to survive.
In those moments when someone else's fire
it does not give heat to our soul,
we must review our own home.
We should add more firewood and
try to light up the dark room
in which our life was transformed.
When we hear our fire crackling,
the wood creaks,
that the embers shine
or the stories that the flames tell,
hope will be restored to us.
If we are able to love,
we will also be able to be loved.
It's just a matter of time ... |
-
Barb, you have posted other poems of Harjo's. She really hits home, doesn't she?
I like the Coelho too.
-
May the song of the birds be the bearer of your joy.
May the softness of the moss be the pillow for your dreams.
May the puzzle of the monkey bring adventure to your steps.
May the down of the feather be the gentleness of your touch.
May the wild nettle grove be the healing of your pain.
May the tiny petals falling awaken wonder in your eyes.
May the gold of buttercup reflect the deepening of your love.
—Valerie Allen
|
-
Was anybody else blown away by the words of that 22 yr poet, Amanda Gorman, yesterday? WOW!
Jane
-
YES!
-
Oh, absolutely. BUT, if you print it out, and read it aloud, it is twice as powerful! A friend said she thought it lacked poetry. Well, iambic pentameter it is not, but if you read aloud, slowly, you will find/see/hear the poetry, the rhyme. Oh it is gorgeous. Seeing Ms. Gorman as she recited it only added to the resonance and beauty of it.
-
https://youtu.be/2mTmTdOgv0M (https://youtu.be/2mTmTdOgv0M)
Unfortunately it starts with and Ad
-
Welcome to our Poetry Page.
Our page for those who listen to words that open our heart, imagination, and our feelings.
This is our continuing tradition of sharing poems. Please join us!
(https://64.media.tumblr.com/8dd81abbf9fb68aa421c9399770774ef/4475321baeaf9a00-a7/s500x750/6312d0048942b2638d93a44bd9d264b77a545880.jpg)
Stopping by Woods on a Snowy Evening
By Robert Frost
Whose woods these are I think I know.
His house is in the village though;
He will not see me stopping here
To watch his woods fill up with snow.
My little horse must think it queer
To stop without a farmhouse near
Between the woods and frozen lake
The darkest evening of the year.
He gives his harness bells a shake
To ask if there is some mistake.
The only other sound’s the sweep
Of easy wind and downy flake.
The woods are lovely, dark and deep,
But I have promises to keep,
And miles to go before I sleep,
And miles to go before I sleep.
|
Discussion Leaders: Barbara (augere@ix.netcom.com)
-
| (https://64.media.tumblr.com/a8ae0a1875b7137f276dce95a1564f89/48b8832c1d039e2d-d7/s540x810/8acde9d1713814d0d61998bad79c0a7061f31995.jpg) |
As a single footstep will not make a path on the earth,
so a single thought will not make a pathway in the mind.
To make a deep physical path,
we walk again and again.
To make a deep mental path,
we must think over and over the
kind of thoughts we wish to dominate our lives.
Pursue some path,
however narrow and crooked,
in which you can walk
with love and reverence.
Simplify, simplify.
~ Henry David Thoreau |
-
| (https://64.media.tumblr.com/f38eadd32194054abc9871c92bc37539/tumblr_naowd8WndY1tj1h69o1_540.jpg) |
"For beautiful eyes,
look for the good in others;
for beautiful lips,
speak only words of kindness;
and for poise,
walk with the knowledge that
you are never alone."
~ Audrey Hepburn |
-
| (https://64.media.tumblr.com/6bd594886b7e199ebb3d8f3c16d30943/0c6c01fdb75c3390-cb/s540x810/3068cc05d145047ac8b704717fe09cded252a658.jpg) | Winter-Time
Robert Louis Stevenson - 1850-1894
Late lies the wintry sun a-bed,
A frosty, fiery sleepy-head;
Blinks but an hour or two; and then,
A blood-red orange, sets again.
Before the stars have left the skies,
At morning in the dark I rise;
And shivering in my nakedness,
By the cold candle, bathe and dress.
Close by the jolly fire I sit
To warm my frozen bones a bit;
Or with a reindeer-sled, explore
The colder countries round the door.
When to go out, my nurse doth wrap
Me in my comforter and cap;
The cold wind burns my face, and blows
Its frosty pepper up my nose.
Black are my steps on silver sod;
Thick blows my frosty breath abroad;
And tree and house, and hill and lake,
Are frosted like a wedding-cake.
|
-
I don't believe I knew Robert Louis Stevenson wrote poems. This one is very nice. My favorite poet is Robert Frost, so it is no surprise that I thoroughly enjoyed "Stopping by Woods on a Snowy Evening".
Here is one I found that is interesting, although I don't really agree with wishing to get out and mow the lawn .
January's Sad Refrain
Gone, the last holiday,
Another year passed away.
Now our taxes we must pay,
Cold and gray marks the day.
Barren trees and icy ground,
Not much pleasure to be found,
Winter holds us in its grip,
As icy winds howl and rip.
Move with caution all a-round,
Train whistles a lonly sound.
If only I was half my age,
I’d ride to warmth, with my wage.
But for now I will light the fire,
And spin warm dreams as I retire,
To dream of sun that burns like fire,
Of heat and sweat that I’ll soon tire.
Oh, please just let the winter pass,
For now I long to mow the grass.
Human nature’s a fickle lass,
We long for what we can not grasp.
We may wish this time to past,
But life's time moves much too fast.
So look for joy, ignore the cold and pain,
We all know January’s sad refrain.
Teresa Dearing
-
Poetry. Thank you all.
-
Full Inaugural Poem:
The Hill We Climb:
When day comes, we ask ourselves, where can we find light in this never ending shade?
The loss we carry. A sea we must wade.
We braved the belly of the beast
We’ve learned that quiet isn't always peace, and the norms and notions of what just is isn't always justice.
And yet the dawn is ours before we knew it.
Somehow we do it.
Somehow we weathered and witnessed a nation that isn't broken, but simply unfinished.
We, the successors of a country and a time where a skinny black girl descended from slaves and raised by a single mother can dream of becoming president, only to find herself reciting for one.
And, yes, we are far from polished, far from pristine, but that doesn't mean we are striving to form a union that is perfect.
We are striving to forge our union with purpose.
To compose a country committed to all cultures, colors, characters and conditions of man.
And so we lift our gaze, not to what stands between us, but what stands before us.
We close the divide because we know to put our future first, we must first put our differences aside.
We lay down our arms so we can reach out our arms to one another.
We seek harm to none and harmony for all.
Let the globe, if nothing else, say this is true.
That even as we grieved, we grew.
That even as we hurt, we hoped.
That even as we tired, we tried.
That we'll forever be tied together, victorious.
Not because we will never again know defeat, but because we will never again sow division.
Scripture tells us to envision that everyone shall sit under their own vine and fig tree and no one shall make them afraid.
If we're to live up to our own time,
then victory won't lie in the blade,
but in all the bridges we've made.
That is the promise to glade.
The hill we climb, if only we dare,
it's because being American is more than a pride we inherit.
It's the past we step into and how we repair it.
We've seen a force that would shatter our nation, rather than share it,
Would destroy our country if it meant delaying democracy.
And this effort very nearly succeeded.
But while democracy can be periodically delayed, it can never be permanently defeated.
In this truth, in this faith we trust,
for while we have our eyes on the future, history has its eyes on us.
This is the era of just redemption.
We feared at its inception.
We did not feel prepared to be the heirs of such a terrifying hour.
But within it we found the power to author a new chapter,
To offer hope and laughter to ourselves.
So, while once we asked how could we possibly prevail over catastrophe,
now we assert, how could catastrophe possibly prevail over us?
We will not march back to what was,
but move to what shall be:
a country that is bruised but whole, benevolent but bold, fierce and free.
We will not be turned around or interrupted by intimidation because we know our inaction and inertia will be the inheritance of the next generation, become the future.
Our blunders become their burdens.
But one thing is certain.
If we merge mercy with might, and might with right, then love becomes our legacy and change our children's birthright.
So let us leave behind a country better than the one we were left.
With every breath my bronze pounded chest, we will raise this wounded world into a wondrous one.
We will rise from the golden hills of the west.
We will rise from the windswept north, east where our forefathers first realized revolution.
We will rise from the lake-rimmed cities of the midwestern states.
We will rise from the sun-baked south.
We will rebuild, reconcile, and recover.
And every known nook of our nation and every corner called our country, our people diverse and beautiful, will emerge battered and beautiful.
When day comes, we step out of the shade of flame and unafraid.
The new dawn balloons as we free it.
For there is always light,
if only we're brave enough to see it.
If only we're brave enough to be it.
|
-
And let us credit the poet of that work
—Amanda Gorman.
-
Thanks for printing the words to that, Barb. It's impossible to see all its cleverness just hearing it aloud once.
Hurrah for Amanda Gorman.
And thanks for that nice cluster of poems to set the winter mood.
-
| (https://cdn.cnn.com/cnnnext/dam/assets/190920112128-sunspots-mystery-super-169.jpg) | “So Tired Blues”
by Langston Hughes
With the sun in my hand
Gonna throw the sun
Way across the land-
Cause I’m tired,
Tired as I can be
|
-
| (https://external-content.duckduckgo.com/iu/?u=https%3A%2F%2Fi.pinimg.com%2Foriginals%2Fd4%2F74%2Fdf%2Fd474df3ccfa5a6dfb9953214214aa9b0.png&f=1&nofb=1) | “Warning” by Jenny Joseph
When I am an old woman I shall wear purple
With a red hat which doesn’t go, and doesn’t suit me.
And I shall spend my pension on brandy and summer gloves
And satin sandals, and say we’ve no money for butter.
I shall sit down on the pavement when I’m tired
And gobble up samples in shops and press alarm bells
And run my stick along the public railings
And make up for the sobriety of my youth.
I shall go out in my slippers in the rain
And pick flowers in other people’s gardens
And learn to spit.
You can wear terrible shirts and grow more fat
And eat three pounds of sausages at a go
Or only bread and pickle for a week
And hoard pens and pencils and beermats and things in boxes.
But now we must have clothes that keep us dry
And pay our rent and not swear in the street
And set a good example for the children.
We must have friends to dinner and read the papers.
But maybe I ought to practice a little now?
So people who know me are not too shocked and surprised
When suddenly I am old, and start to wear purple.
|
-
| (https://external-content.duckduckgo.com/iu/?u=http%3A%2F%2Fimg.photobucket.com%2Falbums%2Fv483%2FWolfDance3%2FBackgrounds%2FOldHippieWithDog.jpg&f=1&nofb=1) | Do not go gentle into that good night,
Old age should burn and rave at close of day;
Rage, rage against the dying of the light.
Though wise men at their end know dark is right,
Because their words had forked no lightning they
Do not go gentle into that good night.
Good men, the last wave by, crying how bright
Their frail deeds might have danced in a green bay,
Rage, rage against the dying of the light.
Wild men who caught and sang the sun in flight,
And learn, too late, they grieved it on its way,
Do not go gentle into that good night.
Grave men, near death, who see with blinding sight
Blind eyes could blaze like meteors and be gay,
Rage, rage against the dying of the light.
And you, my father, there on the sad height,
Curse, bless, me now with your fierce tears, I pray.
Do not go gentle into that good night. |
-
(https://upload.wikimedia.org/wikipedia/commons/thumb/1/1c/Hey_Diddle_Diddle_2_-_WW_Denslow_-_Project_Gutenberg_etext_18546.jpg/220px-Hey_Diddle_Diddle_2_-_WW_Denslow_-_Project_Gutenberg_etext_18546.jpg) | “On The Ning Nang Nong” by Spike Milligan
On the Ning Nang Nong
Where the Cows go Bong!
and the monkeys all say BOO!
There’s a Nong Nang Ning
Where the trees go Ping!
And the tea pots jibber jabber joo.
On the Nong Ning Nang
All the mice go Clang
And you just can’t catch ’em when they do!
So its Ning Nang Nong
Cows go Bong!
Nong Nang Ning
Trees go ping
Nong Ning Nang
The mice go Clang
What a noisy place to belong
is the Ning Nang Ning Nang Nong!!
|
-
| (https://external-content.duckduckgo.com/iu/?u=http%3A%2F%2Fdreamicus.com%2Fdata%2Ffeather%2Ffeather-04.jpg&f=1&nofb=1) | “Hope Is The Thing With Feathers”
by Emily Dickinson
‘Hope’ is the thing with feathers —
That perches in the soul —
And sings the tune without the words —
And never stops — at all —
And sweetest — in the Gale — is heard —
And sore must be the storm —
That could abash the little Bird
That kept so many warm —
I’ve heard it in the chillest land —
And on the strangest Sea —
Yet, never, in Extremity,
It asked a crumb — of Me. |
-
(https://thefanaticreader.files.wordpress.com/2014/10/the_poison_tree_by_icy_abyss-d6rd4w3.jpg) | “A Poison Tree”
by William Blake
I was angry with my friend:
I told my wrath, my wrath did end.
I was angry with my foe:
I told it not, my wrath did grow.
And I watered it in fears,
Night and morning with my tears;
And I sunned it with smiles,
And with soft deceitful wiles.
And it grew both day and night,
Till it bore an apple bright.
And my foe beheld it shine.
And he knew that it was mine,
And into my garden stole
When the night had veiled the pole;
In the morning glad I see
My foe outstretched beneath the tree. |
-
(https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-vIisPBIlScc/VuvPvcmXe3I/AAAAAAAAIuY/zu5Zk4cGUpAlE384JPBFmjYkU2ggnBqKg/s1600/karpinski_home_poem563_775.jpg)
-
(https://64.media.tumblr.com/440749cf05edb997a76538ff4e88a398/tumblr_obqlxmEB7l1qkrvrho1_r2_1280.jpg)
-
(https://img0.etsystatic.com/001/0/7172169/il_570xN.384098556_j3pf.jpg)
-
Some Days
Billy Collins - 1941-
Some days I put the people in their places at the table,
bend their legs at the knees,
if they come with that feature,
and fix them into the tiny wooden chairs.
All afternoon they face one another,
the man in the brown suit,
the woman in the blue dress,
perfectly motionless, perfectly behaved.
But other days, I am the one
who is lifted up by the ribs,
then lowered into the dining room of a dollhouse
to sit with the others at the long table.
Very funny,
but how would you like it
if you never knew from one day to the next
if you were going to spend it
striding around like a vivid god,
your shoulders in the clouds,
or sitting down there amidst the wallpaper,
staring straight ahead with your little plastic face?
| (https://64.media.tumblr.com/da4028f2dafcc4c21dd239bf0ff4a478/78bcd7942c8102d4-d8/s1280x1920/8088cbd6d98efee689fd34b9a110eb6b999a7f25.png) |
-
First inspiration, then ending with a chuckle. Thank you, Barb.
-
Here is an Ogden Nash I hadn't read before.
Look What You Did, Christopher!
In fourteen hundred and ninety-two,
Someone sailed the ocean blue.
Somebody borrowed the fare in Spain
For a business trip on the bounding main,
And to prove to the people, by actual test,
You could get to the East by sailing West.
Somebody said, Sail on! Sail on!
And studied China and China's lingo,
And cried from the bow, There's China now!
And promptly bumped into San Domingo.
Somebody murmured, Oh dear, oh dear!
I've discovered the Western Hemisphere.
And that, you may think, my friends, was that.
But it wasn't. Not by a fireman's hat.
Well enough wasn't left alone,
And Columbus was only a cornerstone.
There came the Spaniards,
There came the Greeks,
There came the Pilgrims in leather breeks.
There came the Dutch,
And the Poles and Swedes,
The Persians, too,
And perhaps the Medes,
The Letts, the Lapps, and the Lithuanians,
Regal Russians, and ripe Roumanians.
There came the French
And there came the Finns,
And the Japanese
With their formal grins.
The Tartars came,
And the Terrible Turks -
In a word, humanity shot the works.
And the country that should have been Cathay
Decided to be
The U.S.A.
And that, you may think, my friends, was that.
But it wasn't. Not by a fireman's hat.
Christopher C. was the cornerstone,
And well enough wasn't left alone.
For those who followed
When he was through,
They burned to discover something, too.
Somebody, bored with rural scenery,
Went to work and invented machinery,
While a couple of other mental giants
Got together
And thought up Science.
Platinum blondes
(They were once peroxide),
Peruvian bonds
And carbon monoxide,
Tax evaders
And Vitamin A,
Vice crusaders,
And tattletale gray -
These, with many another phobia,
We owe to that famous Twelfth of Octobia.
O misery, misery, mumble and moan!
Someone invented the telephone,
And interrupted a nation's slumbers,
Ringing wrong but similar numbers.
Someone devised the silver screen
And the intimate Hollywood magazine,
And life is a Hades
Of clicking cameras,
And foreign ladies
Behaving amorous.
Gags have erased
Amusing dialog,
As gas has replaced
The crackling firelog.
All that glitters is sold as gold,
And our daily diet grows odder and odder,
And breakfast foods are dusty and cold -
It's a wise child
That knows its fodder.
Someone invented the automobile,
And good Americans took the wheel
To view American rivers and rills
And justly famous forests and hills -
But someone equally enterprising
Had invented billboard advertising.
You linger at home
In dark despair,
And wistfully try the electric air.
You hope against hope for a quiz imperial,
And what do they give you?
A doctor serial.
Oh, Columbus was only a cornerstone,
And well enough wasn't left alone,
For the Inquisition was less tyrannical
Than the iron rules of an age mechanical,
Which, because of an error in '92,
Are clamped like corsets on me and you,
While Children of Nature we'd be today
If San Domingo
Had been Cathay.
And that, you may think, my friends, is that.
But it isn't - not by a fireman's hat.
The American people,
With grins jocose,
Always survive the fatal dose.
And though our systems are slightly wobbly,
We'll fool the doctor this time, probly.
-
New to me too, and hilarious.
-
Wonderful - great find - I never heard it either but just too perfect especially now...
-
Thank you, Pat H and Barb~
-
Oh, hats! It's good to see you again! I've wondered how you were, and how this dreadful time was treating you. As you can see, we're still hobbling along one way or another, and life is easing up a bit. Some of us are even getting back to reading again.
-
Hi Pat H,
Thank you for the pleasant thoughts. Yes, we have and some are still going through these strange and different times. I am rereading your Ogden Nash poem. I have been trying to "'sail on.'" It's not easy. Somebody said, Sail on! Sail on!
-
Nice to see your post hats - trying to sail on is really not all that easy I agree - there are reminders how difficult this time in our history no matter where you look - TV is as bad as social media and the news is impossible - walking down the street has become most unfriendly - thank goodness I am not living in an apartment in some high rise - at least I have my backyard to look on and sit under an oak with coffee - books and old movies seem to be the only escape -
Found this and thought it was about one of the issues of the day - From an Ode by James Russell Lowell recited at Harvard welcoming back students who had fought in the Civil War
Many loved Truth, and lavished life's best oil
Amid the dust of books to find her,
Content at last, for guerdon of their toil,
With the cast mantle she hath left behind her.
Many in sad faith sought for her,
Many with crossed hands sighed for her;
But these, our brothers, fought for her,
At life's dear peril wrought for her,
So loved her that they died for her,
Tasting the raptured fleetness
Of her divine completeness
Their higher instinct knew
Those love her best who to themselves are true,
And what they dare to dream of, dare to do;
They followed her and found her
Where all may hope to find,
Not in the ashes of the burnt-out mind,
But beautiful, with danger's sweetness round her.
Where faith made whole with deed
Breathes its awakening breath
Into the lifeless creed,
They saw her plumed and mailed,
With sweet, stern face unveiled,
And all-repaying eyes, look proud on them in death. |
-
(https://64.media.tumblr.com/04b31565534fd650d6d7d5bac4d039f0/26c7dbafbfe4493e-bc/s500x750/998b61ec48c7cf46820c6af6858acf2bb931399c.jpg)
"I know a bank where the wild thyme blows,
Where oxlips and the nodding violet grows,
Quite over-canopied with luscious woodbine,
With sweet musk-roses and with eglantine.” |
-
All these years I've been running across eglantine in poetry without ever looking it up to see what kind of flower it is. it's finally about time to learn. Turns out its, sweetbriar, a wild rose, very pretty.
https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Rosa_rubiginosa (https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Rosa_rubiginosa)
Thanks, Barb.
-
Yes, don't know if everyone knew their flowers back in the 1500s but Shakespeare sure did among so many things he included in his plays and poetry. I think eglantine is one of the few wild roses that the deer will not eat. Been isolating from current events by reading poetry - the classic poem still fills me where as contemporary poetry does not - I think the classic takes you beyond to the ethereal and eternal where as contemporary poetry seems grounded in the here and now which is fine but does not prompt my soul to sing.
-
I don't always relate to modern poetry either. Partly it seems too formless to me. I don't have the knack of teasing out the beauty in it, and probably won't acquire it, since I'm not reading much modern stuff.
Shakespeare also knew his birds, which turned out to be disadvantageous to us, since someone decided to import to America all the birds mentioned by him. Of course the ones that survived weren't the glorious ones like the skylark, but the nuisance ones like the house finch and starling.
-
The first two lines seem familiar, but not the rest.
I am with you, PatH. A lot of modern poems, and a few not so modern, seem to lack a kind of rhythm to them. The words flow, not jerked about.
-
Ditto about the first two lines.
-
Oberon:
Having once this juice,
I’ll watch Titania when she is asleep,
And drop the liquor of it in her eyes
The next thing then she waking looks upon
(Be it on lion, bear, or wolf, or bull,
On meddling monkey, or on busy ape)
She shall pursue it with the soul of love.
And ere I take this charm from off her sight
The flower love-in-idleness is the pansy, the ‘fair vestal, throned by the west’ is Queen Elizabeth I, and one function of this fairy vision is to constitute Shakespeare’s largest and most direct tribute to his monarch during her lifetime. She passes on, and remains fancy-free; the arrow of Cupid, unable to wound the Virgin Queen, instead converts the pansy into a universal love charm. It is as though Elizabeth’s choice of chastity opens up a cosmos of erotic possibilities for others, but at the high cost of accident and arbitrariness replacing her reasoned choice. Love at first sight, exalted in Romeo and Juliet, is pictured here as calamity. The ironic possibilities of the love elixir are first intimated when, in one of the play’s most exquisite passages, Oberon plots the ensnarement of Titania:
I know a bank where the wild thyme blows,
Where oxlips and the nodding violet grows,
Quite over-canopied with luscious woodbine,
With sweet musk-roses, and with eglantine.
There sleeps Titania sometime of the night,
Lull’d in these flowers with dances and delight;
And there the snake throws her enamell’d skin,
-
Ahhhhh! A Midsummer Night's Dream, one of my least favorite Shakespeare plays. No wonder I didn't recognize more of the lines.
-
| One Art By Elizabeth Bishop
The art of losing isn’t hard to master;
so many things seem filled with the intent
to be lost that their loss is no disaster.
Lose something every day. Accept the fluster
of lost door keys, the hour badly spent.
The art of losing isn’t hard to master.
Then practice losing farther, losing faster:
places, and names, and where it was you meant
to travel. None of these will bring disaster.
I lost my mother’s watch. And look! my last, or
next-to-last, of three loved houses went.
The art of losing isn’t hard to master.
I lost two cities, lovely ones. And, vaster,
some realms I owned, two rivers, a continent.
I miss them, but it wasn’t a disaster.
—Even losing you (the joking voice, a gesture
I love) I shan’t have lied. It’s evident
the art of losing’s not too hard to master
though it may look like (Write it!) like disaster. |
-
I suspect an Alzheimer's theme in that poem, Barb.
-
Could be - however what impacted me was a description of all the continuous loses as we age - Everything we knew is gone - friends pass - physical capacity to do things goes - things we have in our home not only disintegrate with age but their usefulness goes with new technology replacing them - the way we entertained goes and therefore all our serving and cooking items become like museum pieces - Rivers and ponds either change with additional use or they are not taken care of and are chocked to uselessness - Nearby countryside landscapes are no longer a Sunday drive away but rather wall to wall housing - Shops disappear, some are replaced but many are not - As we age we cannot get through the day without reverting to naps and our hands will not keep up with the handwork we took pride in accomplishing - it goes on and on.
I think for me two summer's ago I visited places back east where I lived during part of my childhood and was shocked not just the change in architecture that I expected but the attitudes of people and difference in I would say a lack of pride in their community -
Since that trip I question who are we - if our memory is our past and the past as we experienced and saw it is no longer then what is memory - a fairyland - definitely lost in the annals of history as the saying goes - and if so how can anyone have PTSD which is tied to a memory that is really a fantasy - is what happens and what exists regardless man made or nature only make-believe that is erased by the 'new kid on the block' -
When what made us courageous, strong, caring even heroes no longer exists but is lost to a few memories it is as if the past dies and bits die without any record and so the idea of being guided by history is trying to create a puzzle with pieces missing and so the concept of loss to me is ongoing, sad, and seldom talked about except by those who see it among Alzheimer patients rather than seeing it as an everyday occurrence - it slips through our fingers before there is a record of the loss.
-
Frybabe, I felt a whiff of Alzheimer's too, but I think the poem is mostly doing what Barb says, describing "all the continuous losses as we age". I looked Bishop up, and the poem tracks events in her personal life. Her father died when she was a baby, and the grief destroyed her mother, who spent the rest of her life in an asylum. Bishop was raised in turn by several sets of relatives, and one of the transitions, from a good fit to a bad fit, was traumatic. She did lose a continent; she moved to Brazil, where she translated poetry, wrote some of her own, and lived with a woman writer and mentor. The relationship cooled, and when the woman died, Bishop returned to the US, but did miss Brazil. And so on.
It's a bittersweet poem to read, especially now when, in addition to coping with the standard losses and problems of aging, we are all struggling to maintain ourselves as the kind of human beings we mean to be, in the face of unprecedented problems, and losses, situations in which the path is baffling and unclear.
Barb, Bishop is a poet I've never gotten around to reading. Thanks for calling this poem to my attention.
-
Becoming my daily mantra given the baffling and unclear...
When you’ve lost every vestige of hope
And you think you are beaten and done,
When you’ve come to the end of your rope,
Tie a knot in the end and hang on.
Have courage; for here is the dope;
When you stand with your back to the wall,
Though you’ve come to the end of your rope
Tie a knot in the end and hang on.
Don’t admit that life’s getting your goat
When your friends seem to all disappear,
When you’ve come to the end of your rope,
Tie a knot in the end and hang on.
–Margaret Nickerson Martin |
-
PatH, interesting info about Elizabeth Bishop. Since I've taken an interest in Brazil, that she lived there for a while is especially interesting.
Also, an unknown to me is Margaret Nickerson Martin, but her recurring lines, "When you’ve come to the end of your rope,
Tie a knot in the end and hang on", sound familiar. Probably I've run across similar sentiments before, if not exactly that.
Recently I picked up a The Banished Immortal: A Life of Li Bai by Ha Jin. It includes some of Li Bai's (aka: Li Bo, and others) poems. Of course I haven't started it yet. The ancient Chinese often had more than one name. According to custom, there was the birth name, the nickname, the name used when at court, and possibly others so that there would be no question whether a person was acting in a political, military, or business capacity, or just relaxing at home with friends and family.
-
Interesting the different names - over the years worked with many Indonesians with recent Chinese heritage I thought how 'with it' were the women who all have different, what we call surnames than their husbands - well it turned out that everyone's last name is their mother's first name that stays with them for life - the names are passed down from the maternal side and has nothing to do with a marriage contract. I worked with about 36 or 38 Chinese Indonesian families - I worked also with other Asians, from mainland China, Hong Cong, Singapore and Taiwan, a total of about 12 families.
They all had an American name they used - they even had their chosen American name on their driver's license - have no clue how they did that since no one went through a judge to make the chosen name legal - I'd only find out their real name at closing when all the documents had their real name. Those whom I worked with in the late 80s and 90s have become US citizens and those who did not, went back to live in Indonesia but kept their homes here as lease property.
Yes, I am remembering a poster many had hung behind their bedroom door of a cat hanging onto the end of a knotted rope with something about hanging on - this was years ago maybe as far back as the 70s.
-
Dog Days of Summer By Meena Alexander
In the dog days of summer as muslin curls on its own heat
And crickets cry in the black walnut tree
The wind lifts up my life
And sets it some distance from where it was.
Still Marco Polo Airport wore me out,
I slept in a plastic chair, took the water taxi.
Early, too early the voices of children
Mimicking the clatter in the Internet café
In Campo Santo Stefano in a place of black coffee
Bordellos of verse, bony accolades of joy,
Saint Stephen stooped over a cross,
A dog licking his heel, blood drops from a sign
By the church wall—Anarchia è ordine—
The refugee from Istria gathers up nails.
She will cobble together a gondola with bits of driftwood
Cast off the shores of the hunger-bitten Adriatic.
In wind off the lagoon,
A child hops in numbered squares, back and forth, back and forth,
Cap on his head, rhymes cool as bone in his mouth.
Whose child is he?
No one will answer me.
Voices from the music academy pour into sunlight
That strikes the malarial wealth of empire,
Dreams of an old man in terrible heat,
Hands bound with coarse cloth, tethered to a scaffold,
Still painting waves on the walls of the Palazzo Ducale.
|
-
A something in a summer's Day By Emily Dickinson
A something in a summer's Day
As slow her flambeaux burn away
Which solemnizes me.
A something in a summer's noon -
A depth - an Azure - a perfume -
Transcending ecstasy.
And still within a summer's night
A something so transporting bright
I clap my hands to see -
Then veil my too inspecting face
Lets such a subtle - shimmering grace
Flutter too far for me -
The wizard fingers never rest -
The purple brook within the breast
Still chafes it narrow bed -
Still rears the East her amber Flag -
Guides still the sun along the Crag
His Caravan of Red -
So looking on - the night - the morn
Conclude the wonder gay -
And I meet, coming thro' the dews
Another summer's Day! |
-
(https://64.media.tumblr.com/bf36b253dddbdc6a223ead575e60d3f1/5cbe04cd47047231-2c/s500x750/8e52be1ea2066a8a6591013e41205862df16650b.jpg)
-
Beautiful poem, thank you, Barb!
-
Have A Nice Day
'Help, help, ' said a man.
'I'm drowning.
'
'Hang on, ' said a man from the shore.
'Help, help, ' said the man.
'I'm not clowning.
'
'Yes, I know, I heard you before.
Be patient dear man who is drowning,
You, see I've got a disease.
I'm waiting for a Doctor J.
Browning.
So do be patient please.
'
'How long, ' said the man who was drowning.
'Will it take for the Doc to arrive? '
'Not very long, ' said the man with the disease.
'Till then try staying alive.
'
'Very well, ' said the man who was drowning.
'I'll try and stay afloat.
By reciting the poems of Browning
And other things he wrote.
'
'Help, help, ' said the man with the disease, 'I suddenly feel quite ill.
'
'Keep calm.
' said the man who was drowning, ' Breathe deeply and lie quite still.
'
'Oh dear, ' said the man with the awful disease.
'I think I'm going to die.
'
'Farewell, ' said the man who was drowning.
Said the man with the disease, 'goodbye.
'
So the man who was drowning, drownded
And the man with the disease past away.
But apart from that,
And a fire in my flat,
It's been a very nice day.
Written by Billy Collins |
-
We are the time. We are the famous
by Barry Tebb
We are the time.
We are the famous
metaphor from Heraclitus the Obscure.
We are the water, not the hard diamond,
the one that is lost, not the one that stands still.
We are the river and we are that greek
that looks himself into the river.
His reflection
changes into the waters of the changing mirror,
into the crystal that changes like the fire.
We are the vain predetermined river,
in his travel to his sea.
The shadows have surrounded him.
Everything said goodbye to us, everything goes away.
Memory does not stamp his own coin.
However, there is something that stays
however, there is something that bemoans. |
-
In My Dreams
By Stevie Smith
In my dreams I am always saying goodbye and riding away,
Whither and why I know not nor do I care.
And the parting is sweet and the parting over is sweeter,
And sweetest of all is the night and the rushing air.
In my dreams they are always waving their hands and saying goodbye,
And they give me the stirrup cup and I smile as I drink,
I am glad the journey is set, I am glad I am going,
I am glad, I am glad, that my friends don't know what I think. |
-
Oh, Barb, those poems really hit the mood of the moment. Thanks.
-
When Great Trees Fall
By Maya Angelou
When great trees fall,
rocks on distant hills shudder,
lions hunker down
in tall grasses,
and even elephants
lumber after safety.
When great trees fall
in forests,
small things recoil into silence,
their senses
eroded beyond fear.
When great souls die,
the air around us becomes
light, rare, sterile.
We breathe, briefly.
Our eyes, briefly,
see with
a hurtful clarity.
Our memory, suddenly sharpened,
examines,
gnaws on kind words
unsaid,
promised walks
never taken.
Great souls die and
our reality, bound to
them, takes leave of us.
Our souls,
dependent upon their
nurture,
now shrink, wizened.
Our minds, formed
and informed by their
radiance,
fall away.
We are not so much maddened
as reduced to the unutterable ignorance
of dark, cold
caves.
And when great souls die,
after a period peace blooms,
slowly and always
irregularly. Spaces fill
with a kind of
soothing electric vibration.
Our senses, restored, never
to be the same, whisper to us.
They existed. They existed.
We can be. Be and be
better. For they existed.
|
-
And Death Shall Have No Dominion
Dylan Thomas
And death shall have no dominion.
Dead men naked they shall be one
With the man in the wind and the west moon;
When their bones are picked clean and the clean bones gone,
They shall have stars at elbow and foot;
Though they go mad they shall be sane,
Though they sink through the sea they shall rise again;
Though lovers be lost love shall not;
And death shall have no dominion.
And death shall have no dominion.
Under the windings of the sea
They lying long shall not die windily;
Twisting on racks when sinews give way,
Strapped to a wheel, yet they shall not break;
Faith in their hands shall snap in two,
And the unicorn evils run them through;
Split all ends up they shan't crack;
And death shall have no dominion.
And death shall have no dominion.
No more may gulls cry at their ears
Or waves break loud on the seashore;
Where blew a flower may a flower no more
Lift its head to the blows of the rain;
Through they be mad and dead as nails,
Heads of the characters hammer through daisies;
Break in the sun till the sun breaks down,
And death shall have no dominion.
|
-
(https://64.media.tumblr.com/f7ae7fb71dda3dbfd29e7dd31c5b1d1e/c8465a9f2614805d-e1/s500x750/62750b6fe6a640ef8fa7251017cdd957b5edb58a.jpg)
9/11 2001-2021 | I felt an angel near today, though one I could not see
I felt an angel oh so close, sent to comfort me
I felt an angel’s kiss, soft upon my cheek
And oh, without a single word of caring did it speak
I felt an angel’s loving touch, soft upon my heart
And with that touch, I felt the pain and hurt within depart
I felt an angel’s tepid tears, fall softly next to mine
And knew that as those tears did dry a new day would be mine
I felt an angel’s silken wings enfold me with pure love
And felt a strength within me grow, a strength sent from above
I felt an angel oh so close, though one I could not see
I felt an angel near today, sent to comfort me. |
-
THE VACATION
Once there was a man who filmed his vacation.
He went flying down the river in his boat
with his video camera to his eye, making
a moving picture of the moving river
upon which his sleek boat moved swiftly
toward the end of his vacation. He showed
his vacation to his camera, which pictured it,
preserving it forever: the river, the trees,
the sky, the light, the bow of his rushing boat
behind which he stood with his camera
preserving his vacation even as he was having it
so that after he had had it he would still
have it. It would be there. With a flick
of a switch, there it would be. But he
would not be in it. He would never be in it.
Wendell Berry
-
Though some Saith that Youth Ruleth me
Though some saith that youth ruleth me,
I trust in age to tarry.
God and my right and my duty,
From them I shall never vary,
Though some say that youth ruleth me.
I pray you all that aged be,
How well did ye your youth carry?
I think some worse, of each degree:
Therein a wager lay dare I,
Though some saith that youth ruleth me.
Pastimes of youth sometime among,
None can say but necessary.
I hurt no man, I do no wrong,
I love true where I did marry,
Though some saith that youth ruleth me.
Then soon discuss that hence we must.
Pray we to God and Saint Mary
That all amend, and here an end,
Thus saith the king, the eighth Harry,
Though some saith that youth ruleth me.
By Henry VIII, King of England
-
Wow Kathy - where ever did you find that - had no idea Henry VIII wrote poetry that is still around - I heard he liked music and poetry but never thought to look for any of his work - thanks for posting this...
-
I found it on one of the Tudor shows that David Starkey hosted. It's my favorite HVIII poem. He has written a few.
I like Tudor History.
Here are some of his poems:
https://www.poetryfoundation.org/poets/henry-viii#tab-poems (https://www.poetryfoundation.org/poets/henry-viii#tab-poems)
-
Tra la... amazing - he is not brilliant as a poet - his opinion on his life seems to be his focus however, the one about Holly and Ivy you just have to shake your head and wonder when he wrote it because he sure did not live a love life in keeping with that poem did he... ah so and such is life so that even a powerful king has his poetic fantasies... ;)
-
Fireflies
The air in this house
is so warm, closer
than close.
In different rooms
they flutter,
eyes closed within
their own worlds.
Faces bathed in twilight,
headphones mainline
Jackie, Sam, Aretha
Dionne, James or Smokey
into their pulsing bodies—
who they were then
lives inside every adlib
& holler, shooting
from fingertips spread
above their heads.
Inside the brightest nook
of themselves, they are
everything they did
right, everything that
made sense at the time
still bringing
residual joy. Ambient,
my parents winged
& lit from every angle
hover, untaxed delight!
I don’t blink, don’t dare
try to capture them
in the mason jar
of my hungers
nor halt them
shimmering, spellbound.
by Kamilah Aisha Moon recently deceased |
-
I like this... so simple... no flowery words... The word icebox dates the time in history...
This Is Just To Say
by William Carlos Williams
I have eaten
the plums
that were in
the icebox
and which
you were probably
saving
for breakfast
Forgive me
they were delicious
so sweet
and so cold |
-
Barb, another reminder of George. A big sneaky snacker, he used to raid the refrigerator and swipe stuff I was saving to make dinner. His comment was that if I wanted to keep it for dinner I should have attached a note saying so.
-
I know what you mean since my son-in-law does this - at first it was a mouth dropping shock - after repeated forays on his part I am so buffaloed where their mind is -
I can understand things like snack food and fruit but even fruit he would eat all the grapes leaving none for anyone else - just do not understand and yet this poem seems harmless that tells the tale of eating all the plums - Given the time in history that iceboxes were the thing - the early 20th century till around the time of WWII - I'm thinking the plums came from either a backyard tree or a very nearby fruit stand where they can easily be replaced - today, everything being shipped in there is no feeling of a constant bounty within walking distance. If the icebox robbers replaced what they eat all would be tolerable but they don't do they -
Hmm frybabe you have me looking at the poem from another angle and now I wonder if they were "so sweet" because like ill gotten gains the sweetness is in the taking. Boy this concept of taking from a quasi public place to taking merchandise is rampant - wow could go off on that concept - simple poem but more loaded than I saw it when I first read it... I want and so I take... Wow - at least the poem shows someone using charm where as most takers today have little charm nor acknowledge they are taking...
-
A lot of people called their refrigerators "iceboxes" for a long time after there weren't iceboxes any more. But that behavior is timeless.
-
Whow - I thought i would look online if there were any poems that had to do with takers... found some that would bring this already 'down' conversation even further into the dumps - Not yet giving up, toward the bottom of one of the pages I found this - says it all...
A King's last wish
There was once a curious King that was loved by all and understood by few. After years of ruling the land, he felt as though he was missing something. After days of pacing back and forth in hopes of discovering the newly felt void, it came to him. He approached his servants with the toughest task to ever be given. He sat in front of his people and spoke, "I need something that carries the ability to make me happy when I am sad and sad when I am happy." After his task was given, a servant yelled out, "That's preposterous!" Minutes passed, no one dared to take on such a task; failure to produce success would result in expulsion from the kingdom.
Moments went by and still there were no takers, but finally his most trusted servant says, "I shall take on your task my King." The room went silent, a mere pin drop could be heard from miles award. The King smiles and says to him, "You have 30 days, I wish you luck."
The servant returned back to his bedroom and packed everything he could carry, along with every cent he had ever made. He traveled throughout the land to the richest of towns in hopes of an answer. He found himself continually asking shopkeepers, spiritual members of society, and every person he passed, "What would make you happy when you're sad and sad when you're happy?" His question was constantly met with laughter, sympathy, or was left ignored.
Ten days have passed and he has made no progress. Every night he was haunted with the King's words, "Does such a thing even exist?" His spirits began to plummet. Day after day, night after night, he faced constantly failure due to a concept he hard a time understanding.
Twenty days have passed and he began to find each night of sleep was met with tears. The mere thought of failing the King made him tremble in fear. Each night he thought, "How is it possible to find something that will make my King happy when he is sad and sad when he is happy?"
Twenty nine days have passed and his journey home was underway. He had failed his King, he has never failed him, he thought to himself, "What else do I have to offer the world?"
On his last day, he was walking through the last town before he would re-enter the kingdom. The servant walked through the town with hopes low and shoulders lower. As he was walking a shopkeeper stops him, "My son, what causes you to carry such sorrow." The servant laughs, "Oh trust me, you would not know a thing about what I am going through. You are just a mere ***** shopkeeper!" The shopkeeper responded, "My son, not giving another man a chance for success will get you no where." The servant sighs, "Fine, my King has sent me on a mission. He wishes to find something that will make him happy when he is sad and sad when he is happy." The shopkeeper pauses for several minutes and his eyes brighten, "I have just the thing, follow me inside." The servant rolls his eyes and follows. As they enter the shop, the shopkeeper opens a cabinet. Just as he is pulling a silver ring from the cabinet the servant stops him, "You expect me to give him a ring worth less then my shoes?!" The shopkeeper responds, "Breathe my son, I will solve your troubles." The shopkeeper enters the back of his shop and asks the servant to stay in front. A half hour passes and the shopkeeper returns, "This should do it, now go before the sun sets... consider us even."
The servant grabs the ring and runs back to the kingdom before his deadline surpassed. He is met with music, wine, women; however, he feels he has not succeeded. The King greets him, "Welcome back! What do you have for me?" The servant sighs and says to him, "I have traveled all throughout the land and all I have to offer is this ring." The servant looks down to his feet and hands the King the ring that was wrapped in linen.
Just as he is about to tell the King he will return to his bedroom and collect his belongings, the King begins to sob. The music comes to a holt, the women stare, and every eye lays upon the King. The King begins to uncontrollably sob, he gets off of his thrown and embraces the servant in his arms. He says to him, "You have done it, you have found something to make me happy when I am sad and sad when I am happy. I am forever in debt."
That day in the Kingdom a servant was saved from expulsion, a crowd remained perplexed, and a King remained misunderstood.
The servant did not understand and asked the King, "My Kind I am sorry, but why is this ring the answer to your question... it is only a ring." The King responded, "You did not read the engraving?" The servant remains anxious, "No my King, what does the engraving say?"
The King responds, "This too shall pass." |
-
Good morning poetry lovers! I am a Latin student, and I hope it's okay for me to jump in here from out of nowhere! Barb posted a poem by one of my all-time favorite poets, Elizabeth Bishop, and I thought some of you might be interested in the episode of Poetry in America that discussed One Art. https://www.poetryinamerica.org/episode/one-art/. Enjoy the weekend!
-
Thanks, Annie107. I was not aware of this website. I've now bookmarked the site so I can browse their free online courses.
-
That's so nice to hear, Frybabe. Here is a link to an article about poems for the pandemic. A joint JAMA and Poetry in America project. https://jamanetwork.com/journals/jama/fullarticle/2774325?guestAccessKey=03bc4207-f50e-4fd2-b48f-8205ae635195&utm_source=fbpage&utm_medium=social_jama&utm_term=4307253956&utm_campaign=article_alert&linkId=106935161.
-
Glad you stopped in Annie - interesting how we see different things when reading a poem - when I read “One Art,” by Elizabeth Bishop I thought she was talking about Dementia but yes, it can be understood from various experiences and viewpoints on loss can't it...
Here of late even without the pandemic, just aging, there are so many loses - loss of friends, of course a meaningful job, energy, physical abilities, a loss of purpose, no longer being in the middle of things - on and on it goes - lately after reading about how most of our life is really about solving obstacles I decided all the losses were just that, obstacles and one viewpoint I decided on is instead of loss I'm seeing it as change - if nothing else it helps make it something I can deal with rather than feeling hopeless.
In keeping with change I've found a couple of poems...
Sonnet 123: No, Time, thou shalt not boast that I do change
By William Shakespeare
No, Time, thou shalt not boast that I do change:
Thy pyramids built up with newer might
To me are nothing novel, nothing strange;
They are but dressings of a former sight.
Our dates are brief, and therefore we admire
What thou dost foist upon us that is old,
And rather make them born to our desire
Than think that we before have heard them told.
Thy registers and thee I both defy,
Not wondering at the present nor the past;
For thy records and what we see doth lie,
Made more or less by that continual haste.
This I do vow, and this shall ever be:
I will be true, despite thy scythe and thee. |
Change
By Wendy Videlock
Change is the new,
improved
word for god,
lovely enough
to raise a song
or implicate
a sea of wrongs,
mighty enough,
like other gods,
to shelter,
bring together,
and estrange us.
Please, god,
we seem to say,
change us. |
-
OH and this - by one of my favorite poets - the ravages of loss...
Grace
By Joy Harjo
for Darlene Wind and James Welch
I think of Wind and her wild ways the year we had nothing to lose and lost it anyway in the cursed country of the fox. We still talk about that winter, how the cold froze imaginary buffalo on the stuffed horizon of snowbanks. The haunting voices of the starved and mutilated broke fences, crashed our thermostat dreams, and we couldn’t stand it one more time. So once again we lost a winter in stubborn memory, walked through cheap apartment walls, skated through fields of ghosts into a town that never wanted us, in the epic search for grace.
Like Coyote, like Rabbit, we could not contain our terror and clowned our way through a season of false midnights. We had to swallow that town with laughter, so it would go down easy as honey. And one morning as the sun struggled to break ice, and our dreams had found us with coffee and pancakes in a truck stop along Highway 80, we found grace.
I could say grace was a woman with time on her hands, or a white buffalo escaped from memory. But in that dingy light it was a promise of balance. We once again understood the talk of animals, and spring was lean and hungry with the hope of children and corn.
I would like to say, with grace, we picked ourselves up and walked into the spring thaw. We didn’t; the next season was worse. You went home to Leech Lake to work with the tribe and I went south. And, Wind, I am still crazy. I know there is something larger than the memory of a dispossessed people. We have seen it.
-
OH I do like this one by Elizabeth Bishop
A Miracle For Breakfast
At six o'clock we were waiting for coffee,
waiting for coffee and the charitable crumb
that was going to be served from a certain balcony
—like kings of old, or like a miracle.
It was still dark. One foot of the sun
steadied itself on a long ripple in the river.
The first ferry of the day had just crossed the river.
It was so cold we hoped that the coffee
would be very hot, seeing that the sun
was not going to warm us; and that the crumb
would be a loaf each, buttered, by a miracle.
At seven a man stepped out on the balcony.
He stood for a minute alone on the balcony
looking over our heads toward the river.
A servant handed him the makings of a miracle,
consisting of one lone cup of coffee
and one roll, which he proceeded to crumb,
his head, so to speak, in the clouds—along with the sun.
Was the man crazy? What under the sun
was he trying to do, up there on his balcony!
Each man received one rather hard crumb,
which some flicked scornfully into the river,
and, in a cup, one drop of the coffee.
Some of us stood around, waiting for the miracle.
I can tell what I saw next; it was not a miracle.
A beautiful villa stood in the sun
and from its doors came the smell of hot coffee.
In front, a baroque white plaster balcony
added by birds, who nest along the river,
—I saw it with one eye close to the crumb—
and galleries and marble chambers. My crumb
my mansion, made for me by a miracle,
through ages, by insects, birds, and the river
working the stone. Every day, in the sun,
at breakfast time I sit on my balcony
with my feet up, and drink gallons of coffee.
We licked up the crumb and swallowed the coffee.
A window across the river caught the sun
as if the miracle were working, on the wrong balcony. |
-
What wonderful and varied selections, Barb. And thank you for introducing me to Joy Harjo. Grace is marvelous, and I am going to look for more. This is probably my favorite Elizabeth Bishop; I hope you like it.
Filling Station
By Elizabeth Bishop
Oh, but it is dirty!
—this little filling station,
oil-soaked, oil-permeated
to a disturbing, over-all
black translucency.
Be careful with that match!
Father wears a dirty,
oil-soaked monkey suit
that cuts him under the arms,
and several quick and saucy
and greasy sons assist him
(it’s a family filling station),
all quite thoroughly dirty.
Do they live in the station?
It has a cement porch
behind the pumps, and on it
a set of crushed and grease-
impregnated wickerwork;
on the wicker sofa
a dirty dog, quite comfy.
Some comic books provide
the only note of color—
of certain color. They lie
upon a big dim doily
draping a taboret
(part of the set), beside
a big hirsute begonia.
Why the extraneous plant?
Why the taboret?
Why, oh why, the doily?
(Embroidered in daisy stitch
with marguerites, I think,
and heavy with gray crochet.)
Somebody embroidered the doily.
Somebody waters the plant,
or oils it, maybe. Somebody
arranges the rows of cans
so that they softly say:
esso—so—so—so
to high-strung automobiles.
Somebody loves us all.
****
-
ahh nice Annie - I Love handmade things and the poem helps me see our handwork speaks...
-
Yes. Regardless of circumstances, all of us want to make our surroundings more beautiful.
-
A poem related to “The Lacemaker”
Her hands know what to do:
they dance, winding the threads
around their tiny maypoles, trying
each knot with surprising speed under
the deep calm of that broad, honest face,
suspended like a benevolent moon
over this delicate task.
She is not delicate. Body and bosom
are full-fleshed; her heavy ringlets will uncurl
by sundown. Wool and wood, metal hooks
and folds of yellow fabric are rich
with gravity and mass —- things
solidly of this world.
Yet in this light that pours
from some high window,
passing beneficence of a northern sun,
those solid things seem fragile:
the light will shift; she will lift her head
and stretch and sigh, the quiet
around her rippled like a pond´s surface,
and this graced moment gone.
Gathered on what we see,
filtered through lace, gleaming
on hair and polished wood, what we see
is always the light. |
-
Pioneers-- the Lace-Maker
Sally T Taylor
Hands which had made the lace now pushed the plow
Across cracking fields of reclaimed wasteland.
The hot smell of summer pushed the past to
A kaleidescope of half lost fragments:
The acrid odor of wool coats drying
By the hearth as English storms sang outdoors;
The promised magic of new thread, spider -
Fine and smoothly waiting for careful form;
The close quietness of old artisans
Forming familiar patterns net-like with
The fragile flourish and curve for a trim,
So different from this straight, hard, dry furrow.
The lace-maker stopped his horse and slapped at
A lean horsefly buzzing his steaming neck,
These eyes burned by the base dust and stung by
The sun would never again see that life.
Dirt gloved hands would not form the silky threads
In fine designs of royal-ranked stature.
He had lost that past to the channeled task-
Master of time and life revolving faith.
Faith! His hands felt for the wood smooth handles
Gee hah! the worn horse huffed away the flies
And stepped slowly on, pulling a new type
Of pattern in the solid soil of now. |
-
The Lacemaker of Ypres
By George Tucker Bispham
“Most of the houses in the Grande Place are in ruins. The town is uninhabited.
Only the dead are left. But the enemy keeps on bombarding – apparently to pass the time.”
She passed the hours
In a friendly solitude;
Heard the voices, wrangling shrewd,
In the market-place of flowers;
Clatter of cart-wheel; sounds that drifted—
From her open window, saw uplifted
Her cathedral towers.
While passed the hours
Her thoughts would find some little song,
Loved for many a year and long
In the market-place of flowers;
When days of summer drifted, drifted—
And in the peaceful sky were lifted
Ypres’ cathedral towers.
To pass the hours,
Since her last scream was choked in dust,
Shot and shrapnel spend their lust
In the market-place of flowers;
Smoke is drifted, drifted, drifted—
Lonely in the sky are lifted
Christ’s cathedral towers. |
-
CARPENTER'S BELT
Whit Dorfneilsen
Pencil in hand,
Tape on the board.
"Two at eight feet!"
measured and scored.
Precise cross-cuts
Yielding perfect fit.
Atop the jacks
Abeam will sit.
A load,no doubt
Over mind and soul;
A silent integrity;
With personal control.
Line follows truth;
An arc of duty.
Concentric circles
Radiating beauty.
Of divine proportion
Do molecules start
The muscles spiraling
Around a kind heart.
Love for family and friends;
Confidence felt
Are tools of inspiration
On a carpenter's belt. |
-
CARPENTER'S DAWN
Marc Rogovin
The alarm wrestles me from my sleep.
Darkness implies this is an improbable hour
But the clock crows a new day.
Tea water boils, cold water on face renews, radio informs
How many layers must be worn?
Comfort is paramount; there is work to be done
Grim face men dancing to keep warm in the dark
Cords, lines, tools, wood, paper, steel appear.
Good quality is a must freezing cold or not.
Sun drifting from behind the house
Shines on our work and our spirit.
I shed my outer layer.
The house shall be tight and warm
It built by cold fingers and sun warmed backs. |
-
"The Blacksmiths" is a one-off. Love-lyrics, ballads, sacred poems are common at the period, but not this sort of realistic evocation of the chores of daily life. It shows, I think, the hand of a skilled literary artist. Chanted aloud, it must have won sympathy and laughter from the audience – perhaps an audience including blacksmiths?
The poem comes from the BM Arundel collection of 15th century poems. Davies has modernised the spelling to a judicious extent, so that, with some glosses, the poem can be understood without too much brain-bursting. It's best read aloud, remembering that the "e" at the end of a word would have usually been sounded.
The Blacksmiths
Swarte-smeked smethes, smattered with smoke,
Drive me to deth with den of here dintes:
Swich nois on nightes ne herd men never,
What knavene cry and clattering of knockes!
The cammede kongons cryen after 'Col! Col!'
And blowen here bellewes that all here brain brestes.
'Huf, puf,' saith that on, 'Haf, paf,' that other.
They spitten and sprawlen and spellen many spelles,
They gnawen and gnacchen, they groan togedire,
And holden hem hote with here hard hamers.
Of a bole hide ben here barm-felles,
Here shankes ben shackeled for the fere-flunderes.
Hevy hameres they han that hard ben handled,
Stark strokes they striken on a steled stock.
'Lus, bus, las, das,' rowten by rowe.
Swiche dolful a dreme the Devil it todrive!
The maistre longeth a litil and lasheth a lesse,
Twineth hem twein and toucheth a treble.
'Tik, tak, hic, hac, tiket, taket, tik, tak,
Lus, bus, las, das.' Swich lif they leden,
Alle clothemeres, Christ hem give sorwe!
May no man for brenwateres on night han his rest.
|
Dintes – blows
Knavene – workmen, helpers
Cammede kongons - snub-nosed, or crooked, changelings
"That all here brain brestes" – fit to burst their brains
Spellen many spelles – tell many tales?
"Holden he hote" – keep themselves hot
Bole hide – bull's hide
Ben – are
Barm-felles - aprons
Shakeled for – protected from
Fere-flunderes – literally "fire-finders"
A kenning "sparks"
Steled stock – steel anvil
Rowten by row – (they) crash in turn
"Swich dolful a dreme the Devil it todrive – May the Devil put an end to such a miserable vision (Davies has "so miserable a racket" )
Longeth – lengthen (a piece of iron)
Lasheth a lesse – hammers a smaller piece
Toucheth a treble – strikes a treble note?
Alle clothemeres – all who clothes horses (mares) in iron armour
"May no man for brenwateres no night han his rest" – no man can sleep at night for (the noise of ) the smiths burning water.
Another great kenning: smiths are dubbed "burnwaters" because they dip hot metal in water.
Kenning, concise compound or figurative phrase replacing a common noun, especially in Old Germanic, Old Norse, and Old English poetry. A kenning is commonly a simple stock compound such as “whale-path” or “swan road” for “sea,” “God's beacon” for “sun,” or “ring-giver” for “king.”
Besides "the din of here dintes" ("the din of their blows")
They yell for more coal ("Col! Col!");
They spit, gnaw, gnash, groan and "spellen many spelles." as "tell many tales" – other translations give "reel off many charms" because blacksmiths have traditionally been associated with magic. In the Middle Ages they were held in awe for their control of fire and their ability to bend metal.
Similarly, "kongons" – translated as "changelings" – who are either "snub-nosed" or "crooked" ("cammede") is suggestive of the myths about the first blacksmiths.
-
The Toy-maker
by Padraic Colum
I AM the Toy-maker; I have brought from the town
As much in my plack as should fetch a whole crown,
I'll array for you now my stock of renown
And man's the raree will show you.
Here's a horse that is rearing to bound through the smoke
Of cannon and musket, and, face to that ruck,
The horseman with sword ready-held for the stroke,
Lord Lucan, maybe, or Prince Charlie.
An old woman sitting and waiting for call,
With her baskets of cockles and apples and all;
A one-legged sailor attending a ball,
And a tailor and nailer busy.
Or would you have these? A goose ganging by,
With head up in challenge to all who come nigh;
A cock with a comb dangling over his eye,
And a hen on a clutch nicely sitting;
Or a duck that is chasing a quick thing around,
Or a crow that is taking three hops on the ground,
Or an ass with head down (he is held in a pound);
Or a fox with his tail curled around him?
A ship made of shells that have sheen of the sea,
All ready to sail for black Barbarie,
The Lowlands of Holland, or High Germanic
And who'll be the one that will steer her?
I'll speak of my trade: there's a day beyond day
When the hound needn't hunt and the priest needn't pray,
And the clerk needn't write, and the hen needn't lay,
Whence come all the things that I show you.
I am the Toy-maker; upon the town wall
My crib is high up; I have down-look on all,
And coach and wheelbarrow I carve in my stall,
Making things with no troubles in them.
|
-
Welcome to our Poetry Page.
A haven for those who listen to the words
that open hearts, imagination, and our feelings
that we share about the poems we post - Please Join Us.
(http://seniorlearn.org/bookclubs/poetry/poetryleaves.jpg)
|
To Autumn
John keats
Season of mists and mellow fruitfulness, Close bosom-friend of the maturing sun; Conspiring with him how to load and bless With fruit the vines that round the thatch-eves run; To bend with apples the moss’d cottage-trees, And fill all fruit with ripeness to the core; To swell the gourd, and plump the hazel shells With a sweet kernel; to set budding more, And still more, later flowers for the bees, Until they think warm days will never cease, For summer has o’er-brimm’d their clammy cells. |
Poetry Links
- Famous Poets and Poems about Autumn (http://famouspoetsandpoems.com/thematic_poems/autumn_poems.html)
- Fall Poetry (http://www.dltk-holidays.com/fall/fallpoetry.htm)
- Poems for Autumn (http://www.scrapbook.com/poems/cat/5.html)
Discussion Leaders: BarbStAubrey (augere@ix.netcom.com)
-
Whew - not usual to post that many poems however if I only did 3 or so then the conversation could have started and the heading would be missed again or included on the top of someone's post which really does in my opinion dilute their thoughts - and so poems about handwork filled the last 7 posts - I did enjoy finding them - hope you enjoy reading them.
-
Southwell Leaves
Amidst the tympanum
His stone hair startles from
A face in the foliage.
Not just the bearded barleycorn
But a whole field springing,
The vine and all its tendrils,
Unfold from the face,
Trip from the tongue
That speaks the Word
Amidst the tympanum.
But by the rood-screen here,
His face is set like flint,
The Word unheard,
He gives his back to the smiters
His cheeks to them that pluck out the hair,
His spring is come to shame and spitting,
Under the blows the cut stones splinter
The Green Man comes to winter,
To the harness and the harrow
As flails fall to split the bearded husk
And seeds fall to the furrow,
Amidst the tympanum,
Hard by the rood-screen here.
|
(https://64.media.tumblr.com/55eb7231498819e110ee9b52f73972d1/8bd5c5a2b0545594-27/s400x600/a10d520e33e0bb66d651818e3ea6df8389806042.jpg)
Southwell Leaves |
-
Barb, I like the Keats poem very much, but what got me started is Southwell Leaves. Now I am on a quest to find more Green Man poems. All Poetry has one by John Curtis that I like. https://allpoetry.com/poem/11204395-The-Green-Man-by-John-Curtis#:~:text=%20The%20Green%20Man%20As%20a%20boy%20I,Dappled%20leaves.%20I%20sometimes%20spied%20his%20leaf-bound%20face
I took a very quick look at The Green Man as myth and discovered that the name came from Lady Raglan in 1939. So, all the references and stories about The Green Man are modern interpretations/inventions even though the church carvings etc. are much older? Now I am going to have to go back to Celtic folklore to find the earliest instances of writings and representations, not to mention Roman accounts, of him. I need to pull a couple of my dusty old art books to check, but I think I remember seeing carvings in European cathedrals as wells as those in the UK. I also read an article that considered the Green Man may be a reference to Bacchus.
-
Can't find it now but I only read that some make an association with the Green Man and the giant, Green Knight in Sir Gawain and the Green Knight
This is a nice video about the Green Man with several carvings in various UK locations.
https://www.bbc.com/culture/article/20190104-the-surprising-roots-of-the-mysterious-green-man
Here is the carving of the Green Man in
St. Stephen’s Church in the Welsh town of Old Radnor.
Interesting information about St. Stephen's that goes
further back to the Celtic church that burned down
and was replaced in the 15th and early 16th century
https://hisdoryan.co.uk/st-stephens-church-old-radnor
| (https://64.media.tumblr.com/0c2ffbe2c2edf069f4c8e2408c77e849/b4a743815efd98e5-e1/s400x600/b9699c669aaf6199e52f627ee2b12e38a6f443c9.jpg) |
-
Here I lay in lonely desolation
For here I pause to wait
For death comes slowly
Yet I fear not my fate
Of summers golden and pure
I recall my past glories
And of victories all so sure
Veterans march proudly
Past the stand,
People cheer and shout,
On plays the band.
And as our country calls,
For men to bear arms,
We call upon many men and boys,
From cities, towns and farms.
Towards the gory battlefields they march
wielding the frightful weapons of war
longing all the while for home and hearth
and when the fighting is done
they bury their dead
and when gazing to the horizon afar
and wonder if next they be put to rest
in that cold and unfamiliar ground
let us not forget,
This day we pray,
For without the veteran,
Liberty, life and happiness is in harm's way.
by Gillis Bartles |
-
Barb, I'm kind of glad you had to find poems for a fill-in, because I enjoyed them so much. They were nice individually, and the mood kind of flowed on a path, advancing from one to another.
I especially enjoyed The Blacksmiths. That old verse form appeals to me, and with the translations of the less cognate words, with a bit of work I could sort of read it in the original, and get the full flavor of the rude power of the old Anglo Saxon verse.
Thanks.
-
Yes, I too thought the old Blacksmith poem was fascinating - you could almost hear the sounds and heat of a smithy - had no idea they were thought to be story tellers or bring magic - My great grandfather was a Blacksmith during the Civil War - someone paid him to fight for them instead - his big coup was being made a citizen after the war - he was from Germany, although the area he was from was near Alcese which is south from the Saxon strongholds, I can hear in the poem that strong, hard, rough, way of so many of the early German immigrants.
-
| (https://64.media.tumblr.com/7d4face0ed044306233414428f1a6aad/3a5e2fa0f3aa47e8-04/s500x750/55d94bd043b7b55cfdc93c508fcf090c083c57e3.jpg) | Autumn Mist
Ryan Sheeler
Like the autumn goes…so it seems
I wonder how the leaves know
When to fall and drift away
Losing a loved one, is like that
Sometimes you know it’s coming
And sometimes it’s here and gone
As the heart is the one left to grieve
Wondering where and why
it feels so empty now
Love is fleeting, love divine
So the writers say, but still I wonder
Why love has to hurt so much?
Is it because true love costs so much
But gives ever more?
Or is it because of our old wounds
That we carry through our lives
Like a trunk of old photos and
memories we never want to keep
But somehow can’t throw away
Maybe the only way to really love
Is to really love, to give away
More than just a feeling, and more than
Just a greeting card, maybe
Love is something we’re born with
But are afraid to use
When at last we find love in the losing
Rushing through a side door.
Perhaps it was waiting for us, in some
sweet and sad disguise
Or maybe it comes upon a soul
Like an autumn mist |
-
| (https://cdn.shopify.com/s/files/1/0446/9277/products/QP-05_540x.jpg?v=1610035607) | (https://64.media.tumblr.com/7c8541b5232133c91d8a2373860b8692/3e4a5b3921ded3c4-e1/s1280x1920/634515cee8b5396c152b9e11c0815b7384fed662.jpg) |
-
| (https://64.media.tumblr.com/9b031b2c1712918a130f5eb9f09500b2/f868e3228e83ac0c-b0/s500x750/21c21b8cc8b1a88c46e7359b92f2c3e1bc5776b3.jpg) |
Everything
by Paul Kidd Hewitt
In the middle of this infinite black sea,
Amongst millions of blazing stars,
Hanging delicately by a golden thread,
You and I are here,
And that is everything. |
-
(https://64.media.tumblr.com/461bfc7fc92617be850c9a7c807bd21a/b7725d84c9881e60-0a/s500x750/041bce2f93fd14417fdd094230c58c5904028ed0.jpg)
Thanks
W. S. Merwin - 1927-2019
Listen
with the night falling we are saying thank you
we are stopping on the bridges to bow from the railings
we are running out of the glass rooms
with our mouths full of food to look at the sky
and say thank you
we are standing by the water thanking it
standing by the windows looking out
in our directions
back from a series of hospitals back from a mugging
after funerals we are saying thank you
after the news of the dead
whether or not we knew them we are saying thank you
over telephones we are saying thank you
in doorways and in the backs of cars and in elevators
remembering wars and the police at the door
and the beatings on stairs we are saying thank you
in the banks we are saying thank you
in the faces of the officials and the rich
and of all who will never change
we go on saying thank you thank you
with the animals dying around us
our lost feelings we are saying thank you
with the forests falling faster than the minutes
of our lives we are saying thank you
with the words going out like cells of a brain
with the cities growing over us
we are saying thank you faster and faster
with nobody listening we are saying thank you
we are saying thank you and waving
dark though it is
|
-
Perhaps the World Ends Here
Joy Harjo - 1951-
The world begins at a kitchen table. No matter what, we must eat to live.
The gifts of earth are brought and prepared, set on the table. So it has been since creation, and it will go on.
We chase chickens or dogs away from it. Babies teethe at the corners. They scrape their knees under it.
It is here that children are given instructions on what it means to be human. We make men at it, we make women.
At this table we gossip, recall enemies and the ghosts of lovers.
Our dreams drink coffee with us as they put their arms around our children. They laugh with us at our poor falling-down selves and as we put ourselves back together once again at the table.
This table has been a house in the rain, an umbrella in the sun.
Wars have begun and ended at this table. It is a place to hide in the shadow of terror. A place to celebrate the terrible victory.
We have given birth on this table, and have prepared our parents for burial here.
At this table we sing with joy, with sorrow. We pray of suffering and remorse. We give thanks.
Perhaps the world will end at the kitchen table, while we are laughing and crying, eating of the last sweet bite.
|
-
Wonderful poem!
-
Glad you like it Kathy -
-
“Buddha in Glory”
Rainer Maria Rilke
The core of every core, the kernel of every kernel,
an almond! held in itself, deepening in sweetness:
all of this, everything, right up to the stars
is the meat around your stone. Accept my bow.
O yes, you feel it, how the weights on you are gone!
Your husk has reached into what has no end,
and that is where the great saps are brewing now.
On the outside a warmth is helping,
for high, high above, your own suns are growing
immense and they glow as they wheel around.
Yet something has already started to live
in you that will live longer than the suns.
Translation from the German by Robert Bly |
-
Something lighthearted:
"Juanita, Juanita
Lovely, dear Juanita
From your head down to your feet,
There's nothing half so sweet,
As Juanita, Juanita, Juanita.
Oh, there are things of wonder,
Of which men like to sing.
There are pretty sunsets and birds upon the wing,
But of the joys of nature,
None truly can compare,
With Juanita, Juanita, she of beauty beyond compare.
Juanita, Juanita, love dear Juanit,"
Barney Fife
-
Fun - we do need more fun don't we - Maybe that could be our theme for the next few weeks - fun poems - Yep, I could go with that...
-
| (https://64.media.tumblr.com/f08103caaed74350c92b98a73070dd1c/2c2ac340259760b8-e4/s540x810/66c77f06640af1667dea7a05039897dfda916753.jpg) |
Snow
Gillian Clarke
The dreamed Christmas,
flakes shaken out of silences so far
and starry we can’t sleep for listening
for papery rustles out there in the night
and wake to find our ceiling glimmering,
the day a psaltery of light.
So we’re out over the snow fields
before it’s all seen off with a salt-lick
of Atlantic air, then home at dusk, snow-blind
from following chains of fox and crow and hare,
to a fire, a roasting bird, a ringing phone,
and voices wondering where we are.
A day foretold by images
of glassy pond, peasant and snowy roof
over the holy child iconed in gold.
Or women shawled against the goosedown air
pleading with soldiers at a shifting frontier
in the snows of television,
while in the secret dark a fresh snow falls
filling our tracks with stars. |
-
(https://storage.needpix.com/rsynced_images/sparrow-1344157_1280.jpg)
At the Solstice Shaun O'Brien
We say Next time we’ll go away,
But then the winter happens, like a secret
We’ve to keep yet never understand
As daylight turns to cinema once more:
A lustrous darkness deep in ice-age cold,
And the print in need of restoration
Starting to consume itself
With snowfall where no snow is falling now.
Or could it be a cloud of sparrows, dancing
In the bare hedge that this gale of light
Is seeking to uproot? Let it be sparrows, then,
Still dancing in the blazing hedge,
Their tender fury and their fall,
Because it snows, because it burns.
|
-
(https://render.fineartamerica.com/images/rendered/default/poster/5.5/8/break/images/artworkimages/medium/2/christmas-bells-maria-trad.jpg) |
The Bells
Edgar Allen Poe
Hear the sledges with the bells --
Silver bells!
What a world of merriment their melody foretells!
How they tinkle, tinkle, tinkle,
In the icy air of night!
While the stars that oversprinkle
All the heavens, seem to twinkle
With a crystalline delight;
Keeping time, time, time,
In a sort of Runic rhyme,
To the tintinnabulation that so musically wells
From the bells, bells, bells, bells,
Bells, bells, bells --
From the jingling and the tinkling of the bells. |
-
| (https://64.media.tumblr.com/3cddf7d70614fdc1f60af0f781631d83/tumblr_pzj6xpnxbn1xhoekqo1_540.jpg) |
-
(https://cdn-fastly.hometalk.com/media/2022/02/27/8232982/diy-mercury-glass-candle-holders.jpg)
Home... By Ardelia Cotton Barton
A perfect home is heaven's door,
It's built of loving deeds,
No angry frown nor biting word
Will sow discordant seeds.
No selfish wish nor cruel act,
Will in this home be found.
No thought of self will have a place,
For each to each is bound
By ties of love so pure indeed,
So helpful, so serene;
That door seems portal of high heav'n,
Rich treasures there are seen.
Oh! joyous home, when built of love--
Foundation of esteem.
The walls are raised from happiness,
With love the windows gleam.
This home will stand for aye on earth
And through eternity,
For God and angels hold the lease--
The rent is sanctity. |
-
The Lake Isle of Innisfree
By William Butler Yeats
I will arise and go now, and go to Innisfree,
And a small cabin build there, of clay and wattles made;
Nine bean-rows will I have there, a hive for the honey-bee,
And live alone in the bee-loud glade.
And I shall have some peace there, for peace comes dropping slow,
Dropping from the veils of the morning to where the cricket sings;
There midnight’s all a glimmer, and noon a purple glow,
And evening full of the linnet’s wings.
I will arise and go now, for always night and day
I hear lake water lapping with low sounds by the shore;
While I stand on the roadway, or on the pavements grey,
I hear it in the deep heart’s core.
Having listened to this poem read by many people, including the author, I find this reading the best.
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=FCzb2DzkS_s
-
Love these lines - they are like balm to the soul -
"And I shall have some peace there, for peace comes dropping slow,
Dropping from the veils of the morning to where the cricket sings;"
-
Yes! Isn't it wonderful.
-
Watching a Great Granddaughter At Play
by Bunny Moon (State College, PA)
She frolics without care.
Her joy is plain to see:
Her laughter fills the air.
We two make quite a pair.
I rub my aching knee;
she frolics without care.
She gives me quite a scare,
scrambling up a tall tree.
Her laughter fills the air.
With energy to spare
(please, child, send some to me),
she frolics without care.
She cartwheels with a flair,
Calls, "Grammy, look at me."
Her laughter fills the air
With bursting heart I stare
at one so dear to me.
She frolics without care.
Her laughter fills the air.
|
-
Nice! Catches the spirit beautifully.
-
This morning I ran across this short poem read by Hugh Fraser. Just loved his eyes light up at the ending. I didn't remember that George McDonald wrote poetry.
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=2i0GdWVYdBU